Page 2

Chapter 1

Glimpsing the Grizzly

Alan “Big Al” Lancaster - AKA: Boss

Sixteen years ago

Fort Benning Army Base outside of Columbus, GA

T he bell rings, and I stand and throw my hands over my head in celebration. “Knockout! Woo !”

Leo Mason, or Lionheart, as we call him, joins me, hooting and hollering. The others in the room—the losers—fill the air with a chorus of grunts, grumbles, and groans.

And I just laugh and laugh.

Well, that’s not entirely true. I also flip them off, individually and then collectively. One hand then the other. “I warned you not to doubt me, ladies. Now, pay the fuck up.”

“Son of a bitch,” Collins grumbles, rubbing his palm over his buzz cut from back to front punishingly. He’ll go bald if he keeps treating his scalp like that. “My arms are made of Jell-O after all that PT we fucking did this week.”

“Want me to call your mama, Shep?” I tease him while patting his head like a puppy dog. “Need me to fill a bubble bath for you?”

A twinge of guilt pricks at me, remembering the whereabouts of his mother—a mental institution. But he quickly dispels my worries with a boisterous laugh. He playfully swats my hands away and rises off the couch to move into push-up position with the other yahoos.

A group of soldiers from our Ranger unit are here at my quarters to watch the fight. Not only do they owe me and Lionheart fifty bucks each, but they have a hundred push-ups to rub salt in the wound of backing the wrong man.

Never bet against me. They should know better.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve had a sixth sense for picking winners—especially in individual sports like boxing. And now these fuckers know it.

Sawyer adds a clap between his first few push-ups to show off.

Collins curses him out. “If you don’t quit hot dogging, he’s going to make us pay, fuckface.”

Undeterred, Sawyer fires back one of his dumb impressions. “I won’t quit. Goonies never say die.”

Lionheart puts his giant foot on Sawyer’s back to add extra weight as he counts off his push-ups. His impression stops in its tracks, and he no longer claps like a showboating asshat.

I live for this shit—hanging out with the boys after a hard day of training. These guys are like my kids. All of them fucked up in their own way. Imperfect but good-hearted. Just like me. But younger and with more life left to live.

Wearing a shit-eating grin, I gather the empty bottles from the coffee table.

Without speaking, Stillman scurries over to assist. He didn’t bet on the fight. So he’s neither gloating in victory nor suffering the punishment.

Keeping his eyes downcast, he swipes the two bottles I’d managed to grab thus far right from my hands. “I got it. You can sit, Sarge.”

I furrow my brows at him. “Are you kissing ass? On a Saturday, no less?”

“Not at all, Sarge. Just showing my appreciation for the invite.” He offers an awkward head tip, then disappears around the corner into the kitchen with all the bottles. When he pops back out, he brings a roll of paper towels and a bottle of cleaning spray. Silently, he kneels beside the coffee table and begins scrubbing.

I invited him this afternoon to see if he’d open up and interact with the other guys in a more casual setting. And that idea failed. He barely said three words during the entire fight.

Tomer Stillman is an odd one, and I haven’t figured him out yet. He makes vanilla seem spicy. Silent. Stoic. Smart as hell, but awkward as fuck. Always tense. Rarely smiles. And he has a knack for being simultaneously observant and oblivious. He’s a mystery.

But there’s more going on with him than what he lets show. It’s all hidden under the surface. He reeks of sadness, although he tries to conceal it. I’d like to peel back his outer layer and see what’s inside that made him this way. I suspect he needs help. Yet, until he opens up, I can’t do that. I’ve tried, but he’s very hesitant to talk. For now, I’ll bide my time and watch.

After grabbing a beer from the fridge, I return to the living room.

The grunts grow louder as Sawyer, Wiggins, Collins, Bowman, and Klein pay the price for making a fool’s bet on the fight.

“Where’s Lionheart?” I ask no one in particular.

Sawyer freezes at the top of his push-up to answer. “On the porch. Phone call.”

As I saunter by, I press my foot on his back in much the same way Lionheart did earlier.

