Prologue

Keira

Nineteen Years Old

“You know, you always wait for me to invite you inside. Are you a vampire?” I stepped back from the door to my motel room to let the Boston policeman tasked with guarding me inside.

Detective Archer Reynolds.

In my first nineteen years of life, I’d never seen a policeman who looked like him—tall. Hot. Imposing. And I’d seen a lot of policemen. As the daughter of an Irish Mob enforcer, being aware of police presence was practically hard-coded into my DNA.

Detective Reynolds filled my doorframe like he had countless times over the last two weeks, each time confirming that though he had to be at least a decade older than me, my body responded to him in ways I’d never felt before.

The tall, broad-shouldered detective oozed rugged authority underneath his plain clothes like a cowboy from Boston’s wild West End. Maybe in uniform, he would look less breathtaking. Or maybe more.

I let my eyes rake greedily over him. His T-shirt molded to his large biceps and wide chest. His thick brown hair was combed into order underneath the Red Sox hat he always removed as he crossed the threshold, giving me ample opportunities to admire the veins snaking over his forearm muscles and the dusting of hair covering them.

His low chuckle cascaded down my spine, an incredible sound that carried heat with it every time it let loose.

I reached in my pocket when he looked at me, searching for the reminder that I was supposed to notice him, but he wasn’t supposed to see me. Not really. Not the real me. My fingers found the slip of paper, and I crumpled it in my fist. I’d been in the middle of writing out my new name when he knocked, and I’d quickly shoved the evidence in my sweatpants. 

Keira Murphy.

Over and over I traced the same lines until they were seamless, a trick taught to me by the US marshal that briefed my dad and me on our introduction to the Witness Protection Program. He never expected me to have to use it so many times. 

Three years ago, Patrick ‘Patty the Punisher’ McKenna walked into the FBI’s organized crime unit and offered up the Irish Kings, Boston’s notorious Irish Mob, on a silver platter. And it was all because of me. In exchange for the information and evidence he provided as the Mob’s most senior enforcer, the feds—Agent Lattimore—promised us a new life. So far, they hadn’t quite delivered.

This time though—this trial, this one would be different.

Three years. Five relocations. Five new starts.

With each trial—each imprisonment—that Dad’s information brought, James Maloney and his Mob grew even more vengeful. They found us time and again, and it was only because my dad worked for decades for the men hunting us that we managed to avoid becoming prey.

But this time, Dad promised it would be different. Him and Agent Lattimore. They promised that this time their plan would work.

This time, we were brought back to Boston so my dad could testify against James Maloney himself, the leader of the Irish Kings. And in two days, the trial would be over. The verdict without a doubt ‘guilty’ thanks to Dad’s testimony. And then we would start over one last time. New names and nothing from our past.

Including Detective Reynolds.

Pain lanced in my chest, but I ignored it. It was stupid to think I could miss something I never really had.

“I’m not sure what worries me more”—Detective Reynolds moved by me, my hungry nostrils imbibing deeply of his spiced scent—“that the idea of a gentleman is so foreign, I’m more likely to be a vampire.” He stopped by the small table in the room and turned to me. “Or that the idea of inviting a vampire into your room is appealing to you.”

His eyebrow curved over his smoky-green gaze, the color matching the scent of pine trees, open space, and freedom that followed him.

Maybe that was what drew me to him: freedom.

Vampires were nothing compared to the demons I’d met—only men were capable of the kind of horrors that monsters could hope to achieve.

I shut the door and quipped saucily, “How could it not be appealing to let a glittering, gorgeous man into my room when pop culture has done such a good job romanticizing them?”

Shit. My smile fell as soon as the words were out, realizing what I’d implied.

I did more than notice that Detective Reynolds was beyond gorgeous. He was the kind of gorgeous that was arresting—a predicament I’d grown up learning to avoid. And though his skin might not glitter, the duty to his badge, the respect of his task, and the honor of his character certainly did. 

But it was the way his eyes raked over me, dark swirls of heat flickering in their depths, that were more dangerous than the weapon hidden in the small of his back. His head dipped as though to chase his gaze away from me and thoughts that betrayed the bounds of his assignment: to protect the daughter of a witness in a federal trial.

“I was always a Team Jacob guy myself,” he said lightly, dissipating my fear that he was going to leave the take-out food he’d brought for dinner and retreat well behind the bounds of duty.

“Of course you were,” I said, hesitantly approaching the table.

Jacob was made out to be the right choice—the good guy, and Edward, the bad one.

And Detective Reynolds was definitely one of the good guys.

Another reason I needed to stop being so arrested by him. After living in a world of vampires... or villains... it was hard to believe I’d end up with someone who didn’t need to hurt others to survive.

“Me and Ranger picked Jacob. Gunner and Hunter, on the other hand...” He shook his head and chuckled, reaching in the bag and pulling out two roast beef sandwiches from Kelly’s.

I loved hearing him talk about his family—his three younger brothers, younger sister, their mother—and growing up with them in Wyoming. I loved hearing about normal people with normal, loving families. It was hard not to when my childhood had been a million miles from it. Even now, nineteen was just a number—like an expiration date on a package of Peeps. Those things could survive an apocalypse and still be ready to eat. I knew how fragile life was, and I’d seen more death at nineteen than most in their nineties.

