Chapter Four

Shane was halfway to the door when that gorgeous, but addle-brained woman at the front desk called out, "Bring them inside. They'll fit right in. We love dogs here."

Yeah, that'll never happen. He shot her a terse look that was half-annoyance, half-angry disbelief over his shoulder. Stewart's secretary was a pretty thing, but flighty as hell, and her babysitting his dogs while he fucked up his one shot at joining The TEAM would only add to the shitty way this morning was headed. Downhill, damn it.

"No, thanks. They should've stayed in the truck." Where they belong. But no, they'd wiggled out of their harnesses. That was how they'd gotten free, clever girls. All they'd had to do then was squeeze out the window he'd left partially open for them, and here they were. Happy as hell to see him. "I'll be back in a minute."

"Stop right there, Mr. Hayes," the secretary ordered with a titch of stern authority in her voice. "Bring those adorable dogs inside like I said. Please. I'll be glad to watch them while you successfully handle your interview. Mark just got in, and you're precisely what he's looking for. Hurry up! You don't have time to waste. He's waiting for you. Chop, chop!"

Damn, she was bossy. Shane turned to tell her no. Flat no. This day had already gone to hell. With that blast of her coffee, he'd lost the edge a good impression could've made. Imposing his dogs on her was the dumbest idea ever.

By then, she was thumping her way over to him with plenty of attitude and noise. Well, guess what? If this was a test of wills, she'd lose. Until her lips curled into a genuine smile, and the sparkle in her coffee-brown eyes challenged the golden light of the sunbeams breaking through the plate-glass windows behind him.

"I… I…" He started to shut her down, to tell her he didn't need anyone's help, least of all hers. Especially not hers. But the stubborn rebuttal his brain came up with got stuck in his throat, and, shit. "I don't know your name," came out instead of, ‘You've already helped more than enough.'

Her hand came forward. "Let's start over, shall we?" she asked demurely. "Good morning, Mr. Shane Hayes. I'm Everlee Yeager, formerly Lieutenant Yeager, Chief of Security Forces at Joint Base Elmendorf-Richardson in Anchorage, Alaska. It's very nice to meet you. May I please get a decent cup of coffee for you before you head in for your interview? And for your information, I'm not Mr. Stewart's secretary. That would be Paige; she's on leave. I'm only filling in for her until I'm cleared for active duty." She waggled her booted foot at him. "As you already know, I can be a bit of a klutz."

Shane nodded, aware that the palm his fingers were wrapped around was much smaller and definitely more slender. Feminine. Soft and tender. But firm. LT Yeager's grip was quite solid in fact. She might be more than he'd first assumed because she was giving back as good as she was getting. Her eye contact was impressively direct, and judging by her grip, she truly believed she was in charge.

He tipped his head to her, just once, released her fingers, and let her think whatever she wanted. In the end, it wouldn't matter. Once Stewart kicked him out, he'd never see her again. "Good morning, Ms. Yeager. Pleased to meet you. Any relation to Chuck?"

"Ha!" And just that fast, she ditched the polish and changed back to the energetic spitfire he'd first met. "I wish I were related to America's number one Flying Ace, but no, darn it. I'm not even a distant relative. I did get to meet Brigadier General Chuck Yeager at Air Command Staff College, though. Bright, charming man, a hero our nation should be damned proud of."

The warm glow on this woman's face increased along with the sincerity in her wide-open smile. Her lips were lush and pink and wet, damn it. No lipstick, only the barest hint of make-up, and none of that charcoal-smudged crap most women did to their eyes. Her copper-colored hair was cut short and framed her oval face perfectly. Didn't they call that a pixie style? Her lashes were clean ebony feathers over clear skin the color of that mocha latte thing she'd spit on him. Not Spanish, though. But definitely some other enchanting country mingled with her European white.

"Agreed," Shane replied hoarsely.

When the phone on the desk behind her rang, Ms. Yeager released his hand. "Listen, while you go meet Mark, I'll handle your dogs. Tell me their names, so I can make friends."

Shane hesitated. "Are you sure?"

"I love dogs, and Paige keeps treats in her desk for our four-legged visitors. Come on, give. Now please, what are these cute babies' names?"

Of course, Molly's and Dolly's bodies waggled like they'd just found their new best friend.