“ Fuuuck, ” Sawyer whines, drawing another laugh from me.

By the time I get to the doorway, Lionheart is returning. He flips his phone closed and slides it into his pocket. Face ashen, he radiates fury.

I’m instantly on high alert and plant myself in front of him. “You okay?”

Dragging his hand through his short-cropped hair, he wobbles his jaw from side to side like he’s attempting to stop grinding his teeth. “It’s uh-um... my mom.”

Oh fuck.

I grab him by the arm and lead him back outside for some privacy. “What happened?”

Unable to speak, he balls his hands into tight fists, shaking them in front of his waist.

While I wait for an explanation, my mind whirls. His visible anger doesn’t track after an interaction with his mother. Leo loves her wholeheartedly. He’s never spoken ill of her. Not even once. If she’s been harmed, why isn’t he sad or shocked?

Unless she was harmed by someone.

As my thoughts crystallize and the dots connect, my chest constricts.

“Talk to me, kid,” I coax.

He blinks to dispel his rage and focuses on me. “I need to go. Need to get to her.”

“Is she hurt? In danger? Where is she?”

He gives only partial answers. “She-uh. Drove here.”

“To Georgia?”

“Yeah.”

“All the way from Maine?”

He nods, still brimming with fury. The veins in his neck pop and bulge.

The longer this conversation goes, the more his reaction cements my theory that her husband hurt her.

Again.

Resigned acceptance settles on my shoulders, held up by a simmering ire of my own. “This isn’t a friendly surprise visit, is it?”

The fire in his eyes clears marginally as he gets some of his rage in check. “No. She came to get away from him. To hide.”

“From your father?”

He grits his teeth. “Yeah.”

Reaching over his broad frame, I crimp my hand on his shoulder, hoping to infuse him with my unwavering support. “Where is she? What does she need?”

“She stopped at a diner just off base. I told her I’d head over.”

To my knowledge, Mrs. Mason hasn’t visited him on base, so she likely doesn’t have an active visitor pass. I could make a few calls to see what we can do to help, but then what? Even if I could get it cleared, where would she sleep?

This is messy.

“Need a lift?” I ask him, knowing he doesn’t have a car.

“Sawyer can drop me off,” he starts, then his head and shoulders sag. “Fuck. He’s had too much to drink.”

“I nursed my beer. I’ll drive. Let’s go.”

Ten minutes later, we park at the diner.

Before I can shift into park, he flings open his car door. “Thanks for the ride, Sarge.”

“I’ll head in with you.”

“You don’t have to do that,” he starts, but I cut him off.

“I won’t intrude. I’ll hang back. Once you find out what her plans are or where she wants to go, I might be able to help. She’ll need clearance to get on base, or you’ll need emergency leave to stay off base with her. And we’re on curfew.”

He drags his hand over his forehead, then checks his watch. “Shit. You’re right. I forgot about that.”

“Let’s go.”

With an appreciative nod, he leads the way. I follow a few steps behind, not wanting to insert myself into a private matter any more than necessary to assist him.

Although what I said to him is true, it isn’t my only reason for coming inside. Curiosity has a hold on me.

Who is this woman who let her kids get beaten repeatedly? And then always took back her husband, literally opening the door for him to do it again? Not just permitting violence against her children, but against herself as well?

Everything Lionheart says about her leads me to believe she’s the kindest woman to ever walk the earth. She loves her children, and they love her with iron-clad loyalty.

Then how would she allow this to happen? And for so many years?

Leo spots his target, his pace picking up as he hefts himself across the restaurant.

And there she is, sitting in a corner booth with her arms wrapped protectively around herself. Mrs. Mason is a frail, petite brunette woman. Hair flows in soft curls just below her shoulders. One side hangs forward, covering half her face like a curtain. It isn’t accidental—she’s hiding.

She keeps her gaze locked on the table. Everything about her posture and how she’s positioned in the far corner of the booth conveys that of a broken soul. My heart aches for her, and a scratchy feeling settles at the base of my throat.