And I’d been responsible for it, too.

I wondered how he’d look at me if he knew that.

Detective Reynolds guessed early on that I was an only child. He’d picked up that my mother had died when I was young by how neat I kept the room, and I confessed that I’d been six when she passed away from cancer. My aunt Patricia, my dad’s sister, came to live with us after that, but four years later, she reached her breaking point, tired of the nights my dad came home covered in blood, worried I would see—worried his work would put me in danger. She left when I was ten, and the next day, my dad told me the truth about who he worked for and what he did.

“Keira, sweetheart, I need you to know that your da is one of the bad guys. I do bad things to people because it’s my job. But I promise that I might be a bad guy, but for you, I’ll always be a good da and good man.”

And he was. Most people would only see Patty McKenna as a criminal, but he’d done—he did—the best he could. And three years ago, he’d betrayed the life and family he’d adopted for decades to keep me safe, and now he risked everything to bring me justice.

“I held up my end of the bargain. Kelly’s roast beef sandwiches,” he said roughly when we finished. “So, what else is on your list?”

My list.

After Agent Lattimore introduced us that first day, leaving quickly to go make sure my dad was settled and prepped, the first question Detective Reynolds had asked was if he could do anything for me?

Anything. For me.

The memory stopped me. No one in his position wanted to do things for me—the police were already having to do things for me. No one wanted to do more than what was required, and I understood.

But when it felt like I’d spent a lifetime protected—cared for out of duty—there was something forbidden and breathtaking about someone wanting to do something for me—to give me a small comfort to make my situation less strained.

So, I asked him to stay and talk with me.

It seemed like a dumb request, but I hadn’t really talked to anyone except my father in the last three years because no one could be trusted. And before that, when we were still in Boston, I didn’t have friends for the exact same reason.

There was only my dad and me. Partners in crime.

Partners in protection. Partners in solitude.

Of course, I’d never confess how the seclusion gnawed at me. I couldn’t. Not when Dad was doing the right thing for both of us. But that didn’t change how lonely it felt.

And maybe that was why his compassionate question reached right inside me and unlocked the box of feelings I’d tucked away, knowing I didn’t have the luxury of feeling them any longer, and I started to tell him things I never thought I’d admit to anyone.

Not the forbidden facts about me or Dad or WITSEC; I knew what things were off-limits. But I could confess what seemed even more dangerous than fact: feeling.

I was scared to start over. Again. Scared to cling to the lifeline of hope that this would be the last time when that lifeline had been cut so many times before.

“Don’t leave with regrets,” had been the hot detective’s immediate advice. “Regrets are rocky. It’s hard to build a fresh start on them.”

And then he’d ask what I would regret leaving without, and my answer had been a list of experiences that were linked to a time in my life when everything hadn’t seemed so precarious. A Boston bucket list of sorts.

Kelly’s roast beef sandwiches. A Red Sox game. Breakfast from Bagelsaurus. Walking the Freedom Trail.

Instead of treating me like a babysitting assignment, he began trying to check off some of the items on my list. The food was the easiest. The baseball game involved him carting over his massive flat-screen TV along with some stadium food and concessions. Others, like the Freedom Trail, even Boston’s hottest cop couldn’t make happen. 

Not while I was being protected.

A bitter smile toyed with my lips.

Protected. It was a good thing. But sometimes, protection came in the shape of a cage. It kept bad men out, but it also kept me in.

“So what else is there, Keira? You’ve got two more days.” His voice interrupted my thoughts.

I didn’t need the reminder. I’d had this day marked on my mental calendar since they’d charged Jimmy Malone five months ago. However, at some point over the last two weeks, my anticipation dwindled, weighed down with dread. By playing this bucket list game with Detective Reynolds, I’d let him in, and now I wasn’t sure I was ready to let him go.

I stood and walked to the window.

“What’s wrong?”

I spun, gasping to find him behind me, concern etched over his face.

“What is it?” His voice massaged all the knots of my life—knots in place to hold myself together. “Keira...”

I looked to his full lips. Curved. Firm. And quite possibly, the most criminal thing about him. My own lips parted, wondering if kissing him would taste as wrong as being attracted to him felt.

The daughter of a mobster shouldn’t be thinking about kissing law enforcement.

I pulled my lips between my teeth, rubbing them together like the friction would help protect me from the words I was about to say.

“I want to be kissed.”

A mistake. A crime. My small confession was the first and only criminal act I’d ever committed—admitting to wanting a man who couldn’t—shouldn’t—want me.

The daughter of a criminal shouldn’t want to be with a cop, especially one who was ten years her senior.

But maybe McKennas were born to break the rules.

“Fuck,” he swore roughly as his eyes locked on my lips like an arrow aimed at its target. It felt like every part of him pulsed—from his angry breaths to his taut body to his racing heartbeat.

I watched his head dip lower, every part of him—from his angry breaths to his taut body to his racing heartbeat—pulsing with the kind of life I wanted to leech.

My eyes hooded, but before they could shut completely, he shoved himself back and speared his fingers through his hair, the thick locks breaking from order into chaos.

“I’m sorry.” He cleared his throat twice like the words rubbed salt in a wound. “I should go.”

