I looked up at him. At Caleb, who had stopped talking about nursery colors and was watching my face with something patient and bright and completely certain. At Mitch’s hands on my arms, holding me upright on a Montana road where the world had just changed shape.
“Yellow,” I said. It came out rough.
Not a question.
Caleb’s face went soft. Open. Then into that quiet brightness, the kind that made rooms feel easier just by being in them. “Yes,” he said. “Warm yellow. Not the sharp kind.”
I nodded once. Straightened up. Got my legs under me. The contractors were still zip-tied. The radio was in my pocket. The day was not over.
“Cruz,” I said. “Call it in. Get them loaded.” I turned to the two hands standing at the perimeter. “You did good work.”
I picked up my rifle from where I’d set it against the Humvee’s tire. Barrel cool against my palm. My hands were steady again.
I didn’t examine why.
Then I reached out and took Caleb’s hand—warm, small, certain—and with my other hand grabbed the back of Mitch’s neck, fingers threading into his short hair, and held both of them for one more second. Felt Mitch’s pulse under my thumb. Felt Caleb’s fingers curl around mine.
I let go. Went to do my job.
Mitch was grinning. The kind of grin that said he had orchestrated this entire morning and the universe had delivered exactly what he ordered, and he was extremely pleased with both of us for showing up on schedule.
Caleb was already back on nursery colors. “Warm yellow with white trim,” he said. “Or is that too much? Do you have opinions about trim?”
“I do not have opinions about trim,” I said.
“Everyone has opinions about trim.”
Mitch slung an arm around Caleb’s shoulders. “Sterling’s opinion is probably tactical.”
“That doesn’t mean anything.”
Caleb smiled. “I think it means white.”
I walked toward the Humvee. Behind me, Mitch’s voice carried on the thin morning air. “White trim is the correct call.”
“I know,” Caleb said.
“I just wanted credit.”
“You can have it.”
I got in the truck. Cruz pulled out behind me, the Humvee’s engine settling into a lower gear as we navigated the service road back toward the ranch. The radio chattered with updates—contractors secured, perimeter stable, the eastern ridge quiet again.
I stared at the windshield.
Twins.
Yellow.
White trim.
I was going to need a bigger house.
Chapter Twenty
~ Mitch ~
I stood in the bedroom doorway with my arms crossed, watching Sterling pack a tactical bag like he was ironing his own execution orders.
