Page 1 of Love for Thea

PROLOGUE

Summer, Fourteen Years Ago, The Adams Ranch, Wyoming

The air smelled of sweet clover and impending trouble. Eighteen-year-old Ben Adams stood on the porch of the main house, absently rubbing a heavy brass shell casing between his thumb and forefinger, a spent bullet he had picked up at the ranch’s shooting range. His father had carefully partitioned off a rugged clearing surrounded by low hills for him and his brothers. Every day, Ben practiced his marksmanship there, sharpening his skills and steadying his nerves for military service. When he decided to join the Navy and become a SEAL, he was unwavering in his determination to be the best. For weeks, he had pushed himself hard by running the ridgeline until his lungs burned and hauling hay bales until his back ached, but as his departure date drew near, restlessness gnawed at him from deep within.

From his vantage point, he could see the entire chaotic ecosystem that was his family. He was already looking at the ranch like a man who wouldn’t be there to catch it if it fell.

To the left, near the barn, Mace and Logan huddled over a beat-up dirt bike. They were sixteen and filled with restless, kinetic energy that often ended with something broken. Ben watched them through the shimmering heat: Logan waved a wrench toward the gully, while Mace shook his head, gesturing wildly at the engine. They argued strategy, he was sure, their mouths moving in an intense, silent pantomime of twin-speak that didn’t need to reach his ears for him to grasp the gist.

Beside them, twelve-year-old Wyatt, their shadow, darted back and forth handing over tools. Farther off, nine-year-old Lila was a splash of color against the dry grass, her head bent over a sketchbook.

The screen door creaked, and his mother stepped out. She didn’t say anything at first; she just watched his hand, the way his thumb kept circling that piece of brass, over and over, as if he were trying to polish the doubt right out of it.

“It’ll still be here, Benji,” Marjorie Adams said softly, leaning against the railing beside him.

Ben startled slightly, shoving the casing back into his pocket. “I know, Ma. I was just checking the north pasture. The clouds look heavy.”

“The clouds are fine,” she murmured, reaching over to still his restless hand where it now gripped the porch railing. “You’ve got that look your father gets when the winter is coming on too fast. You’re worried about who’s going to fix the fences and who’s going to keep the twins from jumping the gully.”

Ben’s gaze dropped to his scuffed boots, the worn leather heavy beneath the fading light. The usual sounds of the ranch had fallen away, leaving a silence so loud it pressed against his chest. The cool breeze stirred the dust around the corral, but it couldn’t sweep away the ache tightening inside him.

“I feel like I’m deserting my post,” he whispered, voice rough with unshed emotion.

She rose on her toes to kiss his cheek, her hands lingering on his shoulders as if measuring how much broader they’d grown. “I’m proud of you. Not just because you want to be a hero, but because you’re the kind of man who’s afraid to leave precisely because he cares so much. It’s time to pass the baton to your brothers.”

“Thanks, Ma.” Ben gave her a small, reassuring smile, finally letting the tension in his shoulders ease. “I’ll get the crew moving.”

As she turned to leave, Marjorie looked over her shoulder and pleaded softly, “Promise me you won’t help them get that bike running. They’ve got enough ambition to bypass common sense. I don’t need two broken collarbones before grace is said.”

He jogged down the steps, his boots crunching on the gravel. On the porch, five-year-olds Sophia and Zara were arguing over whose doll got the “big bedroom” in their plastic dollhouse.

“Time to pick up, munchkins,” Ben called out. Then he let out a sharp, ear-piercing whistle. Near the barn, Mace, Logan, and Wyatt snapped their heads up as if they’d been hit by a spotlight. Ben pointed a stern finger toward the woodpile.

Mace shot him a grin, giving him a sloppy salute. “Easy there, Lieutenant. You’re not in boot camp yet.”

Logan chuckled, shaking his head. “Yeah, calm down, Commander. We’ll get to it.”

Wyatt darted between them, eager to keep up as they started toward the woodpile.

Ben rolled his eyes and threatened, “Don’t make me have to knock your heads together.”

Mace laughed. “We’ll see about that, Benji. Don’t be gettin’ in that uniform too early.”

Ben smirked. “Just wait until you have to herd the young’uns.”

Then he turned toward the creek and spotted two figures kneeling near the old oak tree: Carole, thirteen and lanky, and her shadow, Thea.

Thea Wynn, also thirteen, was their neighbor’s only child. To Ben, she was part of the fabric of the ranch, quiet and observant, always trailing Carole like a second shadow. He jogged over and asked, “Everything okay over here?”

Carole looked up, mud streaking her chin. “We found a bird, Ben. A baby robin. It fell.”

In Thea’s small, cupped hands rested a tiny, shivering ball of fluff. She wasn’t crying; instead, she stared at the bird with fierce intensity. Her left palm held the fledgling gently, while her right hand hovered protectively like a lid. Even as she guarded it, her index and middle fingers pressed firmly against the pulse point on her own left wrist.

“The bird’s heart is beating rapidly,” Thea whispered, her gaze steady as she monitored both its rhythm and her own. “It’s too fast, like a tiny clock counting down. I’m trying to slow my breathing so he won’t be scared.”

“His wing looks funny,” Carole added, her voice trembling. “Benji, if we put him back, will his mom still want him? I heard if a human touches a baby bird, the parents will smell us and leave it to die.”

Thea didn’t look away from the tree, her fingers still pressed firmly to her own pulse point. “That’s a myth, Carole. Data point: most birds have a very poorly developed sense of smell. They won’t even know we were here. Data point: the parental instinct to provide food and protection is statistically stronger than the fear of a foreign scent.”