The phone kept ringing, but Ms. Yeager seemed more interested in him and his dogs. Which actually said something about her, that people who were live and in-person were her first priority. She'd chosen to let the phone system handle the incoming call instead of putting him on hold and making him wait on her caller like some insignificant lackey. She'd put him first. Shane liked that small nuance to this klutzy woman with big, brown eyes.

"Molly and Dolly. They're two-year-old littermates and trained service dogs, but they can still be a handful. Are you—?"

"Sure? Yes, positive. Go, go, go." Ms. Yeager shooed him toward the hallway at the left side of her desk—her left, his right—and headed for the entry. "I'll let your girls in. Mark's office is second on the right. His door's always open. He's waiting for you. Hurry!"

While Ms. Yeager thumped around him to open the door, Shane obeyed. She was good for her word since neither Molly nor Dolly tracked him inside like they usually did once they spotted him. He gave them one quick backward glance and saw that they were both busy impressing LT Yeager, umm, Everlee, wagging their tails and sitting like good girls, while she cooed and baby talked at them.

Shane hurried. The hallway he entered was brightly lit with recessed overhead lighting. Plush, red carpet covered the floor. Four rosewood office doors on each side, but only the second was open. The brass name-plate on the first closed door declared: Alex Stewart.

A chill raced up Shane's spine as he passed it, and his inner chicken-shit was glad for the temporary reprieve. That closed door meant Stewart was either already occupied or he wasn't in for the day. Either way, it gave Shane time to ask Mr. Houston when would be the best time to set up a face-to-face meeting with the guy. Later. Tomorrow, maybe. Next week? Next month? Next year?

Yeah, no. Shane refused to accept any job offer provided he'd even get one, until he'd had his chance with Stewart. No sense being hired only to get fired the same day. Before he stepped into Mark's view, he ran a hand over the still damp, coffee stain down his front, sucked in a deep breath, and ventured into Mr. Houston's office looking like the loser he was. Damn it.

"You must be Shane Hayes," Mark said from behind his desk, his arm outstretched over it and his hand reaching out like a friend. "Good to meet you."

Shane swallowed hard, feeling like a liar and a betrayer all wrapped up into one nervous mess of shit. At least, Mr. Houston was kind enough not to draw attention to the coffee stain. "Good to meet you too, sir," he replied, returning the handshake. "Appreciate you taking the time to meet me."

"Sure, no problem. And it's Mark, not sir. We don't do titles here, and we're always looking for a few good men, a few good gals, too. I see you've met Everlee." The man was pleasant, dark-haired, and built like a beast. Dressed like he was, all in black, he could've passed for a nightclub bouncer. Or a Marine. And he eyed the coffee stain on Shane's shirt with a teasing smile instead of sharp disapproval.

"Ah, yeah. She's a pistol."

"You have no idea." Mark gestured to the wooden chair alongside his desk.

Shane had done his homework. Mark hailed from Ohio, had served honorably in the Corps, and was one of the first men Stewart had lured away from active duty when he'd started his business. That either said something about Houston or Stewart. Or it said a helluva lot about Shane, since he was the one still looking for decent work.

"Before we begin…" He cleared his throat. "Would it be possible to speak with Mr. Stewart first? Prior to our interview? I should've made that clear when you called, and I'm sorry I didn't. But I've had time to think, and if it's at all possible—"

"No problem. Turn around and meet the boss. Alex Stewart, Shane Hayes. Shane—"

"I know exactly who he is," a terse male voice hissed at Shane's back.

Ah, shit. He pivoted to his left, not sure how he'd missed the assassin seated in the corner behind the gawddamned open door. Clever asshole.

"Mr. S-S-Stewart," he choked, his throat and tongue as dry as a sandstorm outside Kabul. "Sure. Yeah, I've heard of you." Cough, cough. "Pleased to meet you, sir." Oh, God, I'm dead.

Damned if Stewart's left eyelid didn't twitch. Shane cringed all the way to his toes and his heart damned near climbed out of his chest. He'd pissed Stewart off with that one stupid word: Sir. Shane knew better. Stewart was non-com, a sergeant, an enlisted grunt, not an officer. And Shane— shit!shit!shit!— had committed the unforgivable sin of calling a man who had actually worked in the Corps, sir .

He stumbled over himself to rectify the fatal error. "I mean, yes, I've heard of you, Mr. Stewart. Who hasn't? Didn't mean to lump you in with asshats like my CO. Won't happen again." And now I'm talking too damned much.