When Leo approaches her table, her hand flies to her chest. Then her face morphs from shock and fear to... joy.

My breath catches, and my steps falter. Despite the draw to her, I hold back, careful not to intrude.

She attempts to scoot out of the booth, but he stops her, sliding in beside her instead. After they embrace, he pulls back to study her face. With her cheeks cushioned between his splayed palms, he slopes her head from side to side to look at her injuries.

Disgust settles in my gut, souring my stomach. How could someone hurt the one they claim to love in that way?

I watch like an interloper from ten feet away. Glancing to the right, I spot an empty booth and slide in to avoid drawing attention. The last thing she needs is to feel like she’s got an audience for what’s quickly becoming a tearful reunion with her oldest son.

A server comes over, dropping a sticky plastic menu in front of me on the table. “What can I get you to drink?”

“What’s good?” I ask her.

“Not the coffee, that’s for damn sure. Milkshakes aren’t bad. Pretty sure the milk isn’t spoiled, but not sure I’d risk it.”

My chest rumbles with a stifled laugh. “Thank you for the honesty. I’ll take a Coke.”

“You got it.”

Off she goes, allowing my focus to return to the corner booth.

Mrs. Mason brushes Leo’s hands off her face, pressing him away. Seems like she doesn’t want him to make a fuss over her.

Their dynamic is interesting. The roles of parent and child are seemingly reversed, with him as the comfort-provider and her the reluctant but needy soul. As they talk softly, I feign reading the menu. But my eyes rarely stray from her battered face.

Red-rimmed eyes and a puffy pink nose from prolonged crying. A deep purplish-blue bruise around one eye that seems new. Small bruises in varying shades dotting her upper neck, likely from fingertips. My heart riots at the thought.

Leaning across the table, I study the marks closer. They’re in various stages of healing from what I can tell at this distance. Some are yellow and brown, while others are bright purple. It’s obvious the shiner isn’t the first time she’s been hurt in the last few days. I wish I could see her entire face, but she’s keeping one side fairly well hidden.

The waitress returns with my Coke, breaking my stare. “I’ll be back to take your order after I drop these off. The Reuben sandwich is delicious, by the way.”

She breezes over to the corner booth, setting down two colas.

As Leo’s mother glances up at the waitress for what appears to be an offered pleasantry, her hair falls back, revealing a slash across her lower cheek and several black stitches.

That’s what she was hiding.

The air freezes in my lungs, and my hands ball into tight fists.

This woman needs protection.

My initial ire-based curiosity fizzles, leaving only a mournful sadness for the life she’s led. No one would choose to face abuse like this day after day.

This isn’t a choice.

It doesn’t matter why she stayed with that monster all these years. Fuck it. She had her reasons. It’s not my place to judge her. What matters is that she gets away from her husband and stays safe.

And I desperately want to help her do just that.

Now that Leo has been trained by the US military and grown into his enormous body, he’s able to better protect her than he was as a child.

I wonder...

Over bites of corned beef, sauerkraut, and melted Swiss on buttery rye bread, a plan begins to form in my mind. For my future.

Maybe, just maybe, there’s a way I can help her. And other women like her.

As Mrs. Mason cries into her hands two booths away, I make a silent vow to myself. One way or another, when I leave the Army, I’ll find a way to make this happen. The planning begins now.

I dab at my mouth with a napkin, then ball it up and toss it on my empty plate. My server was right. That was a damn good Reuben.

A few minutes later, Lionheart helps his mother out of the booth and they head toward me. She stays tucked in close to him, her head on a swivel. She’s fucking petrified. Makes me want to beat the shit out of her husband.

I rise from the booth and plaster what I hope is a welcoming smile on my face.

Leo positions himself between us, his body at an angle for introductions. “Sarge, this is my mother, Madeline.” He faces her. “Ma, this is Big Al, my squad leader.”

Keeping the injured side of her face hidden behind her flowing brown locks, she nods and smiles as we shake hands gingerly. She’s timid. Jumpy. Makes sense, considering all she’s been through—whatever it was that sent her down the eastern seaboard seeking refuge.