Words were more effective than bullets. Bullets killed quickly. Words buried deep in your consciousness and would hold you hostage forever. And these, I would carry with me wherever I went. Words from the first man I let in who then chose to walk away. To protect me.

“I’ll be outside if you need anything.”

I shouldn’t have said anything, but I was my father’s daughter. I was steady and controlled just as easily as I was fire and fury.

“I don’t need anything,” I clipped harshly, my meaning unmistakable. “Not from you.”

Not from anyone.

* * *

The next day…

“How do you think they felt, Archer?” I savored his name rolling over my tongue, the taste like fine liquor in my mouth. Rich. Complex. Forbidden. 

My toes touched the edge of the large rimmed circle of old cobblestones outside of the old Customs House that marked the site of the Boston Massacre, and I glanced over my shoulder at him, still in disbelief that we were here.

I’d woken up this morning wrapped in a familiar weight of solitude, thinking the friendship I’d formed with the man protecting me unmendably cleaved. And then, there was a knock on my door, Archer’s arresting stare waiting for me on the other side along with a Red Sox T-shirt and ball cap in his extended hand. He’d told me to change. He’d told me we were going to walk the Freedom Trail.

A peace offering.

And against the rules.

I wasn’t supposed to step foot outside that motel room until the last day of the trial. But I’d never been a stickler for rules, especially when breaking them came with the promise of a few hours in the fresh air, warm sunshine, and vibrant energy of Boston in springtime. And more time spent in his presence.

“Just call me Archer,” he’d instructed earlier when we reached the Granary Burying Ground. Apparently, he worried I was drawing attention to us by referring to him as Detective Reynolds while we walked through the Boston Commons.

“Angry,” he replied, crossing his arms. “The colonists were being taxed. Taken advantage of. They were pissed. Although it’s never smart to provoke someone who has a gun.”

I stepped back and lifted my gaze. “I think they felt trapped.”

“How do you mean?”

“I think the very people—the very government—who was supposed to be protecting them instead kept failing them, kept abusing their power.” My throat tightened, and I had this feeling like I should stop talking—stop confessing to a feeling that hit so close to home. But I couldn’t. Like there was something in him that drew out the truth from me. “I think they felt trapped by the very system that was supposed to fight for them... and anger is just one symptom of becoming a prisoner.”

I tore my eyes away and blinked rapidly, surprised by the tears that had collected. I hated the anger that came over me because I knew how much risk and time and effort that my dad and the FBI had put into protecting me, and I was grateful. But a cage was still a cage even if it was for my own safety.

“And what are the other symptoms?” Archer jarred me from my thoughts.

I cleared my throat. “Imprudence. The attempt to reach out and take what you want before it’s gone.” I made the mistake of looking at him and wondering when he’d gotten so close. “Regret. Knowing no matter what you do, you can’t unring a bell... or unfire a shot.”

“Do you feel trapped, Keira?” he asked in a low voice, crowding me with his size. “Because I can help.”

I shivered, knowing he couldn’t but desperately wishing he could. I’d never wanted to tell anyone the truth about who I was and the life I’d lived more than in that moment. I was like a ship careening atop stormy waves yet unable to trust the safety of the shore. But Archer, he was a beacon of strength—a lighthouse promising security and warmth and something else I’d never felt before. Something just for me.

My gaze drifted down to those lips, an ache knotting in my stomach to know if they tasted like the freedom he talked about. My tongue betrayed my thoughts, traveling over my lips and moistening them.

“Archer...” I lifted my palm to his chest, wanting his heat, his steadfastness, his strength. 

Taking a deep inhale, I swayed closer, wanting to follow the pull that drew me to him like a magnet to its opposing pole. My eyelids fluttered almost shut before the moment was snapped by the loud clicks of an old camera—a tourist taking a photo of the historic landmark.

But to me, loud rapid clicks had always meant danger.

I moved back so quickly I started to stumble but managed to catch myself.

“No,” I finally answered him, shaking my head and hoping he didn’t notice how I blinked back tears. “I’m just very protected.”

“You could be in danger.”

I didn’t need the reminder. I’d lived in danger so long, I wasn’t sure I knew what it felt like to truly be safe. 

“I know.” My throat constricted. I was rapidly losing the will to fight against the gravity of him. “I guess I should be grateful it’s almost over then.”

We continued in silence, walking until we’d followed the trail until the Bunker Hill Monument, the USS Constitution Museum closed even if we had wanted to go inside. Archer decided it was time to go back to the motel—back to the final night in my comfortable cage, promising to have pizza delivered when we got there. By the time we walked through the door, my legs felt like jelly and the thoughts about what was going to happen tomorrow after the trial started to beat loud and insistent in my mind like the thump of a war drum.

Freedom. Freedom.

“You should get some sleep. Tomorrow’s a big day.” 

Freedom.

I’d ached for tomorrow for months—an end to a life in hiding and on the run. I’d prepared for these last few days—weeks—to drag on like a watched pot waiting to boil. Instead, they’d unraveled like a spool of twine, the time with him moving too fast for me to catch and hold on to.

And god, did I want to hold on to it more than anything.

“Why did you do this?” I looked at him and asked.

“Do what? Take you on the walk?” He tried to make it sound like it was that simple. It wasn’t, and he knew it.