"Sit," Stewart hissed.

The guy Shane had thought he could work for was mean-eyed, dark-haired, and dressed impeccably sharp in a light-tan suit, a crisp, white—and impeccably clean—dress shirt, and brown silk tie. His blue eyes were daggers, though, sharp as the arctic wind. Right then, the cold rolling out of them drilled Shane like a thousand frozen arrows, all fitted with titanium, razor-sharp tips, and hitting the only dumbass target in the room. Him. But beneath that dressed-for-success business apparel, lay a very cold, lethal sniper, and Shane was as good as dead.

He nodded once and took the seat by Mark's desk, but turned the chair enough that he faced Stewart on his left and Mark behind the desk on his right. Stiffening his spine, Shane dropped his palms to his knees and studied the sniper in the corner, wishing he could start this morning over.

On his reputation alone, Shane had expected Stewart to be bigger and wider. Certainly not the elegantly dressed professional who looked more like he'd just stepped off some high-class business magazine instead of a gun range. There was no mistaking the killer vibe shuddering off the athletically built, clean-shaven owner of The TEAM, though. If Shane had met Stewart in a dark alley, he would've considered him lethal at first sight, and he might've turned tail and run. Then. Not now. He'd come here today to speak with Stewart, and he wasn't leaving until he did. Despite his arrogant glare, this man deserved to know what only Shane could tell him.

"Boss, here's everything you need to know about Shane." Mark slipped a file folder across his desk to his boss. "He's perfect for The TEAM." Houston was everything Stewart wasn't. Friendly. Relaxed. Kind.

For now.

Stewart waved the offer off. "Why are you here?" he clipped at Shane, his tone nasty and his glare full of more killer arrows.

By then, Shane's heart was rat-a-tat-tatting in his chest like an overheated fifty-cal. He swallowed hard, but shit. Nervous or not, this was why he'd come here today, to finally meet Alex Stewart. Face time, damn it. This was all Shane had wanted—and so much more. Too much. Kiss that shit goodbye.

Summoning his courage, he raked his fingers over his hair and faced the bastard who still might kill him. "I need a decent job, that's true. But I really came here to tell you what happened that morning, Mr. Stewart. You need to know I wasn't drunk like the papers said, and I wasn't texting or distracted. The accident, it just happened and—" And there was no way Shane could gauge what was going through Stewart's mind. No expression. No reaction to his words. Just the stone-cold stare of America's deadliest sniper bearing down on him.

"What are you talking about?" Mark asked. "What happened that you need to explain?"

That was an unexpected development. Stewart hadn't ranted to everyone about the shithead who'd killed his family? That might be good news. But it also let Shane know there was no TEAM hit list with his name at the top. Yet. He took the only opportunity he expected would come his way and broke eye contact with Stewart. Turning to Mark, he asked, "You mean you don't know?"

"I guess not, so tell me. What's going on, Shane?" That was the other thing Shane liked about Mark. He relied on first names, not ranks or stuffy salutations.

"I'm…" Shane swallowed hard and tried again. "I'm him, Mr. Houston. I'm the guy who killed his wife and daughter. Me. I'm the bastard that destroyed Mr. Stewart's life and ruined his USMC career." He licked his lips before he could go on. "It was me."

Mark groaned. "You were driving that delivery truck? God, the one that—"

"I was, yes."

Mark shoved his chair back, his fingertips firmly planted on his desk "Boss, I'm sorry. His records are stellar, but I had no idea he was that guy."

Crap. The way Mark said, ‘that guy,' sounded a lot like a death knell. Shane thought Mark might be an ally. Guess he'd thought wrong. Tremors began deep inside his already tense body.

"Of course you didn't know," Stewart snapped out like a whip. "It wasn't your business. It happened before we met."

"I'm sure sorry, Mr. Stewart," Shane said before he found his ass kicked to the curb. Might as well get it over with. His voice wavered like a chicken-shit coward's, but that was just nerves. He'd tried his best to prepare for this meeting, just hadn't expected he'd be ambushed right out of the gate. He'd thought he'd have more time. Also thought he'd have more courage.

