Chapter Two

Seven years ago, Amelia was in her last year of high school in Jacobsville. It was a hot summer and she and her maternal grandfather, Jacob Harris, had been sitting on the front porch, fanning with old-timey funeral home fans like they handed out in churches.

Her grandfather turned his head. A tall, blond strikingly handsome man was out in the front yard of his rental house watering flowering plants. "There's that man again," Jacob teased his grandchild, watching a faint flush come to her cheeks. "Why don't you ever talk to him?"

"Are you kidding?" she squeaked. She was painfully shy and there were rumors about their neighbor. He worked for Eb Scott, the former mercenary who'd founded an internationally known counterterrorism school. He and his educators taught all sorts of dangerous things, from defensive driving for chauffeurs to martial arts and weaponry to all sorts of people. Foreign governments kept his doors open. But then, rumor said, so did our own government. Eb had the very best, experienced people teaching for him. He also had plenty of people he could send on missions when asked. It was rumored that Cal Hollister was one of them.

"He likes flowers," her grandfather remarked. "It's almost a character reference."

"He carries a gun and shoots people," she said under her breath.

"That would depend on why he shoots them," he said. "I heard that Eb Scott was loaning operatives he trained to a foreign government in Ngawa, an African country, to get the legitimate president back in office. There have been hundreds of murders of innocent people, including children."

"How do you know all this stuff?" she asked, trying not to feed on the sight of Hollister in khaki pants and a yellow pullover shirt. He was incredibly handsome.

"I go to the post office every day and sit on the bench outside while I go through the mail," he said simply, and grinned. "Sooner or later, every gossip in town sits beside me, anxious to share juicy news."

"I'm not living right," she murmured.

He chuckled. "Your day will come. Hollister there is formidable on the firing range, they say."

"It's still sort of an illegal occupation."

"Not so. He works for Eb Scott, and Eb never deals under the table. If he sends men to help fight, it's always for a good cause. In this case, it's a noble one. Ngawa has survived so many uprisings," he added sadly. "It's a beautiful place, with good, openhearted people. I hate seeing conflict there."

"How do you know so much about Ngawa?" she asked.

"I was stationed there years ago," he said, "in one of the southern states. And don't ask why. A lot of operations that take place overseas are classified. Mine was, too."

She shook her head. "I'll never understand why we're always sending troops over to other countries, when our own is in such a mess."

"We call it patriotism," he said. "Our enemies call it imperialism. It's all politics, sugar. The rich guys in Congress declare wars and poor people die fighting them."

"There should be a law that any politician who votes for foreign wars that aren't a direct threat to us should be first in line to sign up for combat," she muttered. "That would sure limit the number of wars. It's easy to declare them when you don't have a personal interest in them."

"All too true," he agreed, rocking.

The blond man had spotted them on the porch. He set down his watering can and sauntered down the street toward them.

"Oh my gosh, he's coming here!" Amelia almost squeaked. "Is my hair combed? Do I look okay? Darn, I'm wearing a T-shirt with holes...!"

"He's not going to be trying to date you, sugar," he said under his breath, chuckling. "You're barely eighteen. He's in his midtwenties."

That stung, but she didn't take him up on it. She drew in a breath and forced a shaky smile.

"Hi, neighbor," she said, fanning for all she was worth.

"Morning," he replied. He had a nice voice, deep and smooth. His dark eyes studied them. "I'll bet you knew the guy who owns the house I'm renting," he told Harris.

He chuckled. "Yes, I did. He had a Friday night poker game. I was always the first one over."

"He said that. He's a sweet old guy. My sergeant at San Antonio PD introduced us before I quit and sighed on with Eb Scott. I didn't want to live in the city."

"You didn't want to be a career man?"

Hollister made a face as he perched on one of the wide stone balustrades leading down the steps. "Policing isn't what it was," he said. "And I'm notoriously politically incorrect. Eb Scott's operation is more my style."