“All of it. Bring me food. The games. The movies. The walk. Why do all of this for me?” 

He paused for a beat.

 “Because your last memories of this place shouldn’t be of a motel room. They shouldn’t be of being locked away alone and safe, waiting to leave the place that’s your home.” He shook his head, dragging a hand roughly through his hair. “You shouldn’t leave here with regrets.”

Two tears streaked down my cheeks, no longer able to hide.

I didn’t have any regrets until I met him, now the thought of every second spent without him, every second seemed like it would be a moment to regret. 

“I’m going to leave here regretting I never got to kiss you,” I said, turning myself into the revolutionary provoking the man who had the power to destroy me with a single shot. 

He flinched. “I can’t, Keira. We can’t.”

“Because I’m your job or because I’m a criminal’s daughter?” If there was one thing my life had taught me, it was to know the difference between something that was bad and wrong and something that was good and wrong. And Archer... he was everything good and wrong.

“Because I’m here to protect you—”

“I don’t want your protection, Archer. I don’t need to be protected from you.” I was so tired of being protected from life and from living it.

He swore. “And what kind of regret is a kiss going to burden you with?”

“Not as big of one as not kissing me will leave.” My voice was small. Breathless.

“You’re too young for me to kiss you the way I want.” 

A thrill spiraled through my body and exploded between my legs. I notched my chin higher and hung everything I had on my next words.

“And you’re too smart to believe an excuse like that.”

His nostrils flared. Angry. Hungry. A low growl announced that something wild in him had broken free.

He reached for the ball cap I was still wearing and tossed it to the side. His hands caged my face, imprisoning me in strong shackles. I felt the low curse leave his lips, but by the time it reached my ears, his mouth was on mine.

My first kiss.

But like everything else about my life, it wasn’t normal. Like everything else about my life, he kissed me as though it were a matter of life and death... and in that moment, it felt like it was.

I straddled two worlds in those seconds: the present and the future. A life with Archer in it and one without.

“Pizza!” The loud call was followed by three bangs on the door.

Archer pulled away instantly. I gasped for air, ready to tell him I didn’t care about the food, but as soon as I saw his face, I knew it was over. I knew reality had slapped the cuffs of duty back on his desire.

And it was for the best.

So, I said nothing as he went to get our food. Instead, I memorized every fleck of gray in his green eyes, the way his cheek vibrated with every flex of his jaw, and the way the muscles in his body held him straight as though nothing could ever break him.

I cataloged every inch of him, every memory with him from the last two and a half weeks, and then pinned them all to my mind like stars to a night sky. But these weren’t stars to wish or hope on, I knew better than that. These stars belonged to a constellation, untouchable—unwishable—but always there whenever I wanted to look.

He would be my constellation, reminding me of a place and time, of talking and touches, and of a story that couldn’t have ended any differently no matter how hard I wished.

Because after tomorrow, Archer Reynolds would only be the man who’d protected me, and I would become the memory of the girl he watched die.

* * *

The next morning...

I gasped and sat up in the ambulance, my hands tearing at my bloodied clothes like it was real blood staining the white.

My chest ached with that first inhale. The rubber bullets felt like they bruised my lungs with their impact even through my clothes and the protective padding underneath. But it was nothing compared to the pain in my heart or the stain of Archer’s kiss on my lips.

I’d woken to have to say goodbye to the man I never should’ve given myself cause to miss. Time moved painfully slow until Agent Lattimore closed me in the SUV to take me to the courthouse and left Archer behind. Then it galloped. The courthouse. The sentencing. Seeing Sean Maloney, Jimmy’s son, in the hallway, his smirk burned into my brain when he promised to find me and make me pay—something that would haunt me for a long time.

We’d walked out of the courthouse, my pulse thudding in my ears. I saw all the signals—all the signs. But nothing prepared me for the way time stopped when the staged attack happened. Another hitman for the Kings appeared, hired by Lattimore to make this look real, but for a second, I thought this might really be the end.

This morning, freedom didn’t ring with a tolling bell but with the rapid-fire of bullets.

Freedom from living as two people hunted by the Irish Mob. 

It felt like I blinked and we were in the ambulance, rushing to the next stage of our elaborate plan.

It wasn’t enough to go into hiding. The only way to escape the Irish Kings forever was to make them believe we were dead.

Them and the rest of the world.

Archer told me I’d regret the kiss. I would never regret it. But as Dad drove us out of Boston, I regretted not telling Archer the truth. I regretted leaving him with the belief that I’d died on the steps of the courthouse this afternoon, a victim of mob retribution.

But there was nothing I could do. Safety came at a price, and the price of protection would always be solitude.

Chapter 1

Archer

Four years later

“Where’ve you been hiding?” Jerry asked, using one finger to punch the buttons on his ancient cash register.

At almost six-foot-ten and pushing seventy, the owner of Jerry’s Hardware had a permanent hunch in his back and still bent over when the drawer dinged and slid open.

I flipped open my wallet and pulled out some bills. “Was up in Yellowstone with a client.” 

