The Colonel's Widow
by
Mallory Kane

IT DIDN'T TAKE Irina long to figure out where Deke was taking her. The route was familiar. They were headed to a hunting cabin Rook had acquired years ago. He'd managed to keep the title and tax papers in the name of the original owner, and hadn't told anyone about it, except Deke and Matt, his oath brothers.
     He'd called it their getaway house. A place the two of them could go where no one could find them if they didn't want to be found.
     She hadn't been there since he'd died. Their last night there had been too painful to relive. Besides, why go alone?
Irina folded her arms beneath the wool throw Deke had tossed her way when he'd gotten into the SUV. She stared at the road, not bothering to hide her annoyance. Several times, she'd tried to engage him in conversation, to no avail.
     He acted as if he were too busy making sure they weren't being followed. Rook's best friend had always treated her with loving respect, but for whatever reason, tonight he wasn't answering any questions.
     So she clamped her mouth shut and snuggled deeper under the throw. Her flimsy silk robe offered little protection against the late April chill. She shuddered. Nothing short of a direct and imminent threat would have made Deke ignore her comfort or dignity. Fortunately, she had clothes at the cabin.
     Once they reached the hunting camp and Deke was satisfied that she was safe, she'd unload on him. She didn't get angry often--temper rarely helped any situation--but she didn't like being bullied. Not even by the man who'd appointed himself her protector after her husband's death, and not even if it was supposedly for her own good.
     Deke spoke only once during the hour's drive, and then not even to her. He pulled out his cell phone and pressed a pre-recorded number. He listened for a few seconds.
     "Damn it," he muttered. After another couple of seconds, he hung up and glanced at the tiny screen, as if to check the number he'd dialed. Then he shot her an awkward glance and turned his attention back to his driving.
     Irina bit her tongue to stop herself from asking who he was trying to reach. He'd tell her when he felt like it.
     The road ended a quarter mile from the camp, but Deke barely slowed down. He circled around and drove up behind the cabin, where he parked and shut off the engine of the large SUV.
     Irina reached for the door handle.
     "Wait," he snapped.
     He retrieved his phone and pressed the redial button, hissing in frustration through clenched teeth.
     After a few seconds, he sucked in a sharp breath. "Where have you been?" he growled.
     Irina held her breath and listened, but she couldn't hear the person on the other end of the line.
     "You could have waited. I was afraid you--" he stopped. "Yeah, okay. We're here. I'll bring her inside, then put the car in the barn." He paused, listening.
     "Nope," he snapped. "No way. You're on your own this time. I'm going to take a look around. I'll be in later." He hung up and got out of the car.
     Irina didn't bother to ask who'd been on the phone. Judging by the brevity of the conversation, she figured it was probably Brock, the oldest and most experienced of the Black Hills Search and Rescue Specialists. Brock O'Neill's conversational style was terse at best.
     As soon as she entered the rustic kitchen, she saw dim light coming from the front room. "Is that a fire? Or is the generator running?" she asked.
     He didn't answer.
     "Deke, stop acting like a secret agent and tell me what is going on? Who's here? Is it Brock?"
     He set down his black duffle bag. "I'm not playing. Don't worry, you're safe. I'm going to hide the car. Irina--" He laid a hand on her arm, as if about to say something else.
     She waited, apprehension crawling up her throat.
     "Just remember that all this--was for you." He turned and went out the door, locking it behind him.
     Irina stared at the door for a few seconds, as Deke's words replayed over and over in her head.
     All this was for you.
     "All of what?" she whispered. Shaking her head, she stepped through the dining room and into the front room. One lamp shone dimly, competing with the fireplace for the privilege of staving off the darkness. The only sound she heard was the crackling of the flames.
     But she knew she wasn't alone.
     Her breath hitched. Deke had promised her she was safe, she reminded herself. He'd promised her, ever since Rook's death, that he'd take care of her, and he had.
     "Hello? Brock?" She spoke softly. "Is that you?"
     No answer. Yet she felt a presence.
     "Who's here?" she asked sharply.
     Did she only imagine she heard breathing? She squinted, trying to see past the shadows. From the corner of her eye she recognized the old bookshelf to her right. It was on the wall opposite the fireplace. It was one of many places in the cabin where Rook had hidden loaded guns.
     She'd never liked all the weapons. He'd turned their secret getaway into a secret arsenal. She'd complained a million times that she'd seen all the guns she ever wanted to see during her childhood in Russia. Still, she couldn't deny that right now, she was glad to have a loaded weapon within reach. If she remembered correctly, this one was a Glock. She took a step toward the bookcase.
     "Hello, Rina."
     She whirled, startled. Nobody called her Rina--not any more.
     A lone figure stood to one side of the fireplace. All she could see was a silhouette.
     "Who--?" Before she could gather breath to say more, the person took a step forward. When the light hit his face, a giant fist grabbed her insides and wrung them tight--so tight she couldn't breathe.
     "What's going on--?" she gasped, gulping in air and casting about, as if an explanation lurked somewhere in the room.
     "It's okay." A whisper. The figure held up a hand. "Irina--it's me."
     A sharp ache burned through her chest. An ache of loss--of grief. Of denial.
     "No--" she breathed, shaking her head. Whoever was standing there, whatever was going on, she knew one thing for certain. His words were a lie. It wasn't him.
     It couldn't be. He was dead.
     She took a shuddering breath. "I--I don't understand--"
     "I know you don't."
     The sound of the man's voice sheared her breath and spasmed her throat. The words were tentative, the voice was hoarse and hesitant, but she knew it. Just like she knew the broad shoulders, the long powerful legs, the rugged profile outlined by the flickering firelight.
     Knew them, yes. But believe what she heard and saw? No way.
     It was impossible.
     She clapped her hands over her mouth as her brain denied what her eyes saw. Was this another, more astounding dream? A dream she'd never--even in sleep--dared to contemplate?
     Her hands slid down to cover her pounding heart. "Who are you?" she asked. "Where's Brock?"
     He took another step forward.
     She instinctively stepped backward, maintaining the distance between them. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears. Her throat closed up. Her whole body contracted, as if turning inward in an effort to protect her.
     For an instant, her panicked brain considered running. Deke was in the barn. But she'd have to go past--
     Her breath hitched.
     His brows drew down and he took a step closer.
     She stiffened, and he stopped.
     She couldn't take her eyes off his face. His cheeks were leaner, his hair was all wrong--long and shaggy and damp, as if he'd just gotten out of a shower--and his eyes were haunted and sad. He was wearing dress pants without a belt, and a dress shirt that hung unbuttoned and untucked over the pants. And he was barefoot.
     It was him.
     Or a dream of him.
     Darkness gathered at the edge of her vision, like a fade to black.
     Like a dream. That had to be it. It was the only explanation that made sense.
     She hadn't eaten dinner, and she'd drunk a glass of wine. Maybe she'd never woken up at all. She was still in bed, immersed in dreams. She pinched her arm, feeling silly.
     Nothing changed.
     The man standing in front of her lowered his gaze to the floor, then raised it again. When he did, a burning log collapsed, sending more light splashing across his face.
     His face. The last time she'd seen those lean cheeks, that long straight nose, that wide sexy mouth, they had been horribly distorted by the dark Mediterranean waters.
     "Go away," she cried. "Why are you doing this to me? You can't be here, Rook. You cannot. You are dead."