"Eb's one of a kind," Harris replied. "I thought about asking him for a job. Then I got in a car wreck. Hurt my back. I can walk, after a fashion, but I'll never be agile again, I'm afraid." He chuckled. "I just became eligible for social security. It's made all the difference in the world."

"Tell me about it," Hollister sighed. "So many people would die without it."

"True. You used to live in Houston, didn't you?" he added.

Hollister nodded. "I grew up there. My mother was a nurse, and my dad was a cop."

"Was?" Harris asked gently while Amelia hung on every word.

He sighed. "She and Dad went on vacation. They stopped in at a fast-food joint to get a meal and there was a guy with an automatic weapon and a suicidal attitude."

The look in his eyes was terrible. "Such a pity that the perp took the easy way out. I'd have enjoyed being at every parole hearing. Assuming that it wouldn't have been the needle," he added with a taut expression.

"Amelia lost her parents in a car wreck," Harris told him. "Also, both at once."

"It's hard to get through that," Amelia said quietly. "At least I had my grandfather," she added, with a warm smile at the old man.

"And I had you," he replied, smiling back. "Doris and I only had one child, a girl—your mother, Mandy. And your dad was also an only child," he added.

"So was I," Hollister said, and smiled gently at Amelia. "Families used to be larger when people lived on the land. These days, it's only one or two kids. And one is more common."

"Are you going to stay in Jacobsville?" Harris asked.

"I plan to. I don't have any relatives left and this is a nice place," he added, glancing around. "Notable citizens, as well," he said on a chuckle. "A population that seems to be half ex-mercs. It must be the safest town in America."

"We like to think so," the older man replied.

"What are you studying in college?" he asked Amelia. "I heard that you were enrolled at our local community college."

Her heart jumped. It was so fascinating that he'd even mention that. "I'm studying chemistry," she said.

Both eyebrows arched. "Chemistry?"

Her grandfather rolled his eyes and shook his head. "I encouraged her. She blew up half the dining room with a junior chemistry set Christmas present when she was ten. I bought her some books from a science website, and then she studied it in high school, as well. It seemed a natural choice. Besides," he added with a grin at Amelia, "she can blow up the school lab instead of my dining room!"

"I only blew it up a little," she protested. She laughed. "But I really have better insight now. And there's this old guy in our class. He's auditing one of my courses. He was demolition in the Middle East when he was stationed there." Her brown eyes sparkled with delight, making her look very pretty. "He's teaching us how to use ordinary household chemicals to make weapons!"

"He'll be expelled," her grandfather began.

"He does it before the professor walks in," she said with wicked glee. "I can make a flamethrower already!"

"Remind me to walk wide past your front door," Hollister chuckled.

"I wouldn't blow you up," she promised. "Just bad guys."

"And how do you know I'm not a bad guy?" he asked with an indulgent smile.

"You were watering your plants," she explained reasonably. "Bad people don't take care of plants."

Harris and Hollister exchanged amused glances.

"She's right, you know," Harris replied. "People who care for plants and gardens are nurturing people."

Hollister made a face. "Not always," he replied. "I knew a guy overseas who had this orchid plant that he carried everywhere he went. Another guy came in drunk and crushed it under his boot. Guy killed him, right there on the spot, without hesitation."

Amelia looked at her grandfather. "If we go by his house," she pointed to Hollister, "let's make sure we walk wide around the potted plants!"

Hollister chuckled with pure delight. He glanced at Harris. "Do you play chess, by any chance?"

"He's our local champ," Amelia said proudly. "He won a big competition a few years ago. We have the trophy on our mantel."

"Nice," Hollister said. "So, when you're free, how about a game?"

"I'd enjoy that," Harris replied. "Name a day."

"Friday night?"

"Perfect timing. I have to leave Saturday night on an assignment."

"My house or yours?" Harris asked. He added, "If we play here, you can have chocolate cake. Amelia's an amazing cook."

"Chocolate is my favorite," he replied, and smiled at Amelia, who blushed with unexpected delight.

"Then Friday it is. About seven?"

Hollister nodded and smiled. "Seven, it is."