I’d just returned home to Wisdom after a three-week stay at the National Park while the owners of a major oil corporation, Pyle Petroleum, haggled out a business deal with one of their biggest competitors. They hadn’t wanted anyone—including their usual personal security—to get wind of the deal. Why? I couldn’t say. People with money were paranoid about a lot of things I didn’t understand, but I couldn’t complain—that paranoia helped build my and my brother’s company, Reynolds Protective Group, into the premier private security firm for not only the greater Jackson area and Teton County, but all of western Wyoming and even into Idaho.

“Ahh. And here I thought maybe you’d found someone and eloped.”

Jerry might run the hardware store and could tell you every tool and gadget stocked inside and fifteen different ways to use them all, but he was also a closet romantic. A softie with a cheesy smile. And more than once I’d caught one of those Fabio-covered romance novels stuffed on the shelf behind the front counter.

He swore that they were his wife, Trish’s, books. I swore I believed him. We both knew better.

“Just work.” I shook my head with a little chuckle.

“So, you know who bought Todd’s old place?” His knobby fingers slid the bills I’d handed him into their rightful spot and then started to pull out my change, adding, “Heard it’s a newcomer.”

“No. Mom mentioned it sold, but I didn’t hear anything else,” I replied absently while I bagged the new remote, motor, and chain for a garage door, waiting on Jerry to finish counting.

The sale of old Todd Sweeney’s barbershop was the kind of big news that would spread quickly through Wisdom, Wyoming; it had sat empty right on Main Street for a good decade now. A new owner meant a new person. And a new person meant something new to talk about. I didn’t avoid local gossip—there was no avoiding local gossip in a small town. But I didn’t search it out. I didn’t have time.

I’d also left for Yellowstone the day the rumor mills started kicking into gear.

“Heard it’s going to be—”

“You can keep the rest, Jerry. I’ve got to run or Mom will have my head,” I told him with a wry smile, waving off his attempt to count out coins; I didn’t have time for that.

“Alright, well tell the mayor I said hello. Oh, and we’re excited for her birthday party.”

That last part was just for me—Mom’s party was a surprise, if such a thing was possible in a small town.

I grabbed the bills and shoved them into my worn jeans. Work was crazy, and it wasn’t even our busy season, yet for the last two months, it felt like I hadn’t left the office or my house until the assignment in Yellowstone. Thankfully, I managed to snag a few hours this morning to get some needed repairs done at Mom’s house, so I threw on my shittiest jeans and a faded black tee. Not even five minutes from my apartment and I was tugging on the neckline, feeling like the damn thing must’ve shrunk in the wash.

I reached my Ford F-150 parked in the lot and climbed into the driver’s seat, the keys still sitting right where I left them in the cupholder.

There wasn’t much reason to lock anything around here—not when you knew everyone and everything that went on in this town.

Wisdom sat nestled in the Teton Range of the Rockies about twenty-five minutes from Jackson Hole. While it might not have the fame of the neighboring resort town, it had all the mountain views, wide-open blue skies, and quiet charm that the busy tourist town lacked. 

“What’s up, Hunt?” I answered my younger brother’s phone call by hitting the button on my steering wheel.

“You still in town?”

I let my foot off the gas, slowing as I approached the stop sign at the end of the parking lot. “Yeah. Just finished up at the hardware store so I can fix the garage door over at Mom’s.”

Four weeks ago, our mother—God bless her—had forgotten to open the garage door prior to trying to back through it. She’d dented the whole thing to shit and then broke the motor trying to get it to go up, hoping that would ‘flatten it out.’ I thought I was being a good son, offering to fix it, until work got crazy and here we were, four weeks later and she was still parking in her driveway, the crunched door still half-wedged in place.

Thankfully, our youngest brother, Ranger, still lived at home with her. Even still, I’d had that place wrapped up in more security system bells and whistles than the Rockefeller Christmas tree in New York City.

“I just got a call from Diehl over at the station. Said Zoey just called in a panic because there was a break-in at the post office,” he informed me. “Asked if we could meet him there. I guess Tucker and Zane are dealing with a fence dispute up at Nelson’s ranch.”

I sighed. Damn cowboys. The Nelson Ranch was constantly leaking cows out of a broken fence that bordered the Harrow property. The Nelsons said it was the Harrow’s responsibility to fix, the Harrows claimed the opposite. Cue calamity and the need for police intervention.

Not normally a problem—using resources to settle a ranch dispute—but with only a solid three-man police force, those resources quickly became scarce. And when they did, Chief Diehl reached out to us.

Myself and my three younger brothers, Hunter, Gunner, and Ranger, collectively owned Reynolds Protective Group. We dealt in personal security and self-defense, and all of us, minus Ranger, had been on one police force or another over the years; Ranger had his own special set of skills.

Our choice of profession was no surprise to anyone in town; Dad had been Wisdom’s police chief for almost two decades before his heart attack. Chief Diehl was the man who replaced our father as the police chief.

I flipped my blinker in the other direction, taking a quick left-right scan before turning out onto Main Street. Looked like that garage door was going to have to wait.

“Someone broke into the post office?” I asked, hitting the gas a little harder. That didn’t make a whole lot of sense. Especially in Wisdom.

Wisdom didn’t boast much in the way of attractions. Two stoplights. A smattering of standard small-town businesses. Two bars. Grocery. Movie theater. Hardware store. A family restaurant. A coffee shop. Hotel. Barbershop.

