The Colonel's Widow?

His unease ratcheted up a notch. Dan Taylor had assured him that there wasn’t a chance in hell anyone could sneak past the Secret Service’s perimeter onto the ranch. But Dan didn’t know Novus Ordo.

Deke did.

He’d experienced firsthand what the internationally famous terrorist Novus was capable of. Twice. So it would take more than the word of a young hotshot with lots of civilian training and zero field experience to put him at ease.

Deke moved silently across the room, trying to position himself to see the entire patio without stepping out of the shadows. The French doors faced south, which meant she could be seen from the guesthouse, where the three specialists lived. If she was out there, they could see her—and him if he wasn’t careful.

He knew from the gate guard that all three were there. And he had a very good reason for not wanting any of the three to know he was here.

He took another step, craning his neck to see the southwest corner. Finally, he saw a flash of red. There she was, in a red gown and robe, bathed in moonlight. She had her arms wrapped around herself, and her head was bowed.

He blew out his breath in relief and frustration. She was all right. But she was exposed. He sank back against the wall.

Now what?

He had to get her out of here and on the road. Every second increased the danger that he’d be spotted.

He thought about calling out to her, but if someone was watching, her reaction would alert them.

And once they were alerted, it wouldn’t take them long to figure out that there was only one reason he’d be spiriting Irina away from Castle Ranch—the one place on earth she should be safe—in the middle of the night. And right now he couldn’t risk anyone knowing where he was taking her. Not even his fellow BHSAR specialists.

Gritting his teeth, he waited, absently rubbing at the bandage on his right forearm. The surgeon had done a great job of stitching up his arm—thirty-two stitches—but the deep slash itched and hurt like a sonofabitch, courtesy of the weasel who’d called himself Frank James.

He’d like to have five minutes alone with James. Hell, three minutes would be plenty. But that was impossible. The dynamite he’d set off in a last-ditch effort to save Mindy and their unborn son had taken care of James and Novus Ordo’s soldiers—permanently.

A rustle of silk pulled Deke’s gaze to the French doors. Irina’s shadow stretched across the bedroom floor. She was coming inside.

No matter what he did, his presence was going to scare her, so he stood still and waited until she stepped inside and closed the heavy drapes.

She headed toward the bed, reaching for the sash of the shimmery red robe. Then she stopped, her palm pressed against her midsection. She’d sensed him. Slowly, she turned her head.

“Irina,” he said softly. “Stay quiet.”

SHOCK PARALYZED Irina. She tried to suck in enough breath to scream, but her throat seized. She coughed and gasped.

“It’s Deke,” the voice said.

Deke. She shuddered as relief whooshed through her, followed by ringing alarm.

“Deke?” she said, her voice rising. “What’s wrong?”

“Be quiet. Okay?”

She nodded.

“I’m serious. Promise?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “Is it Mindy? Or the baby?”

He put two fingertips against her mouth. “They’re fine. Listen. I’ve got to get you out of here.”

Fear tore through her like lightning. It had happened. Danger had penetrated her home. She’d known it would one day.

“I’ll get dressed,” she whispered.

Deke shook his head and grabbed her hand. “No. No lights. No movement. I can’t risk anyone knowing I was here.”

Nothing Deke said made sense. “But—”

“Irina, we’ve got to go now.”

IT DIDN’T TAKE Irina long to figure out where Deke was taking her. The route was familiar. They were headed to a hunting cabin Rook had acquired years ago. He’d managed to keep the title and tax papers in the name of the original owner and hadn’t told anyone about it, except Deke and Matt, his oath brothers.

He’d called it their getaway house. A place the two of them could go where no one could find them if they didn’t want to be found.

She hadn’t been there since he’d died. Their last night there had been too painful to relive. Besides, why go alone?

Irina folded her arms beneath the wool throw Deke had tossed her way when he’d gotten into the SUV. She stared at the road, not bothering to hide her annoyance. Several times, she’d tried to engage him in conversation, to no avail.

He acted as if he were too busy making sure they weren’t being followed. Rook’s best friend had always treated her with loving respect, but for whatever reason, tonight he wasn’t answering any questions.

So she clamped her mouth shut and snuggled deeper under the throw. Her flimsy silk robe offered little protection against the late April chill. She shuddered. Nothing short of a direct and imminent threat would have made Deke ignore her comfort or dignity. Fortunately, she had clothes at the cabin.

Once they reached the hunting camp and Deke was satisfied that she was safe, she’d unload on him. She didn’t get angry often—temper rarely helped any situation—but she didn’t like being bullied. Not even by the man who’d appointed himself her protector after her husband’s death, and not even if it was supposedly for her own good.

Deke spoke only once during the hour’s drive, and then not even to her. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed a pre-programmed number. He listened for a few seconds.

“Dammit,” he muttered. After another couple of seconds, he hung up and glanced at the tiny screen, as if to check the number he’d dialed. Then he shot her an awkward glance and turned his attention back to his driving.

Irina bit her tongue to stop herself from asking who he was trying to reach. He’d tell her when he felt like it.

The road ended a quarter mile from the camp, but Deke barely slowed down. He circled around and drove up behind the cabin, where he parked and shut off the engine of the large SUV.

Irina reached for the door handle.

“Wait,” he snapped.

He retrieved his phone and pressed the redial button, hissing in frustration through clenched teeth.

After a few seconds, he sucked in a sharp breath. “Where have you been?” he growled.

Irina held her breath and listened, but she couldn’t hear the person on the other end of the line.

“You could have waited. I was afraid you—” he stopped. “Yeah, okay. We’re here. I’ll bring her inside, then put the car in the barn.” He paused, listening.

“Nope,” he snapped. “No way. You’re on your own this time. I’m going to take a look around. I’ll be in later.” He hung up and got out of the car.

Irina didn’t bother to ask who’d been on the phone. Judging by the brevity of the conversation, she figured it was probably Brock, the oldest and most experienced of the Black Hills Search and Rescue specialists. Brock O’Neill’s conversational style was terse at best.