The Friday night chess sessions were as exciting for Amelia as they were for her grandfather and Hollister. She made a point of cooking special desserts, things that Hollister would enjoy eating. In the meantime, she went to classes and learned more about chemistry than she'd ever dreamed she would. It was a hard subject, but she took to it like a duck to water.

Hollister wasn't a chemist, but he was an expert in some other areas, especially weapons.

One day in the autumn, he took her out to the target range at Eb Scott's school to teach her how to handle a gun. He had a .38 special that he let her borrow.

He was amazed that she put the first few shots within the smallest bull's-eye.

"You've been playing me," Hollister accused with mock anger. "You already knew how to shoot."

"Not a handgun," she said as she reloaded the automatic he'd loaned her. "I used to target shoot with a .22 rifle with some friends in high school."

"Well, you're pretty much a natural."

She grinned. "Thanks."

"Ever thought about going into police work?" he asked.

She shrugged. "I'm too squeamish. Shooting targets is one thing. Shooting people..." She glanced up at him. "I don't think I could."

"When bullets start flying in your direction, you'd be surprised how fast you could shoot people," he replied, and the smile he gave her was faint.

She wanted to ask if he'd shot people, but it wasn't something she felt comfortable talking to a relative stranger about.

"Now," he added. "Stance." He proceeded to instruct her about the three stances that law enforcement people, notably the FBI, used.

"It gives you a centered balance," he said. "Doesn't do much good if you shoot straight and then fall over your own feet."

"Good point," she nodded. "I'm good at that, though. Falling over my own feet, I mean," she chuckled.

"Your grandfather plays a great game of chess," he said.

"He's smart. He did black ops when he was in the military. I've never been able to get him to tell me what sort. He's very secretive."

"Most people in covert ops are," he replied. "It's how we stay alive. One of the more formidable mobsters of the last century said that three people could keep a secret if two of them were dead."

She laughed. "That makes sense."

"It does. Now, another thing. Trigger pull," he said. "It's an art. If you can master it, you'll never miss a target. Although you seem to have that down pat already. As I said, you're a natural."

"I like guns," she said simply. "Even though I'd rather blow stuff up."

"Why?"

"I don't know, really," she confessed. "I'm not keen on noise and I've never wanted to overthrow a country. But there's just something short of magical about mixing various substances and having them utterly destroy objectives."

He shook his head. "You and Cord Romero," he murmured.

"Romero?"

"He teaches tactics at Eb's place, when he's not on assignment. He's FBI."

"Wow." She glanced up at him. "They say getting into the FBI is like trying to join the CIA. You apply and then they take months checking you out, everything from grammar school up and all in between."

"They're elite organizations," he said. "It pays to be cautious."

"Does Eb Scott do that? I mean, check out potential students?"

"Of course he does," he replied. "Especially foreign ones. There are some devious people in the world, and our country has enemies."

"I guess so."

"We'll go a few more rounds, then I have to go to San Antonio."

"Okay."

She wondered why he was going but she never pried. It seemed to be a character trait that he appreciated.

In fact, it was. He watched her covertly while she fired the pistol. She was a conundrum. Brilliant, but reserved and careful. She never asked prying questions or droned on about the latest reality television show or online talent competitions or even fashion shows. He knew a socialite in San Antonio—Edie Prince, one whom he dated infrequently—who bored him silly with such information. He couldn't have cared less. He watched the news and occasionally a movie. Nothing else.

"Do you watch television?" he asked absently.

"Not really," she confessed. "I'm taking algebra and Japanese along with chemistry. I don't have the free time."

"Japanese?" he exclaimed.

"I've always loved the culture," she explained. "I pig out on old Toshiro Mifune movies on the weekends. Granddad has several of them on DVD."

"Good Lord." He fired several shots dead center into the target without even aiming carefully. "I thought I was the only samurai fanatic in town."

She laughed, delighted to have something in common with him. "Not really. Granddaddy loves them, too."