The population of Wisdom consisted mostly of ranchers, cowboys, and overflow seasonal tourists from Jackson Hole which was about a twenty-five-minute ride from here. That was where most of RPG’s clients came from—the elite who came to Jackson Hole on holiday or business and needed some extra protection. 

Most people who weren’t from the area were surprised at the demand for our business in the mountains of Wyoming. It was usually at that point that Ranger would chime in and rattle off, ‘In 2015, it was reported that Jackson, Wyoming had the most unequal distribution of wealth in a metropolitan area where the one percent earn one-hundred-thirty-two times more than everyone else. The average annual income of that one percent is twenty-two-million five-hundred-eight-thousand and eighteen while the average income in the bottom ninety-nine percent is one-hundred-twenty-two-thousand four-hundred-forty-seven.’ 

Ranger could be a little overwhelming with his eidetic encyclopedia of facts on seemingly every topic, but he got the point across: a lot of filthy rich people lived in Teton County. And rich people always needed protection. 

After leaving Boston PD four years ago, I didn’t plan on going into any kind of security again. Not after what happened. But being back here—being with my family—I couldn’t ignore that this was my calling. I might’ve failed Keira, but it would never happen again. And so Reynolds Protective Group was born.

“That’s what she said. I’m leaving the office now. See you in ten.” He hung up just as I turned on First Street where the post office was located.

The sun bounced bright rays off the old lampposts lining the road. The air was crystal clear, and I could see each peak of the Teton Range where they sliced into the blue fabric of the Wyoming sky. This openness was another reason I’d left Boston. Here, guilt couldn’t sneak up on me without warning, and I could spot a secret a mile away.

Sure enough, Zoey Roberts was waiting on the sidewalk, pacing and holding her arms over her chest as I pulled up alongside the curb. She waited while I shut off my truck, fear bleeding from her pale blue eyes underneath her wool cap, her black hair making her cheeks appear even more ashen than normal.

Zoey had moved to town about six months ago from Florida and had taken the mail clerk position at the post office. It was a huge improvement for Wisdom since Walter had been the only postman for the whole town for as long as I could remember.

Mail was always slow here. Just like everything else.

I killed the engine and got out of my truck.

“Hey, Zoey,” I greeted her calmly, the young woman clearly spooked. “Are you alright?”

She nodded, taking a moment to speak. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

“What happened?” I looked over her shoulder, trying to see inside the windows but the glare on the glass was too bright.

“I got here to open up for the day, and the door was already unlocked.” Her throat bobbed. “At first, I didn’t think too much of it because…” She trailed off, her cheeks flushing.

“Because sometimes Walt forgets to lock up at night?” I finished for her.

There were no secrets in Wisdom. And Walter Walters (yeah, really) was getting older and a little forgetful—and the alcohol didn’t help. However, no matter how many times he forgot to lock up the post office every night, he knew where every local in this town lived regardless of whether their house had a number or not.

She nodded wordlessly, not wanting to get Walt in trouble.

“I went inside, and that’s when I realized…” She drew quiet. “Someone was in there. It’s… a mess.”

“Alright, let me take a look,” I said just as Hunter’s Cherokee pulled up. Good. Zoey was obviously too shaken up to answer questions, but I didn’t want to leave her standing out here alone so I could go inside.

“Hunt—”

My brother blew right by me. Only a year younger than me, Hunter and I were almost the exact same height, same build, same light brown hair and green eyes. Our mom said we’d been mistaken for twins countless times when we were younger. Even now, the most distinguishing differences between us were that I kept my face shaved and my hair neatly slicked to one side while Hunt sported a few days’ shadow and disheveled waves that took the continuous brunt of his fingers sliding through them. 

That, and Hunter still smiled.

“Hey, Zoey, you alright?” he asked her, completely ignoring me.

I watched my brother carefully reach for her shoulders, searching her expression for answers I hadn’t been able to find. Out of all of us, Hunter and I were most alike. We followed the rules, didn’t get into too much trouble, and stayed pretty level-headed. But while experience had tempered my ease of opening up to others, Hunter didn’t have that problem.

My stomach twisted, the look on his face reminding me of another place and time when I’d stared at a woman with that kind of intensity.

I watched for just long enough to see some of the tension drain from Zoey’s stiff form, and then I went inside. I didn’t even make it through the second entry door when I saw what prompted her to call the police.

The post office boxes along the side walls had been pried open and mail was scattered all over the floor, white envelopes covering the old tile. Directly in front of the door was the counter, and as I approached it, I could see the thief or thieves had gone behind the counter and tore through the cash drawer and some of the packages in the back.

“Jesus,” I heard Hunter mutter behind me. “I know Walt can be slow with delivery, but this is a little over the top.” He tried to step around the papers but it was impossible not to crunch some of them; they were everywhere. “Gunner would say somebody went postal.”

I shot my brother a hard stare. Our third sibling, Gunner, was the wild child of the group. Quick to laugh. Quick to joke. Quick to enjoy life’s pleasures to the fullest without thinking twice. He had a good heart, but it would be a good while or take a good knock to the head to get him to settle down.

Lifting up the folding counter, I walked into the back of the post office, noting the extent of the damage.

“Did Zoey say anything else?” I asked him, pausing in front of a book that recorded the owners of each of the PO boxes.

