Chapter Two

Ivy's bag thumped against her hip as she walked down the narrow airplane aisle to her seat. When she located her seat number, she plopped down into it with a sigh that only held a whisper of relief.

She'd made it. Barely.

But she was on her way home.

Brushing her thick blonde hair over her shoulder, she stowed her bag under the seat in front of her and leaned back again. Typically, she liked having a window seat, but beggars couldn't be choosers. She was lucky to get a ticket at all.

After pawning a vintage Gucci bag she'd picked up in Rome—and selling it for much less than it was worth—she was able to grab the pricey ticket to the States. Trouble was, the only flight she could afford was out of Germany, which meant Ivy had to travel by train to reach the airport. Delays had her skin crawling with anxiety that she wouldn't make the flight—and the ticket was nonrefundable.

She sure would miss that Gucci bag too. They just didn't make leather purses like that anymore.

She might be out a wardrobe accessory, but at least she wasn't out another family member. Her daddy was alive. When she texted Meadow with the time she'd arrive in Montana, her sister assured her that her father's condition was still rocky but not worse.

Of course, that was hours ago. Anything could happen in a blink of an eye. She of all people knew that.

I have to calm down.

She settled in the best she could for takeoff. She grabbed her headphones and eye mask. Then she spritzed her face with some refreshing rosewater to keep her hydrated during the long flight.

Another few minutes and she was in the air. When she settled back in her seat, she tried to picture home. It was difficult, having been gone for so long. The place where she grew up was so different from the European countryside and the hustle and bustle of its cities.

Actually, she didn't often think of the ranch. Her mind flooded with images of pristine barns and cattle grazing in pastures. Of her sister Meadow in the training pen with her horses that she immersed herself in to escape the pain of their family life.

Forest was heir to the ranch. Meadow had her horses. Nobody had expectations for Ivy. But she had a lot for herself.

At least there were the mountains. They always filled Ivy with peace.

However, taking a mental walk through the big ranch house only flooded her with dread. There wasn't a single corner that wasn't filled with memories—of her mom, her brother, of happier times.

She yanked the silk mask over her eyes and attempted to block out everything. But minutes later, she heard the flight attendant pushing the drink cart up the aisle. When Ivy pushed the mask upward on her forehead to ask for a drink, a man seated next to her caught her eye.

Oh no. She hated chatty passengers. They always came with too many questions, each seeming to be directly aimed to give her more pain.

"Where are you going?" had a dark undercurrent she did not wish to share.

"Where are you from?" was another terrible conversation starter, since long ago she'd stopped feeling like she had any home at all.

She gave the man a small smile and nod of acknowledgement, hoping that was enough to satisfy him. With such a long flight ahead of them, Ivy doubted she'd get out of talking to the guy completely, but this would gain her a few more minutes at least.

Purposely rolling her head the other direction , she got a view of a guy directly across the aisle. After so much travel, she knew people. Over time, it became second nature to lump people into groups. Those who lacked money, those with too much of it. People with ready smiles and those wearing perpetual scowls as if life hadn't been on their side.

Then she began to pick out the Americans from the crowd. Grouping them was a little easier since she was one too. And this guy had to be military.

His big, muscled body seemed to overflow the small seat. He sat taller than everyone around him. He didn't wear military clothing, but that didn't mean much. He was dressed like everyone else, in jeans and a button-down shirt. Across his knees he'd draped a worn—almost beat-up—leather coat.

His chiseled profile had her thinking of sculptures from the masters that she'd seen in the Louvre in Paris. His mussed brown hair dropped in a swoop over his forehead, far from military protocol, and it was rumpled as though he'd just run his fingers through it.

He suddenly turned his head and pierced her in his gaze. The slate gray of his eyes reminded her of the sea on the cliffs of Cornwall, England, after a storm.

His cocked brow was almost a challenge.

Ivy sat up straighter and met his gaze for a full three heartbeats. He didn't seem to be breaking eye contact either.

Luckily, the flight attendant pushed the cart between them, ending their stare-down.

The woman gave her a pleasant smile. "Can I get you something to drink?"

"A mimosa, please."

The woman started reaching for the orange juice, and Ivy stopped her. "Excuse me. Where are the oranges in the juice sourced from?"

A manly grunt sounded from the other side of the beverage cart.

"Let me see if the container tells me where the oranges are grown."

"I prefer organic."

After a moment, the attendant said, "I'm sorry—it isn't organic. Do you still want the mimosa?"

"Yes. But only if the sparkling wine is really dry."

A louder grunt came from beyond the cart. She could guess who made that masculine sound—and that he was approximately six-two with a sharp, cleanshaven jaw.

"We never have complaints about the mimosas we serve, miss."

Ivy offered her a smile. "The mimosa is fine. Thank you."

After she had her drink settled on a small paper napkin on her fold-down tray, she queued up some whale sounds on her phone to use for sleeping.

"Whale sounds, I see."

Ivy glanced at the man beside her.

Great—now he wanted to strike up that conversation she dreaded.

She bobbed her head in acknowledgment, hoping he would take her lack of communication as a sign to leave her be.

"I sleep with birdsong, personally."

Seeing she wasn't going to get out of talking to him, she gave him her attention. In his forties, he wore a nice business jacket and a crisp shirt with a pair of khaki dress pants.

"What brought you to Germany?"

Slapping her best I'm-not-in-the-mood-to-talk expression on her face, she reluctantly answered the man.

"I've been traveling Europe for about nine months."

The guy across the aisle cleared his throat. The deep, grating noise was definitely the same as the ones she'd heard when asking about the mimosa.