"I grew up watching them. They were my dad's favorite films. It was samurai or Westerns all the time when he was off duty."

It was odd, the way he sounded when he spoke of his father. She couldn't quite place the tone. It wasn't one of remembered affection.

He saw her puzzled expression and noted that she didn't reply. He reloaded. "That's one thing about you that I really like."

"What is?" she asked, glancing toward him.

"You don't pry."

She smiled. "I don't like people who do. I've always been a private person. I could never go on a social media site and pour out all my problems to a group of total strangers. Although it seems to be the new national pastime," she added with a laugh.

"Social media has been the ruin of our civilization," he said darkly. "That, and the internet. People don't talk anymore. They go out to eat and spend the whole time staring at their cell phones."

"I've noticed that. It's sad."

"If I had a family—and don't hold your breath—there would be an ironclad rule that nobody was allowed to bring cell phones to the table at mealtimes."

"We already have that rule," she said, grinning at him. "My grandfather said I needed to know how to talk to real people."

"I like your granddad," he said. "He's got more common sense than most people I know. Most brainy folks don't have enough to come in out of a rainstorm."

"His grandparents were Mennonites," she said.

His eyebrows arched over twinkling brown eyes. "Really?"

"Yes. His grandfather founded a Mennonite church over in Comanche Wells, down the road from Jacobsville. By the time Granddaddy grew up, it had become a Methodist church, but it had that beginning."

"That must be a story and a half," he mused.

"It really is. There's still a Mennonite community in Jacobs County, but it's way out in the sticks now. They have a small church and stores that sell all sorts of lovely things like homemade butter and sausages and eggs." She looked up at him. "I shop there every week. I don't like grocery stores much."

"Neither do I, but it beats snake and rabbit," he said under his breath.

"Excuse me?" She was all eyes.

"When we're on a mission, sometimes we're so far back in woods or jungle that we run out of protein bars. Snake is pretty good. Rabbit's better."

She made a horrible face.

He laughed. "Staying alive is the thing, you know. When you're starving, you'll eat anything that won't eat you."

"I guess so," she agreed, but she shivered.

He glanced at his watch. "I'd better get you home. I'll be late."

"Thanks for the instruction," she said.

"Anytime. It never hurts to know how to handle a gun." He made a face. "Scares me to death when somebody comes into a gun shop and buys a gun for protection when they've never shot one in their lives. It isn't that easy to use one, especially in a desperate situation. There have been any number of innocent family members who were shot coming into their own homes unannounced."

"That would be awkward."

They climbed into his big SUV and put on their seat belts. "Of course, some of those accidental shootings aren't really accidental," he added as he cranked the truck and pulled out into the highway.

"They aren't?"

"Like the irate wife who accidentally shot her husband twenty-four times." He glanced at her with twinkling dark eyes. "She had to reload in between."

She burst out laughing. "That's not really funny, but it is," she said. "Did she go to jail?"

He nodded. "And for a very long time. The reloading is what got her. She wanted to make sure he was dead."

"I don't understand people. Why didn't she just divorce him?" she asked.

"It was revenge. He was running around with her best friend," he explained.

"Oh. Well, in that case..."

"Don't kill people if they don't want to stay with you," he interrupted. "It's that simple."

"Oh, I'd never do that," she agreed. "I just hope I never have to pull the trigger on anything except a deadly snake or a rabid animal."

"I hope that for you," he replied, and he was momentarily somber.

She looked out the window. "We need rain," she said. "Everything's parched. Our few little tomato plants are wilting."

"Shade," he suggested.

"I've got them in the shade," she replied, "but ninety-degree weather wilts most everything, including me!"

He glanced at her and chuckled. She was wearing a tank top with jeans and sneakers, and her long blond hair was up in a bun. He wondered idly how long it was when she let it down. She was good company, and he liked having her around. Of course, she was just a kid. So it wasn't a good idea to toss covert glances at those pert, firm little breasts under her top. He cleared his throat and looked back out the windshield, and he kept his eyes there the rest of the way home.