In a town like this where so many residents lived on ranches or locations without concrete addresses, a majority of the locals had a PO box for their mail.

“Not really. She walked in. Saw the mess. Saw that no one was here. Went back outside and immediately called the police.” My brother walked over to the far wall, examining the broken-into post office boxes. “Definitely a quick job. Crowbar or something similar that they used to pry them all open.”

“Didn’t know what they were looking for,” I muttered. “Or where to find it.”

His head half turned. “I asked if there was anything of value in here that she knew of or mail for any famous people, anything like that, but she couldn’t think of anything.” He crossed his arms and walked over to me. “You think this was a prank or something? Kids on spring break over in Jackson Hole?”

My jaw clenched.

By Boston standards, everything in Wisdom was an easy target. Businesses locked up at night, but less than half of them had any kind of security system or surveillance cameras. Including the post office. The size of the town and the crime rate couldn’t justify spending that kind of government money.

I hummed, sliding out the cash drawer under the counter. “Well, they didn’t take the cash in here, so I doubt it,” I said, ruling out his suggestion. 

There wasn’t a lot of money in the drawer. Maybe a couple hundred bucks. But still, to do all this and not take easy money… I shook my head, my gut telling me the explanation for this wasn’t simple.

“Why the hell would someone rob a post office if not for money?” Hunter gripped the edge of the counter, his eyes tracking me. “And how the hell are we going to know if anything was stolen?”

I grunted, not having any good answers or explanations at the moment.

“Is Diehl here?” I could see Zoey talking, but I wasn’t sure to whom.

Hunt nodded. “Got here a minute ago. I came in when he started taking Zoey’s statement.” Like he couldn’t help himself, my brother turned and searched for the woman in question. “I also called Walt to let him know what happened and told him to head over. Maybe he’ll have an idea what the hell this guy was looking for.”

Nodding, my attention returned to the notebook of PO box owners. I flipped through the pages until I realized Hunter was still staring out the window.

“She alright?” I asked quietly. 

His grip tightened, blanching his fingers. “I think so.”

“You want to take her home?”

His head whipped around and he demanded, “What the fuck kind of question is that right now?” 

My eyebrows lifted. Hunter rarely got irritated, especially with me. We usually worked on the same wavelength, but there was obviously something about Zoey that threw him off his game.

I was tempted to warn him that was dangerous. I knew from experience. But now wasn’t the time.

“The kind I ask because I don’t think the girl should be alone since she seems pretty shaken up,” I replied, regarding him curiously. 

“Oh.” His chin dipped. He’d interpreted my question the wrong way and was just realizing it. “Sorry,” he grunted. “I already asked her if there was a friend or someone she could call who could spend the rest of the day with her just so she’s not alone.”

Before I could respond, I came across a page that had been torn out of the notebook. The sheet containing the contact information for the owners of boxes one-fifty through two hundred was missing. I glanced around the floor, quickly scanning for the distinct lined paper filled with information. 

It wasn’t there.

“Can you go see if Walt can come in here?” I asked my brother, setting the notebook in the center of the counter. “There’s a page missing with some of the PO box owners, and I want to know who was on it.”

Hunter clipped his chin and then followed my command, disappearing outside a second later.

I stared at the notebook. Who the hell would live in Wisdom that would be important enough to justify breaking into a government building?

The bell dinged as the door opened once more. Instantly, a chill ran down my spine, the hairs on the back of my neck and arms rising to attention in a way that was both familiar and forbidden.

I brushed it off, hating that the memories of the past could still sneak up on me like that.

“Hey, Walt, can you take a look at—” I looked up, the words deadened on my tongue by the ghost standing in front of me. “Keira?”

My stare locked with the unmistakable—and quite alive—emerald irises of the woman I’d watched die on the Boston courthouse steps four fucking years ago.

Keira McKenna.

Alive. Here. In front of me.

Four years might as well have been four seconds for how little it changed her. Sure, her hair was no longer the dark brown I remembered. Now, it was a warm russet, the color reflecting like liquid copper as it fell in long waves over her shoulders. This was her real hair color, I realized in an instant. It matched the blush of her cheeks that was burned into my memory, the freckles on her skin that connected like a constellation in my mind, always retracing the lines of her face for my fantasies, and the apricot pink of her lush lips.

My throat tightened. This was the real her.

Alive.

Shock blew apart my senses like a breeze through a damn dandelion, but even that wasn’t enough to mask the rush of desire in my veins. Time had done nothing but strengthen the way I wanted her.

Four years.

That would make her twenty-three now—still too fucking young for my dick to jump to attention like it did, but I couldn’t control it. She had a bewitching paradox about her—young but with a gaze weighted by wisdom. Innocent but with a life filled with too many hard experiences. Like a rare jewel, each facet of her personality shone differently depending on the light.

And I wanted to know them all.

“Archer.”

Suddenly, I was back in that motel room, greedily savoring the husky way she moaned against my mouth, my body so on fire for her—the girl I was tasked to protect—it could’ve sent the whole building up in flames.

This couldn’t be happening. I blinked slowly, the news broadcast from that day flashing in my mind. The gunshots. The bright red on her pure white shirt. The way she was carried to the ambulance, only to be pronounced dead not long after. Dead. 