She picked up the drink and sipped, testing the flavors in her mouth. Not bad, even if the juice wasn't organic.

Her seat partner went on. "What a wonderful opportunity to travel. Not many are so fortunate. Where did you begin your journey?"

"In London. I've been all over England several times. After that, I spent the winter in France."

"France is lovely in wintertime."

"It really was." Excited by the topic, Ivy launched into a discussion of her travels, bantering back and forth with the guy next to her, who seemed well-traveled too.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught movement from the man across the aisle. He shifted in his seat, extending his long leg into the aisle.

She stole a glance at his face—just in time to see him roll his eyes.

What she knew of the few military men she'd met in Europe, there were two types—the ones who took themselves seriously all the time, and the ones who were still personable enough to talk to.

This one fit into the former group.

Turning her head, she looked him in the eye. His expression glinted with judgement and more than a little annoyance with her.

Well, she didn't know what she'd done to piss in his morning coffee, but the last thing she needed was his attitude.

She lifted her jaw a notch, shooting him a look of challenge with a hint of disdain.

He looked away.

A pang of homesickness sliced through Ivy. She may not be all that eager to get home to her sick father…but at least there, she was loved and understood.

* * * * *

Hunter shut his eyes in an attempt to tune out the woman chattering endlessly about her ritzy gallivant through Europe. He'd seen her type before—women who got whatever they wanted handed to them by rich boyfriends or daddies.

Organic orange juice was just the tip of the iceberg when it came to chicks like that one. He could spot a high-maintenance, entitled princess a mile away.

He folded his arms and reclined as far as he could in his seat. He probably didn't fit in on a ranch, but Germany had only been a stop-off on a long, lonely road.

He had little memory of waking up in the hospital, but he could recall every expression of concern his doctors and nurses wore when they looked at him. He despised being a sad case. Hated even more the reason why he actually was one.

Family? None. SEAL squadron? Mostly deceased. Killed in one horrific strike.

The woman's voice was soft and musical—but that was all the consideration he'd give her. Every word out of her mouth irritated the hell out of him.

Was this what civilian life was like? If so, he might consider reenlisting. Putting up with terrorists beat out boring conversations.

Fuck. He was really a civilian. Each time the realization smacked him, he felt just as lost as he had the day when he signed on the dotted line, ending his time in the service.

He'd planned to stay in the military for life. When he got too old, they'd force him into retirement and he'd pack his bags and head for Mexico, to live in one of those ex-pat communities. He could walk the beach every morning and live out his days on whatever small plot of peace he could hold on to.

Now he was headed to Montana to work on a ranch, of all things. He was no cowpoke, but guarding the place he could do. While his buddy hadn't fully disclosed the nature of the threat, Hunter knew it must be substantial for Colton to extend the offer at all.

Something nudged his foot, and he snapped open his eyes to look down at the tiny boot nudging his own.

The woman across the aisle from him yanked her foot back under her own seat. Her knee bounced a couple times before coming to a stop. But that action drew Hunter's attention to her body.

Namely, her curvy calf clad in black stretchy cotton. His gaze moved downward to her dainty ankle hugged by her black leather boot. Good leather, no doubt. Expensive. Probably Italian.

He let out a grunt, and she whipped her head to pierce him in her glare.

"I'm sorry my foot nudged yours. I was merely stretching my leg." Her snippy tone only edged under his skin more.

He eyed her for a long moment until she forced her attention back to the guy beside her, who had been hanging on her every word about the places she'd visited and the best places to stay.

Hunter read between the lines, and all he heard were cash register noises.

The princess probably had no idea what it was like to lose someone who mattered, and her idea of sacrifice was letting someone cut in front of her at the drive-thru of "Starbies"—the shortened nickname girls on social media used for the coffee chain.

Swinging his focus from the woman, Hunter examined the rest of the passengers. From what he could see over the top of the seats, most people were sleeping or engaged in activity on their phones or computer tablets.

He let his eyes slip shut again. With his eyes closed, his other senses heightened. He heard every move around him. Somebody unzipped a backpack. A light snore sounded from two rows ahead.

In the rear of the plane, the flight attendant was returning with her cart, this time distributing hot meals. He listened to her ask the same question over and over again. Chicken or fish? Chicken or fish?

Most people chose the fish. For some reason, that made him think of the woman beside him. She'd probably ask where the fish was sourced. If she wasn't vegan.

If she weren't an entitled princess, he would find her pretty. If he hadn't heard her American accent, he would have placed her in one of the Scandinavian countries, with her honey-blonde hair and fair coloring.

One of the wheels on the food cart squeaked. As it grew closer, Hunter slanted a sideways glance at the woman. She was involved in an animated discussion with the German man beside her. Her long hair tumbled over one shoulder, and her elbow hung off the arm rest, projecting into the aisle.

Even when the cart rolled to the seat behind them, she didn't slide her elbow in. She continued chatting away. "I couldn't believe how much nightlife there was in Greece. You read all these travel blogs and think—"

The cart rolled forward.

Hunter threw out a hand, shoving the woman's arm off the rest before the cart slammed into her elbow.

She whipped her head around. "What in the world is your problem?"

He fixed her in his stare. "I was saving your elbow from getting wrecked by that." He jerked his thumb at the cart and the flight attendant watching both of them.

The princess scowled at Hunter. "Well. Thank you."

Her brand of begrudging gratitude was exactly the response he'd expected from her.

He shook his head, thinking more and more that ending his career in the military was a mistake. If this was the type of life that civilians led, he was never going to fit in.