Page 49 of Freeing Lark

Wren looked at her. “No.”

“About anything?”

A pause. “No.”

Lark’s heart twisted. Hildi didn’t seem to notice. She continued discussing flowers, invitations, guest lists, entertainment, designers, caterers, photographers, and a honeymoon destination that sounded like it was more suitable for a god than a mere mortal.

Wren answered everything with the same three responses. Yes, no, and whatever you think is best.

Lark watched her. Something was terribly wrong. But what could she do? She’d offered help. Wren had refused. And Lark couldn’t drag her sister away from a wedding she insisted she wanted. Not without proof that she needed rescuing.

But Lark had seen her reaction when she’d said she was happy while discussing her “boyfriend.” There had been something that resembled longing in her expression. Something almost wistful. For just a moment there had been a brief flicker of life. But the spark of defiance was extinguished, replaced by a weary acceptance. As if she could never hope for a life filled with happiness. Lark was both angered and saddened by her reaction.

So she sat there and listened. Two hours. That was all she had left. Two more hours in this house. Then the airport and the flight home to Bell Creek.

Lark glanced at the clock. One hour and fifty-eight minutes. She groaned silently. At this rate, time had apparently decided to stop moving. She closed her eyes for a moment. She could already picture her little storefront. The half-finished bell. Aunt Marilyn’s bakery. The river. Her apartment. And, annoyingly, one grumpy former SEAL who had somehow become the first man in years to make her feel safe.

Cormac Shibley, boyfriend. The lie echoed in her head. Oh, God. If that little fib somehow made its way back to him, she was going to have some serious explaining to do.

Lark sighed. Two hours. She could survive two more hours. Probably. After all, she’d survived her family for thirty-one years. How much worse could two hours be?

CHAPTER 14

The dream was getting worse. Hoot sat in his truck for several minutes after waking, staring through the windshield at nothing. Same dream. Same mission. Same gunshot. Same damn word.

Pray. Over and over. And every time Hoot woke, sweat soaked through his shirt and his heart hammered like he’d just run a mile.

Seeing Calloway at the gala hadn’t helped. If anything, it had made everything worse.

The frustrating part was that Hoot couldn’t find a damn thing wrong with the man. Grant Calloway had been exactly what he was supposed to be. A polished professional. Well-spoken and charitable. And deeply connected, considering the circles he’d moved in with Washington’s elite that night.

At the gala, he’d been there representing Praetorian Strategic Group as a senior executive, not as security personnel. PSG had contributed to the Whitmore Foundation’s international relief and security initiatives several times, and Calloway had cultivated relationships with influential people in Washington through those efforts. He wasn’t there to protect anyone. He was there because PSG wanted a seat at the table. And apparently, Calloway had been very good at getting them one.

Everything about him checked out. And Baker hadn’t been able to dig out anything different. Which made Hoot’s instincts even more irritating. Because instincts didn’t care about paperwork. And his were screaming.

He’d barely made it through his morning workout since the dream had dragged him awake far too early again. Now, at least, he had espresso. Cammie’s espresso was nothing short of manna from heaven.

Hoot stepped out of Flour Power Bakery, cup warming his hand, and started down the sidewalk. Then a smell reached his senses. Gun oil. Maybe something else mixed with it. His steps slowed. The bakery disappeared. Even Bell Creek disappeared, and he was suddenly back in Afghanistan.

Smoke and dust surrounded him. The acrid smell of gunpowder and the metallic tang of blood assaulted his senses.

“Get down!” Bullet’s voice. Young. Too young. Hardly an adult.

Hoot turned. Bullet was running toward him. Fast. Faster than anyone should have been able to move carrying a rifle. “Hoot!”

The shot rang out. Bullet fired. The enemy went down. Bullet grinned. “Good deed for the day.”

A sharp crack echoed through the air again. Bullet jerked. “Hoot.”

He caught him. There was so much blood. Too much for a body to survive.

“Hoot!”

“I’m here.”

“Ho—”

Hoot tried to hold him tighter. “Stay with me.”