Lone Star Blues. Delores Fossen

that eating away, Jordan managed a smile and a polite nod to the man who’d welcomed her home. Then, she pulled the floppy hat even lower over her face so that no one else would recognize her.

      Thankfully, there didn’t appear to be any reporters, but then maybe enough time had passed since the helicopter crash and rescue. And during those five long weeks, she’d been tucked away at the hospital in Ramstein, Germany. When Jordan had finally gotten her medical clearance, she’d kept her travel plans a secret from everyone but Adele, Theo and the handful of people in her immediate chain of command.

      The fewer “welcome home/you’re a hero” greetings she got, the better.

      Jordan kept weaving her way through the stream of passengers who were moving to and from the other gates. She’d gone nearly four months on this deployment without the smells of fast food and the thick crowds, a reminder that she hadn’t missed either. But that could be the headache and nerves talking.

      Once she’d dealt with whatever family emergency was going on, had downed some ibuprofen and spruced up the disguise a little, then she’d buy herself a burger and chocolate shake. There’d be plenty of time for that because she had a three-hour layover before her flight to San Antonio.

      Moving as fast as she could with her carry-on luggage and laptop bag, she finally saw the sign for the women’s restroom and threaded her way out of the crowd to duck inside. Jordan located an empty stall that was at the far end of the room, and the moment she was inside, she shut the door and took out her phone. She’d learned from experience that it was often best to deal with family matters in private.

      Sometimes, yelling was involved.

      And even though this bathroom stall wasn’t exactly private, it would have to do.

      While Adele might not have remembered that Jordan had been on an international flight and couldn’t answer her phone, something had obviously happened.

      Something urgent.

      Of course, there was usually something urgent in Adele’s life—most of it from her own not-fully-thought-out actions. But whatever was wrong, maybe it was something that Adele had already managed to fix in the past seven hours since she’d made the first call. If not, then Jordan would figure out a way to take care of it for her. That was the one good thing about her being assigned to San Antonio. She’d be nearby when Adele needed her.

      That was also the bad thing about being assigned there.

      Sometimes, like now, Jordan wondered if she was actually helping or if she’d just become an enabler to Adele’s insane life choices.

      Jordan hit the call-back button on Adele’s number. No answer. So, she played the first of several voice mails, and she immediately heard Adele’s frantic voice.

      “Jordan, I’m in big trouble. I need to talk to you. Call me ASAP.”

      Even though Jordan had gotten many, many messages like that from Adele over the years, it still twisted her stomach. Still made her angry, as well. Adele was twenty-eight now, too old to be getting into trouble and calling her big sister for help. But then, Adele didn’t have anyone else.

      Neither did Jordan.

      And that’s why the knot twisted even harder.

      The next two voice mails had the repeated gist of the first message so Jordan kept going through them, hoping for some explanation.

      “Where are you?” Adele had shouted in the fourth one. “I need you. Corbin needs you. Why aren’t you answering your bleeping phone?”

      “Because I was on an international flight that I told you about—twice,” Jordan grumbled. Behind her, the automatic toilet flushed. “And why are you using words like bleeping?” But she was obviously talking to herself.

      Jordan didn’t know who Corbin was, but since it had been over a year since she’d seen Adele, it was possible that was the name of her current boyfriend. Also possible that this Corbin was the reason Adele was in some kind of trouble. Adele didn’t usually make good choices when it came to men or her social/political causes—a reminder that only twisted Jordan’s stomach even more.

      Before she went to voice mail number five, Jordan tried to call Adele again. Still no answer, and she hoped this was a case of Adele’s crisis already being fixed. Maybe Adele and Corbin were in the kiss-and-make-up stage and had turned off their phones so as to not be disturbed. If so, then Jordan was definitely going to have that burger and shake. Maybe a margarita, too.

      After Jordan left a message for Adele to call her back, she played the next voice mail. This one didn’t start with a shout but rather a sob. “Oh God. Jordan, I really screwed up. I’m so sorry. Please don’t hate me. Please.”

      That hit Jordan far harder than the shout had. Adele apologized a lot, but an apology mixed with tears was never a good sign. With her hands a little unsteady now, Jordan quickly scrolled down to the next voice mail.

      But this one wasn’t from Adele.

      It was a number that wasn’t in Jordan’s contacts, and when she hit Play, the voice was unfamiliar, too. “Major Rivera, I’m Ruth Gonzales, a social worker from the Department of Human Services in San Antonio. Could you call me immediately?”

      Jordan’s stomach did more than merely tighten. It went to her knees. She doubted it was a coincidence that DHS and Adele had left her messages within the same hour. But what the heck was going on? There was only one more voice mail, and it had also come from the social worker’s number.

      Her hands were more than just a little unsteady when she hit Play, and her heart was beating hard enough that it might be difficult for her to hear. “Major Rivera,” the message said. “This is Ruth Gonzales again from the DHS, and I just wanted you to know that it’s all been worked out. Corbin is on his way to be with his father.”

      All right. That calmed Jordan’s nerves and heartbeat some. Or at least it did until she thought about why a social worker would have contacted her to tell her that Adele’s boyfriend was with his father.

      A social worker wouldn’t have done that.

      Mercy. Yeah, this was bad.

      Jordan hit the button to call Ms. Gonzales to find out what the heck was going on, but she had to wait through five long rings before the woman finally answered.

      “This is Major Jordan Rivera—”

      “Oh yes,” the woman interrupted. It was the same person on the two voice mails. “Didn’t you get my message? It’s all taken care of.”

      “Yes, I got your message, but I don’t understand. Who’s Corbin?”

      Silence. And it lasted even longer than the telephone rings. “He’s your cousin’s two-and-a-half-year-old son.”

      The relief came just as the toilet flushed again. This time, though, the plastic seat cover decided to switch itself out, as well. The whirling-grinding sound was so loud that Jordan had to raise her voice to make sure the social worker heard her.

      “There’s been some mistake. Adele doesn’t have a child.”

      “But she does.” Ms. Gonzales sounded pretty adamant about that.

      However, Jordan was equally adamant. “If Adele had had a baby, she would have told me.”

      Though the moment the words left her mouth, Jordan got another of those bad thoughts. Maybe Adele would have told her. Unless she’d thought it would upset Jordan.

      Which it would have.

      Adele had no business having a child when she could barely take care of herself.

      “It was your cousin’s name on the boy’s birth certificate,” Ms. Gonzales went on. “And she had his social security card. The child even called her Mama.” The woman paused. “Major Rivera, I watch the news so I know who you are. I’m also aware of