Deep down, Shane knew he hadn't set out to hurt anyone that morning. He hadn't been charged with vehicular manslaughter, hadn't even been ticketed. Several witnesses had stepped forward and verified everything he'd told the police. That he'd already applied his brakes before Mrs. Stewart's car had swerved into the intersection. That he wasn't to blame. Hell, even the utility guys working the electrical nightmare in Alexandria that day weren't to blame or no one was held liable. They'd taken all necessary precautions, had posted more than enough hazard cones, blinking barricades, and warning signs. That there was no intent, just dumb bad luck on everyone's part that morning.

But Shane suspected Stewart already knew everything. Still, he explained, "There was a power outage the night before. A severe wind storm. It lasted most of the next morning. There were four-way stops all over Alexandria to handle the morning rush. But traffic was heavy, and every street was a mess, and..." Shane couldn't bear to look at the man whose wife and daughter he'd killed. He kept his head down, his gaze fastened on the hardwood flooring. But he now knew there was no future for him here. Not anymore. Stewart wasn't that kind of stupid. As soon as he said what he'd come to say, Shane was out of there.

"It was early, still dark," he went on. "Lots of tour buses on the streets. Lots of tourists on the sidewalks and crosswalks. People were jay-walking everywhere. You know how bad rush hour traffic in Olde Town gets. Traffic lights were flickering greens, yellows, and reds, then not working at all. Someone got confused, thought he had the right-of-way. Didn't even slow down. I don't know, maybe he was in a hurry or something, but he ran the four-way stop. I'd already entered the intersection. I slammed my brakes to miss the guy. Thought I got off easy. Only thing in front of my van was an iron lamp post on the corner. No great loss there. But then your wife's car—"

He swallowed hard, the rest of the story agonizingly hard to tell. The man who'd run the four-way stop had also clipped Sara Stewart's vehicle and sent it careening like a bullet into Shane's path. There was no way for him to stop in time. He'd already been standing on his brake pedal. Didn't matter. The much heavier delivery truck he'd been driving broadsided the driver side of her much smaller, cheaper car with enough impact to flatten the passenger side against that iron light post. Her airbags went off. Just the front airbags. There were none in the sides and nothing but seatbelts in the back.

Sara and Abby Stewart took a hard hit. A lethal hit. Abby had been sitting right behind her mom. She'd had her seatbelt on, for all the good that did. Shane still remembered the wide-open surprise on that little blonde girl's face at the precise moment of impact. How her slender, little-girl body had flopped sideways within the confines of her seatbelt. How her neck had snapped. How her mother had screamed. How the crushing silence afterward became the biggest, loudest noise of his life.

He couldn't, didn't dare lift his chin and look Stewart in the eye. Didn't want to see the pain in those wicked blues. Or shit, the tears, if the man's heart was breaking all over again. Shane's was. But it should. He was the transgressor, would never be anything more. Not a day went by he didn't wish he'd never been born. His heart couldn't heal from what had happened that awful morning. What was one more blow to a pulverized organ that had been leaking blood for years?

But Stewart needed to know what happened from the man who'd been there, who'd stolen his family. So Shane continued. "I was the first at her side. Ah, your wife's side," he explained quickly, needing to get this done, his ass in his truck with his dogs, and his truck back on the road. "I'd already reversed my truck away from her car so I could reach her. But the driver's door was mashed inward, and the passenger side had curled around the l-l-lamp post. I couldn't get either door open. Not even Abby's d-d-door." Saying that little girl's name would forever tear Shane's resolve to shreds. "The things wouldn't budge."

How he'd tried! There was no reason to tell Stewart he'd bloodied his hands trying, or that he'd broken his knuckles when rage at his impotence took over and he'd punched the lamp post.

"Your van was a heavier than her son of a bitchin' car," Stewart said hoarsely. "She had to have that gawddamned car. They never stood a chance!"

There was so much rage and pain in those few words. So much hate. Shane would've agreed, but he knew who'd really killed Stewart's family. Him. He was responsible. Blame him. Not the car. Only—him.

He closed his eyes, determined to weather this wicked storm from which there would be no relief. Not today. Not ever. He should've stayed home that long-ago morning. Sure as hell wished he had today.

"Your wife talked to me," he explained quietly, the misery in his heart suffocating him all over again. "Her window was shattered, but I talked to her. I did. And she talked with me. I asked if she was okay, and she said she was, and then I asked your daughter how she was doing, but she wasn't answering. I thought the crash just knocked her out. Your wife thought so, too. Sara kept telling me everything was going to be okay…" And there it was, another heartbreaking name that never failed to stab Shane again and again… "I… I wanted to believe her," he stuttered. "She sounded so sure, but I was scared I was going to lose them both, and the cops weren't there yet, and neither were the paramedics, and then it started to rain, and I—"

"They were never yours to lose!" Alex boomed. "They were mine, you asshole! They were all I had!"