Amelia loved being with Cal. She knew that he didn't see her as anything except a young friend, but her heart sang when he came for the weekly chess match with her grandfather. She always had a special dessert for him. And while he and her grandfather were focused on their game, she could sneak glances at him. He was so handsome. She wondered that he was able to stay single. He must get hunted by women, even gorgeous women.

He was seeing somebody in San Antonio, her grandfather said. Cal hadn't told him, but it was gossip. The woman was wealthy, a socialite with a biting tongue who seemed hell-bent on landing Cal. So far, they were just friends, to her irritation.

Amelia knew that Cal was a grown man, and subject to male appetites. She'd never really felt desire, so she didn't understand it, but other women had said that most men couldn't go a long time without a woman.

It was painful to think that Cal would never belong to her. She thought of him constantly, loved being near him, ached to have him hold her, kiss her. But she had to hide those hopeless longings. If Cal ever knew about them, she'd never see him again. She knew that without being told.

She did wonder about his woman friend in San Antonio. But she never asked. One day when Cal was out of town, doing some job for Eb Scott, Amelia watched a luxury car park in Cal's driveway. A tall, willowy woman got out at the steps.

She was brunette. Very pretty even at a distance, with short hair and a knockout figure. She was wearing silk slacks and a silk shirt, and she looked rich. Very rich.

She spotted Amelia watering her tomato plants and walked over.

"Hi," she said lazily. "Have you seen Cal?"

"Hi," Amelia replied, and forced a smile. "No. We don't know where he is. Sorry."

The woman's eyes narrowed, and she studied Amelia closely. "You must be Amelia."

She laughed. "That's me."

"He said you like to blow things up?" she added warily.

Amelia grinned. "Only bad things. Honest. I'm a chemistry major."

"In high school, right?" she asked.

"Well, no, I graduated this year. I'm going to our community college now."

"Then you'd be, what, eighteen or so?"

"Eighteen and three months and ten days and," Amelia looked at her watch, "twenty minutes." She grinned brightly.

The woman laughed in spite of herself. "I'm Edie Prince," she introduced herself. "Cal and I go out together."

"Oh." Amelia just nodded. She didn't ask questions.

Edie gave her a going-over with her pale blue eyes. Eighteen. And she'd been afraid of the competition. She laughed at her own folly. Cal talked about this girl a lot, and she'd been jealous. But the girl was a kid, barely out of high school. Definitely not Cal Hollister's sort. He liked experience.

She relaxed. "Well, I'm sorry I missed him. Will you tell him I was here, please?"

"Of course," Amelia said. "Nice to meet you."

Edie nodded. "Same."

She sauntered back to her car, got in and sped away. Amelia let out the breath she'd been holding. So that was the sort of woman Cal liked? She wasn't impressed. Too much perfume, too much makeup, too much...everything. And the woman had to be the wrong side of thirty. Makeup only covered up so much.

She finished watering the plants and went back inside.

Cal was home two days later. It was Friday and he came over for the chess match.

"Want some chocolate cake?" Amelia asked him as he and her grandfather sat down.

"Yes," her grandfather said. "And coffee. Black. Strong!"

"Double that," Cal chuckled.

"Coming right up," she assured them.

"Oh, and you had a visitor," her grandfather told Cal. "Some woman in a black luxury car. She spoke to Amelia."

Cal's dark eyes flashed. "Edie."

"I don't know," Harris replied. "I didn't speak to her."

"She's an acquaintance," Cal said, and didn't add anything to that. But it irritated the hell out of him that the woman had come down here to nose around the town where he lived. She was possessive already. He didn't like it.

Amelia didn't say anything, but she saw that irritation in his expression before he concealed it. He must like the woman, or he wouldn't spend time with her. But it was obvious that he also didn't like having people pry into his life.

She fixed coffee, poured it into two mugs, sliced cake and presented it all to the men.

"You should learn to play chess," her grandfather commented.

"Never," Amelia said. "I've been slaughtered too many times on that board by you," she added darkly.

