Sunrise Canyon (New Americana 1)

Kira shook her head.

“Then I guess I’ll turn in.” He shouldered his pack, walked away a few steps, then paused to look back at her grandfather. “Thanks, Dusty. I’ll do my best not to make you sorry.”

“I know you will, Jake. Now get some rest.” Dusty let Kira support his arm as they mounted the porch. A glance across the yard told her that Jake was already striding toward the cabin.

“I don’t have a good feeling about this,” she said. “I wish you’d left well enough alone.”

The old man crossed the threshold and waited for Kira to close the door behind them. “I know you do. But Jake gave up a happy life with his wife and child to fight for his country. Now he’s not only broken, he’s fallen through the cracks. A hero deserves better than what he’s gone through.”

“And Paige?”

“I know you want to protect her. So do I. But she doesn’t deserve to grow up wondering why her father didn’t care enough to be there for her. Bringing Jake here might turn out to be a mistake. But leaving well enough alone, as you say, could be an even bigger mistake.” He gave Kira’s shoulder an affectionate squeeze. “Give it a chance. That’s all I’m asking. Now go back to sleep. Things won’t look so bad in the morning, you’ll see.”

Kira returned her grandfather’s hug, trudged back to her room and crawled into bed. The old man believed he was doing the right thing, she told herself. But it was as if he’d brought home a wounded wolf he’d rescued from a trap and asked her to take it in.

She wasn’t entirely heartless. She would do her best to help Jake feel at ease here. But she wouldn’t lower her guard with him—especially where Paige was concerned. And she would keep her students at a distance from him. She’d seen her share of PTSD in her training. She knew the symptoms—depression, sleeplessness, bursts of anger, sudden flashbacks—and she knew they didn’t just go away. Until he proved otherwise, she’d have to assume that, whatever his intentions, Jake O’Reilly was a troubled man. She couldn’t afford to trust him.

* * *

The cabin was more luxurious than Jake had expected, with floors of red Mexican tile, arched doorways and a bathroom with a shower spacious enough for a Hollywood-style orgy. The massive bed, with its cushiony mattress and hand-carved headboard, beckoned to his weary bones. But he wanted to get clean before he slid between those pricey-looking sheets.

The walls were decorated with signed photos of the old-time movie stars who’d stayed there—John Wayne, Audie Murphy, Ann Sheridan, Maureen O’Hara—probably filming their Western movies in Old Tucson and the surrounding desert.

One thing for sure—this place was a far cry from the jail where he’d spent the past two weeks, and he wasn’t about to complain. Stripping off his clothes, he stepped into the shower and lathered up with the scented soap he found. Rinsed, toweled and smelling like a damned Victorian flower garden, he turned down the covers and rolled into bed.

Bone-weary after the long drive, he’d expected to fall asleep as soon as his head settled onto the downy pillow. Instead he lay there with his eyes open, staring up at the shadowed beams that crossed the ceiling.

Kira.

Some people didn’t change. She was much as he remembered her—tall and boyishly slim, light brown hair raked carelessly back from her face, and those cool, penetrating gray eyes that seemed to see right through him.

Tonight the look she gave him had felt like being stabbed with an icicle. And the way she’d machine-gunned those words at him, as if already laying down the law. . . . The woman wasn’t thrilled to have him here, and she’d made no effort to hide it.

“Kira needs you to forgive her for what happened. Maybe if you can do that, she’ll finally be able to forgive herself.”

The old man’s words came back to him, raising painful questions. Did he really blame Kira for the accident that had killed Wendy? A deeper question—did she have reason to blame herself?

True, it was a drunk driver who’d plowed into Kira’s car that night—a bastard who’d backed away and driven off with nothing more than a dented grill on the front of his big SUV. But what had Kira been doing out at one in the morning, in an unsavory part of town, with his wife and daughter in her car?

Maybe it was time he asked her.

But no, he hadn’t come here to confront anybody or open up old wounds. All he wanted was to keep his head down, earn enough to pay back what he owed Dusty and leave. The last thing he wanted was to get in Kira’s face.

Or in his daughter’s. Paige would be better off with a memory than with the reality of what her father had become.

His eyelids were growing heavy. He was drifting now. His awareness was clouding over, as if blurred by windswept sand....

The young girl was standing in the middle of the rutted road, right in the path of the armored Humvee. She appeared to be about fifteen, wearing a dark jacket, a long, loose cotton dress and a tangerine-colored scarf that wrapped her head, hiding her face except for her dark, expressive eyes.

The driver blasted his horn. The girl didn’t move.

“Should I stop, sir?” the driver asked.

“No, it could be a trap,” Jake heard himself answer. “Go slow. Honk again. Maybe she’ll move.”

Horn blasting, the massive vehicle lumbered closer. The girl stood fast, as if bolted to the spot. Ten feet. Five feet. There was a blur of movement, then a hellish burst of flame and sound. The driver slumped over the wheel. Blood splattered the broken windshield, inside and out. In the dead hush that followed, a tangerine scarf fluttered upward, riding a dust devil into the sky.

Jake woke, his jerking body drenched in sweat, his throat constricting in silent screams.