Shot and killed.

I opened my eyes and she was still there. Breathing. Beautiful.

“You’re alive,” I charged hoarsely—dumbly—holding the edge of the counter as though if I moved, she would disappear like the fucked-up figment of my imagination she had to be.

For four years, I’d blamed myself for the death of the woman in front of me. Four years. For her.

My heart pounded angrily.

Dragging in deep breaths, I studied her with a piercing gaze. She wore black leggings, fur boots, and a black winter coat thrown over her plaid shirt, the green shade echoing her eyes. She’d dressed quickly, the zipper on her jacket open and the bottom button on her shirt undone. She must be the person—the friend that Zoey called; she’d rushed over here to help Zoey and ran into me instead.

For a man who prided himself on logical, rational thought, my mind bounced through facts and memories like a damn pinball machine—always returning to hit that one bumpered fact that refused to sink in: She was alive.

How the hell was she alive? Once more, flashes of the news reports skipped through my mind like a broken record. Former mob enforcer and daughter murdered on courthouse steps.

“I am.” Her throat bobbed and she folded her arms.

At least she had the fucking decency to look as surprised to see me as I was shocked to see her. Then again, she wasn’t the one who watched me get shot all those years ago. 

She took a hesitant step forward and then glanced over her shoulder as though she needed to make sure what she was about to say couldn’t be heard.

“How?” I rasped, too fucking shocked to think clearly.

Her full lips parted, their color deepening to match the stain in her cheeks. “Archer…”

“How are you alive?” The demand came out coarser the second time like my throat was parched for water, only in this case, it was dry from swallowing what had been a life-changing lie all these years. I tensed. The real question I wanted answered was, how could you let me think you were dead?

The pleading look in her gaze vanished, replaced by a calm resoluteness that I’d glimpsed back in Boston but had evidently grown stronger with time.

“I’m sorry, Archer, but I couldn’t tell you.”

Shock fractured into anger, realizing how her death had irrevocably changed the course of my life. 

“Couldn’t fucking tell me that you didn’t fucking die—”

The door dinged again, interrupting our conversation.

“Hey, Archer, you find—” Chief Diehl broke off, the waddle of his big body stopping just inside the room. He looked between us, hardly registering the disaster of the crime scene. “Everything okay in here?”

Keira jumped into action like the curtain rose on her one-woman show. She smiled, the bright flash stealing the oxygen from my lungs. Goddamn, she was even more beautiful than I remembered.

“Yes, I was just about to introduce myself to…” she began, pretending not to know who I was.

“Oh, you two haven’t met?” If Chief Diehl was surprised by her assertion, he didn’t show it. Instead, he went about making introductions like it was his lawful duty. “Arch, this here is Keira Murphy. She moved in a few weeks ago. Bought Todd’s old place.”

My breath exited my lips in a low hiss.

Keira Murphy.

Keira McKenna.

One more fucking lie.

Anger cleared and the cold truth blinded me like the sun breaking through snow-laden clouds. Of course. Of-fucking-course. The high-profile nature of the trial. The powerful and dangerous reach of the mob boss her father had testified against. The way she’d talked about starting over—starting new.

They hadn’t been killed that day; they’d gone into Witness Protection. And the program had relocated her to the middle-of-nowhere Wyoming where no one would know her or find her.

Except me.

The one man who’d never forgotten her.

The one man who blamed himself for her death.

“Keira, this is Archer Reynolds. He and his brothers own Reynolds Protective Group.” He cleared his throat, linking his hands in front of his protruding belly. “They do personal security but help us out from time to time.”

Her tongue slid out, coating her lips with more armor for her lies. “It’s nice to meet you, Archer.”

It took all my strength not to flinch and give away her deceit. Yeah, I was angry. Yeah, I still wanted the truth. But the answers I did have about her past meant her lies existed to protect her just like I’d been tasked to do in Boston—a responsibility I wouldn’t shirk now.

“You too,” I said low and clipped my chin.

She turned back to Diehl. “I just came in to grab Zoey’s bag. She said she dropped it as soon as she saw the mess.” It only took a second for her to spot the black purse that had fallen on the floor next to the small packaging stand. She picked it up, meeting my unwavering stare. 

Electricity cracked through the room, bright and potent like heat lightning, but without the audible thunder to give away our connection to anyone else.

“Good luck with the investigation,” she offered to the both of us.

“Thank you.” Diehl tipped his head. “And welcome to Wisdom, Miss Murphy.”

Her smile flashed again, always bright enough to hide the secrets in her eyes.

“Nice to meet you, Keira. I’m sure I’ll see you around.” My low voice resonated through the room, the tense tenor carrying an unspoken meaning.

Her breath hitched, her green eyes flickering fiercely. She lifted her chin just a fraction higher to show that she felt no guilt for lying to me four years ago, and only a shadow of sorrow that I found out the truth now.

And then she walked out of the post office like I could just accept that she wasn’t dead and move on with my life.

Like I could just continue living in my small-ass-town knowing the woman I’d sworn to protect—the woman my body still craved—was now living here, too.

Keira McKenna.

Heat quaked through my veins.

There was only one thing that could keep me from her. And unfortunately for her, I wasn’t going to fall for the play dead card again.