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After he’d gone down the stairs, she turned to Hunter.“What was that about?”
Hunter met her eyes.“Declan is a good man.But he has...things that haunt him.Mistakes.War always inflicts wounds, and some of them never heal.”
Oh.
Hunter glanced at his wife, back at Austen.“Something happened down range.It’s not classified, but it’s not my story to tell either.”
Right.
More silence, and maybe that was her cue.
“He’s a criminal, Austen.”
No, he wasn’t, but he had secrets.Maybe she didn’t have a right to pry.
“Sometimes, telling our story is what we need to do to set ourselves free.”
She got up.Hunter glanced at her, nodded.
Descending to the first-deck level, she headed toward the galley.The aroma of fresh bread drifted out of the space, and she knocked on the doorframe before entering.
Windows along the aft wall let in the afternoon light, shining on the three stainless refrigerator/freezer units.Black granite countertops bordered the room, with a six-burner range under a stainless-steel hood along one wall and an expansive middle island where a woman in a chef’s jacket held a tray of croissants in her mitted hands.
She set it down and pulled off the mitts.
“You must be Chef Camille.”
Short brown hair under a chef’s hat, petite, a no-games aura about her.She looked up at Austen.“Yes, ma’am.May I help you?”
“I’m looking for Declan.He said he was checking on the hummus.”
Chef Camille frowned.“I just sent that up with Belle.”
“I didn’t see her?—”
“She took the galley stairs.”She pointed to a set of stairs on the opposite side of the room.“They go up inside the boat.”
So that the guests don’t see the waitstaff?
“Thank you,” Austen said and left the galley.She debated, then headed to the bow.
Bingo.She found him standing at the rail in front.He’d put on a T-shirt, and the wind plastered it to his body, raked his dark hair.
She stepped up beside him.“How’s the hummus?”
He glanced at her, drew in a breath.“I just...”
“I’m kidding.But I do care.”
He put his hand on hers, kept looking out to the horizon.
Silence, just the motors churning up the water.
“I got pretty good at Pashto.”
She glanced at him but couldn’t read his eyes behind the Ray-Bans.
“You were right about the Taliban.They would execute anyone they found working with us.But so many of the locals hated the fear and oppression they lived under...”He drew in a breath, swallowed.Let it out.“We had informants all over the Hindu Kush area.”