As if I’m afraid to startle a wounded dove, I keep a gentle grip on her hand. Tender. Like her.

Despite the injuries to her face, she’s beautiful. Stunning. Though tired and puffy, her eyes are the most captivating shade of blue. There are echoes of her son’s gentleness in the set of her smile.

“Nice to meet you, Madeline.” I tip my head at her giant son. “You raised a great man. A damn fine soldier too.”

Leo towers over us both, which is a novelty for me. I’m not short, hence the nickname of Big Al. But he makes me look like a child. Most people are frightened of him at first glance. Until they get to know him. He’s a cream puff on the inside. And looking at this sweet soul in front of me, it’s crystal clear why. Compassion and kindness swirl around her.

How the fuck could someone hurt her? The brutality of man never ceases to amaze me in the worst of ways.

“Thank you for saying that,” she offers, voice meek and timid. A proud smile fastens itself to her face as she looks up at Leo. “I already knew that about him, but it’s always nice to hear.” Her focus falls from her son, and she stares at the floor again. “Sorry to meet you under these circumstances. This is embarrassing.”

I wave my hand casually, hopefully reducing her worries. “No need to be embarrassed.”

When she faces me, I home in on her gaze and try to decode her. Looking below the surface comes naturally to me. It always has. And it’s so fucking easy to read this woman. She might as well be an open book.

Pain.

Passion.

Loyalty.

Regret. A lot of it.

They all blend into a colorful tapestry behind her eyes, only for me to see.

I’m socked in the stomach with more of that fiery need to protect her. It’s an instinct, one I can barely suppress. The intensity is jarring and unnerving. Not only do I see her, but I feel her too. The emotions she’s battling echo in my chest.

I fight the urge to falter a step backward to escape the magnitude of her presence. Yet I hold firm.

Even when my windpipe tightens and I wonder if I’ll have to gasp for air, I simply stand here. Silent. Looking into the soul of a woman I’m never going to get out of my mind.

Never.

Dammit . I did not see this coming.

I can’t predict the future. I’m not a psychic. Well, not in the traditional way.

But I know people. I can see them. Their intentions. Their spirit. And their strength.

This woman—for all she’s suffered—has the strength of a grizzly bear. She just needs someone to set it free.

For some reason I can’t explain, I want to be the one to do it. I wonder if I could. And, more importantly, would she let me?

If not, maybe she’ll at least let me protect her.

Only one way to find out.

Blinking out of our all-consuming connection, I clear my throat and recenter myself with a deep breath. Turning to Leo, I ask, “What’s the plan?”

“She needs a place to hide out for a few days while she makes arrangements for a new place. My father was arrested this time, and she fled the house when she heard he made bail. She needs?—”

Madeline cuts him off with a sharp look. Stepping forward, she angles her head to eye down her son despite being a fraction of his size. “Leo, please don’t talk about me like I’m not here. I may be a wreck right now, but I can still speak for myself.”

There it is. The grizzly dying to break free.

Glancing at me, she turns her face to shield her stitches from my view. “Sir, would it be possible for my son to have a week or so of leave to return to Maine with me to help me get settled?”

“I’ll have to talk to our CO in the morning, but we might be able to get some emergency leave approved. And please, call me Big Al.”

She laughs at that, loud and joyously. Like I told a funny joke. Guess I missed the punch line.

“What’s so funny?” I ask once she grows silent.

“There’s no way I’m calling you that. Not a chance.” Still wearing an enchanting smile, she asks her son, “Alan? Alex? Alfred? What’s Al short for?”

A grimace passes over his face, making me wonder if he ordered the chocolate shake with the spoiled milk. “Ma, I don’t think...” A groan replaces the rest of his sentence when he sees he’s not getting away with a non-answer. “Alan.”

He’s gonna pay for that. The rat.

Not that I can blame him. I strongly suspect it’s hard for most people to deny Madeline Mason.