I know. I know. God, I know .

Shane bit the inside of his cheek, wishing his mouth would stop with the running monologue. Because of that morning, Sara and Abby were not just names of people he'd never met nor cared about. They weren't just light reading in the evening newspaper. Stewart might never understand, but because of that cataclysmic meeting, Sara's and Abby's deaths were just as real to Shane as his mom's. They were his special angels, and he talked with all three of them every gawddamned day. They were inside his head and heart to stay, wedged in tight like their car had been wedged between his truck and that damned light post. Which was why Shane was here. Alex needed to know Shane loved his wife and daughter like the sisters he'd never had. They were part of him. Too. A devastatingly sad part, but a part nonetheless.

"I do know that, but Sara—your wife—she asked me to get Abby out first, and by then, some guy showed up with a crowbar, and we tried to open Abby's door. Only it wouldn't budge. No matter how much weight we put into it, we couldn't make it open, and then the fire department showed and the cops, and she still wasn't answering us or her mom, and we got pushed out of their way, and—"

"They used son of a bitchin' jaws-of-life to get my wife out," Stewart snarled, his voice breaking. "Son of a bitchin' worthless piece-of-shit car!"

"I know, I know." Because I was there and I watched everything until the ambulances arrived and took them away. Until I knew I'd killed them… That they were dead because of me…

Shane took a deep breath. There would be no forgiveness today. All he'd done was cause Mr. Stewart more pain, and that wasn't what he'd wanted nor why he'd come here. "Anyway, you know the rest, I know you do." Another dry swallow refused to go down. "I never should've come here today." He licked his parched lips. "I'm sorry. I rescind my job application. I don't want to work here. But honest, I only came because I felt I needed to face you, Mr. Stewart. To tell you that I'm so gawddamned sorry for what I did to you that morning. I'd do anything to change what happened. I am so, so gawddamned sorry."

Blinking through the blur gathering in his eyes, Shane lifted to his feet, ready to escape, but intending to at least shake Stewart's hand before he did. Lifting his arm, which felt like it weighed a ton, for the last time he faced the man whose life he'd destroyed. Shane stuck his hand out and said, "I appreciate you taking the time to at least see me. I'll just go, and you'll never hear from me ag—"

"Why don't you tell me what really happened?" Stewart was on his feet now and fighting mad. "All you've shared so far is what's in police and insurance reports. I already know that crap. I also know the lies the media spread that you were drunk, but you weren't. I damned well know that, too! Why don't you man up and talk to me instead of running away with your tail between your legs like a gawddamned coward?"

Shane blinked and stared into the pit of utter misery. His arm was still stuck out like the damned thing was frozen. It might've been, because Stewart's eyes were glacial. But there was something else glimmering in them that Shane couldn't quite define—or didn't want to face. It was hard to see past the agony he'd created. Again. It seemed all he did was cause this man pain. What a stupid idea to think he could ever work here, for Stewart. Shane wished he were back in Kabul fighting assassins. Death there would be honorable.

He dropped his hand. Like a shot, Stewart squared his shoulders, immediately putting Shane on the defensive and blocking the only way out. Stewart was more formidable on his feet. His shoulders were broader, his chest was bigger, and his thighs were thicker. His top lip curled into a wicked sneer. His nostrils flared as if there wasn't enough air in the room for both of them.

"Boss," Mark said quietly.

"Stay out of this!" Stewart spat.

Instinctively, Shane's fists clenched, but he'd never fight Stewart. Instantly, he relaxed his fingers and shook them to loosen the Devil Dog urge to strike first and hit hard. If Stewart needed to beat him to a pulp to feel better, Shane meant to stand there and take every last punch, kick, and slap. He deserved it. But he had no idea what the hell Stewart had meant or what he wanted. What else was there but facts?

"Your mother died that morning," Stewart hissed. "Tell me about that, why don't you? I want the gawddamned details, every last son of a bitchin' one of them. Why were you even behind that wheel?"

"Boss," Mark said again.

