The Keeper. Rhonda Nelson

the idea of coming on board with Ranger Security after the accident had first been mentioned, it was ultimately Jay who had convinced him that it would be the right move. The first look at the “boardroom” with its high-end electronics and toys, pool table and kitchenette—complete with its own candy counter—had been proof enough before anything else had been discussed. Between the unbelievable benefits package—the salary, the hardware, the furnished apartment—and the familiar camaraderie of former battle-worn soldiers, he knew that he’d been lucky to find a place where he felt sure he would eventually feel at home. He grimaced.

      At the moment, even home didn’t feel like home.

      But how could it, really? After what had happened in Baghdad? An image of Johnson’s frantic, desperate face loomed large in his mind’s eye—the dirt and the blood—and with effort, he forced the vision to recede.

      For the moment, anyway. Until he could properly analyze it again. Sheer torture, but it had to be done. He would keep analyzing it for the rest of his life if he had to. He owed the kid no less.

      Typically when Jack returned stateside it was to a big party and lots of fanfare. He was the only son and frankly, as the former all-star quarterback for the high-school football team, Pennyroyal’s golden boy. He was generally met with a cry of delight, a hearty slap on the back, a little nudge-nudge winkwink and a free drink.

      The tone had been decidedly different this time.

      The smiles had been pitying and bittersweet, the slaps on the back held a tinge of regret and finality and, because he’d been wounded, there hadn’t been a party.

      It was just as well. He hadn’t felt like celebrating.

      Payne handed him a thin file. He’d already given him a laptop, a Glock, the permit to carry concealed and the keys to his furnished and fully stocked apartment. Brian Payne had thought of everything, but then, that’s what one expected out of a man dubbed “the Specialist” by his comrades, Jack thought, surveying the seemingly unflappable former Ranger. His gaze briefly shifted to the other two men.

      With a purported genius-level IQ and an equal amount of brawn, Jamie Flanagan had been the ultimate player until he met and married Colonel Carl Garrett’s granddaughter, and Guy McCann’s ability to skate the fine edge of recklessness and never tip over into stupidity was still locker room lore.

      He couldn’t be working with finer men. Or woman, he belatedly added, knowing his sister wouldn’t appreciate the unintended slight.

      “Mariette is expecting you,” Payne told him. He hesitated and, for whatever reason, that small delay made Jack’s belly clench. He glanced at his partners, whose expressions suddenly became mildly humorous, then found Jack’s once more. “While she appreciates our help, she’s not exactly happy about the way in which we’re providing it.”

      Jack felt his lips slide into a smirk. In other words, she didn’t want him to spend the night with her.

      In truth, he wasn’t exactly looking forward to spending the night at her place, either. He was still having damned nightmares and didn’t relish the idea of having to explain himself. Besides, cohabitating with a woman for any reason made his feet itch and triggered the urge to bolt.

      Irrational? Probably.

      But he’d given it a go with his former college sweetheart and that had ended … disastrously.

      Both the relationship and the cohabitation.

      Who knew that having only one foot of five in closet space would irritate him to no end? Or that the way she ground her teeth at night would feel like psychological torture? Or that when he’d rebelled against the minimal closet space she’d thrown all of his shit out into the yard and set it on fire with charcoal starter and a flame thrower? Jack frowned.

      In retrospect she’d been a little unbalanced—brought a whole new meaning to the phrase “crazy sex”—but the lesson had been learned all the same. He liked his own space. He liked his own bed. He liked making his own rules. As such, he didn’t do sleepovers. When the goal was met—typically a little mutually satisfying sex with no strings or expectations—he ultimately retreated to his own place.

      And planned to always retreat to his own space.

      Jack didn’t know when he’d made the conscious decision to never marry, but when his mother had concluded her I’m-so-glad-you’re-home speech with a succinct nod and a “Now you can settle down and get married,” he’d mentally recoiled at the thought.

      The reaction had been jarring and, even more so, unexpected.

      In all truth, he’d never really given much thought to the idea of marriage. He’d been busy building a career he loved, distilling the values he’d always appreciated—courage, honor, love of country, being a man who didn’t just give his word, but kept it, one who followed through and always got the job done. He worked hard on the battlefield and played hard off it.

      Life, full friggin’ throttle, unencumbered by any other ties.

      And he’d liked it that way.

      He hadn’t realized exactly how much until after the accident, when everything in his world had shifted.

      Losing Fulmer and Johnson had certainly changed him—death had a way of doing that to a person—and the hearing loss had ultimately cost him a career he’d loved, but he’d be damned before he’d give up the only part of himself he’d managed to hold on to. He was still Jackson Oak Martin and, though this life was a stark departure from the one he left behind, he’d figure out a way to make it work.

      Because that’s what he did.

      And the alternative was simply unacceptable.

      And, friend of Ranger Security or not, this Mariette person was just going to have to deal with it because he had a damned butter thief to find.

      PAYNE WATCHED THEIR newest recruit leave the boardroom and then turned to his partners and quirked a brow. “That went better than I expected,” he said. “A lesser man might have balked at catching a butter bandit.”

      Guy pushed up from the leather recliner he’d been slouched in and grabbed a pool stick. He carefully lined up his shot and sent the number three into the corner pocket. “He’s certainly the most determined man we’ve ever brought on board, I’ll say that.” He frowned thoughtfully. “And not twitchy, but … barely contained.”

      Payne had noted that, as well. Jack Martin didn’t shift in his seat, avoid eye contact, tap his fingers or his feet—didn’t fidget at all, actually—and yet, like a thoroughbred waiting behind the gate, the energy was there. Banked anticipation. Bridled action.

      Having joined Guy, Jamie took a shot at the nine and missed. He swore and absently chalked his cue. “Charlie said that the only thing that made leaving the military bearable for him was the job he knew would be waiting here.”

      Payne could definitely see where that would be the case and Colonel Carl Garrett had seconded Charlie’s opinion. According to the Colonel, before the incident in Baghdad, Jack Martin had been rapidly rising through the ranks, on the verge of lieutenant-colonel status. He was well-favored, determined and dedicated. He was a man who had been in love with his career and, though he could have stayed on in another capacity within the military, he couldn’t have continued along the same path.

      It said a lot about his character that he was willing to blaze a new one.

      “You can barely see the hearing aid,” Jamie remarked. “I wouldn’t have noticed it at all if I hadn’t been looking for it.”

      The blast that had killed two of his men and injured two others had shattered Jack’s eardrum so thoroughly that he’d needed multiple surgeries to repair it. As injuries went, he was damned lucky, but it had to have been an adjustment, all the same.

      “Has Charlie found out why he’s taking the lip-reading classes yet?” Guy asked.

      “No.”