Her grandfather chuckled. "It's because you don't stop to think about your moves. You rush in and attack."

"So did Pancho Villa!"

His eyes widened. "He played chess?"

"He fought in the Mexican Revolution," she corrected. "And he only knew one method of fighting. Attack!"

"Well, that's definitely you, sugar," her grandfather chuckled.

"One day I might beat you," she retorted.

"Fat chance."

"Chess can be taught, just like shooting a gun," Cal interjected.

"I like shooting guns. I hate chess."

"Excuses, excuses," Cal teased.

"You two can have chess. I'll take mahjong."

"That's just memorization," Cal pointed out.

"Yes, well, I remember things better than I think them out," she replied. "Besides, mahjong is fun!"

"So is chess," Cal told her. "It's a magnificent relic of the past. They used to call it the game of kings, because they studied the use of tactics playing it."

"I hate tactics, too. But I like cake." She grinned and took her cake and coffee into the kitchen, to enjoy while she made rolls for tomorrow's meals. Meanwhile, she was able to angle the occasional unconscious glance toward gorgeous Cal, while he and her grandfather battled across the chess board.

Cal was going out the door with Amelia when he turned suddenly on the porch.

"Did Edie say why she came down here?" he asked abruptly.

"Not really," she replied with a hopefully disinterested smile. "She just said she was looking for you, and to tell you she'd been here."

"I see."

His hands were shoved deep in his pockets and the dark eyes she couldn't quite see were narrow and angry.

"She's really pretty," Amelia said.

He glanced down at her and seemed to relax a little. He studied her face. It wasn't beautiful, but it had character—like its owner. He smiled. "So are you, Amelia," he replied quietly. "It's not what's outside that matters. It's what's inside."

Before she colored too rapidly and gave herself away, she grinned and said, in mock horror, "You mean, my guts?"

He thought about that for a minute, threw back his head and roared with laughter. "Good grief," he muttered. He flapped a hand at her. "I'm going to bed." He was still shaking his head as he walked down the driveway.

Amelia was grinning when she went back inside. Her grandfather, who'd been eavesdropping, was also laughing.

"Your guts," Jacob Harris said, shaking his head. "Honestly!"

"He's somber a lot," she explained. "I like making him laugh."

"Well, Eb Scott said the guy has a reputation with his men, and it doesn't include laughter. In fact, he says he hardly ever smiled before he started coming over here. He was fishing," he added with some amusement, "about whether or not Cal had a case on you."

Her heart jumped into her throat.

"Of course not, I told him," he added without looking at her, which was a good thing. "After all, you're just eighteen, sugar. Hardly old enough to get mixed up with a professional soldier. You'd need to be street smart and a lot more sophisticated."

She nodded, averting her eyes. "Like that pretty lady who came to see him," she agreed.

"Exactly. She looked hard as nails, and she'd need to be!"

She raised both eyebrows in a silent question.

"Think about it, Amy," he said softly, using the nickname that only he had ever called her. "A man like that keeps his emotions under lock and key. It's a matter of survival, to be stoic and levelheaded. He's hard as nails—no sentiment in him. He'd never settle with a woman who wasn't his equal in temperament."

"In other words, he'd walk all over somebody less hardheaded."

"Exactly." He smiled at her. "Even if you were older, it would be a very bad mix." He shook his head. "You don't know what these men are really like until you've served beside them. Something you'll never know about," he added firmly.

"Absolutely not," she agreed at once. "I'm going to learn how to blow up stuff instead!"

"Amy...!"

"Controlled demolition," she interrupted with a grin. "It's how they take down buildings in big cities. It's fascinating! Just last week, we learned how to do timed charges..."

"Oh, no, not again!" he said in mock anguish.

"You know it fascinates you," she teased. "I could tell you all about it," she added.

"I'm really sleepy," he said with a mock yawn. "I have to go to sleep right now. So lock up, sugar, okay?"

"Retreat is like surrendering!" she called after him.

He threw up a hand and kept walking.