Stewart shut him down with a nasty, "No, Mark. He started this. I'm finishing it. I want to know every gawddamned thing, Hayes. Every detail! Answer me! You weren't in a decent frame of mind to be driving. You couldn't have been. You might not've meant to kill them, but you sure as hell shouldn't have been behind that son of a bitchin' wheel!"

Now he was getting personal. And mean. This wasn't how Shane had seen this meeting going, not at all. Every protective instinct inside slammed the walls to his heart down and locked the sweet memories of his mom up tight, far away from this dangerous killer. Stewart had no right. Except he did, and Shane understood. Stewart was right to be angry. But he'd never gain access to the memory of Shane's mom.

The nasty inquisition continued. "How gawddamned old were you? Fifteen? Sixteen? Did you even have a gawddamned driver license?"

"Almost eighteen, Mr. Stewart. I was nearly of legal age and I was gainfully employed and—"

"Alex! Stop calling me Mr. Stewart! Wake up and talk to me like a man. Really son of a bitchin' talk, gawddamn you! Isn't that why you're here? To get everything off your shoulders and pile the shit you're sick of carrying on mine?"

"No, sir!" Shane yelled back, his hands still at his side, but pissed at the pompous jerk squaring off with him. "I had a killer migraine that morning! I didn't sleep the night before, because Mom…" Jesus, I don't believe I'm going to tell him this, but … "My mom, my poor, sweet Mom, died at twelve-thirty-two that same gawddamned morning! I couldn't close my eyes and sleep because all I saw was what I… Did. To. Her! I'm the one who let her die. She had breast cancer, or did you already know that, too?" You ornery asshole! "She thought it went into remission. We both did. But it came back, okay? It fuckin' came back like fuckin' cancer always fuckin' does!"

Shane sucked in a breath to compose himself. He'd never used so many fucks in any conversation before. But he was running on adrenaline and there was no way to calm down now. Stewart asked for this and he was going to get it. All of it. "Only it came back in her brain, and by the time we found it, there was nothing anybody could do to stop it or keep it from spreading. So I stayed with her every minute of those last two weeks of her life, and I never left her side. I couldn't, Alex." He threw as much venom into the bastard's name as he could. "I sang every last one of her favorite songs to her. I read the newspaper to her every morning." And I cried my heart out the whole damned time. "She was blind by then, but she never—not once—ever complained. But none of that changed anything, did it? She still died— Alex! "

Shane twisted the man's name with enough sarcasm to kill a horse. "What do you want from me? Yes, I went to work that morning. I had to! I was a stupid college kid with a fuckin' funeral to pay for and a two-bit job to make sure it was good enough for… My. Mom!" He stabbed his chest with his thumb. "You think you know everything? You think you lost everything that day? Well, so the fuck did I! Only one death wasn't enough shit for me to deal with, was it? No! I get to live with three innocent deaths on my head. Three! For the rest of my fucked-up life! I killed three people that day!"

"You didn't kill your mother—"

Too late, you pompous asshole!! "Shut the fuck up!" Shane roared. "I'm not talking about Mom with you anymore." He was done. He'd lost his composure and his mind for ever thinking this meeting was the good and right thing to do. If he stayed one more second, he'd either have to fight his way out or he'd break down.

Suddenly, Mark squared off beside Alex.

Great, now he had to fight both of them. Well, bring it on!

But there was no sense explaining that morning to anyone else ever again. Kindness and honor were never their own reward. What a shittin' lie. Shane licked his dry lips, swallowed hard, and blew out a gut full of regret that would never die.

"This was the stupidest idea ever," he told the floor. "I thought I could give you closure or" —he shrugged— "something. I never meant to hurt anyone or to cause you more pain. I'm sorry I was in that intersection that morning, and I'm sorry I'm here today. Thanks for…" God, for what? Nothing? Another slap in the face?

"Sit," Stewart hissed, then to Mark he bit out, "Hire the son of a bitch."

Before Shane could refuse the nasty offer—because there was no way in hell he'd work for Stewart now—the man stalked out of the office and slammed the door behind him.

Shane sank to his knees then, broken again and so damned tired of the fight. All he'd wanted was to give Stewart some measure of peace. He'd never expected Stewart would forgive him. He shouldn't. That would've been asking too much, and Shane had never expected that. With all his heart, he wished Stewart had beaten the shit out of him.

It couldn't hurt any worse.