For fuck’s sake, even I was about to confess.

“Alan,” she whispers, mostly to herself, raising her chin with a hint of pride for her slight victory.

She clearly needs a win if getting my real name out of him makes her light up that brightly.

In the few times I’ve heard my given name since I was young, this is the first time it hasn’t set off a domino effect of traumatic memories.

Leo fights off a smile, trying to hide it under his giant paw. “Big Al, what about tonight? I don’t really want to leave her alone. But we can’t bring her back to base. Can we?”

“She can’t sleep in the barracks, and unless she’s got a valid visitor pass, we can’t get her in this late.” I check my watch. “And curfew is coming up.”

Shitty timing for this to happen. Our unit is on a strict curfew this week due to a pending mission I’m privy to. We could be deployed any minute. Any other week and Leo could stay in a hotel with her for the night.

I pinch the bridge of my nose as I play out scenarios, already knowing what I’m going to suggest.

Let’s be real. I knew it the moment we got here. That gnawing ache in my gut has been telling me to protect her since I caught sight of her in that damn booth. All battered and defeated. Yet hopeful.

Well, here goes.

“Leo, there’s a motel nearby where she can stay. You can take her car and head back to base before curfew. I’ll drive her to the motel, get her checked in, and ensure she’s settled for the night.”

And stay outside her room all night to ensure she’s safe.

But I don’t say that.

Instead, I explain, “Tomorrow, we’ll get her an access pass to be on base, where she’ll be safe. And we’ll push through an emergency leave request.”

I can get away with not sleeping on base despite curfew. But not my men. I don’t sleep in the barracks, and my CO won’t go looking for me tonight.

Lionheart’s eyes dart between her and me, the internal conflict evident in the click of his jaw.

I clap him on the upper back. “I’ll look after her.”

“Alan, I didn’t come to impose,” Madeline starts, her tone a fascinating mix of tender and firm.

“No, you didn’t, and you’re not. You came because you need protection. And we’re going to give you that. You’ll be safe with me.” I meet Leo’s gaze, instilling confidence into my tone. “You get back to base before curfew. I’ll take care of her as if she’s my own family. I’ll keep an eye on her motel room door all night long. You can trust me.”

“I know,” he concedes.

I swipe the check the server dropped off on my table along with the one gripped in Madeline’s fingers. “I’ll pay the checks. You two can discuss it in private.”

“Alan,” Madeline scolds me with just my name.

And I really like it.

Fortunately, that’ll stay my secret since no one can see the grin I’m sporting while I’m speeding toward the cashier.

Ten minutes later, I escort her into the Holiday Inn with my hand on her lower back.

I really like that too.

Once I’ve got her tucked away safely in a room booked under my name, I exhale a breath of relief. If her husband is somehow monitoring her credit card activity, he won’t be able to find her since I paid for it. Regardless of her objections.

Her delicate hand braces against the doorjamb. “Thank you for your help, Alan. This was very kind of you. I’ll find a way to pay you back. Are you heading back to base now?”

My eyes catch the scratches on her wrists and forearms, the clear signs of a struggle. As if the cut on her face, black eye, and neck full of bruises weren’t enough proof.

That fucker will pay for what he’s done to her. One way or another, I’ll see to it personally.

“No,” I answer flatly. “I’m staying here.”

She cants her head to the side. “Are you getting a room too?”

“No. I’ll stay out here where I can keep an eye on your door.”

Her eyes widen like a hoot owl. “All night?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Over my dead body.” She rolls her eyes with a flourish and opens the door wide, motioning for me to enter her room. “There are two beds. If you insist on staying, I refuse to let you sleep on the ground outside my door like a dog. Don’t be ridiculous.”

“No, that’s fine. You wouldn’t be comfortable with me staying inside. You need your privacy. I’ll be fine out here. Slept on far worse.”

Before she can hurl objections at me, I wink and grasp the door handle. “Good night, Madeline. You’ll be safe here. I promise.”

And I close the door, leaving a shocked Madeline on the other side.