The Devaney Brothers: Michael and Patrick. Sherryl Woods

Sean had settled in reassured him that they weren’t going anywhere. Nor was any surgeon going to get anywhere near his damaged leg as long as they were around.

      “Sure,” he said, finally giving in.

      Michael felt the prick of a needle in his arm, the slow retreat of pain and then his eyes drifted shut and for the first time since he’d been flown home to California, he felt safe enough to fall into a deep, untroubled sleep.

      1

      Six months later, Boston

      Michael maneuvered his wheelchair across the floor and set the lock. He eyed the sofa and debated whether its comfort was worth the effort it would take to heave himself out of the chair. Every damn day was filled with such inconsequential challenges. After years of trying to sort through the life-and-death logistics of SEAL missions, it grated on him that the simple decision of where to sit to watch another boring afternoon of television took on such importance.

      “You want some help?” Ryan asked, his expression neutral.

      Over the past few weeks, when his brother had been popping in and out of California on a regular basis, Michael had learned to recognize that look. It meant that Ryan was feeling sorry for him and was trying not to show it.

      The attempt was pretty lame, but Ryan was actually better at it than Sean. Sean’s obvious pity was almost more than Michael could take, which was one reason Ryan had been designated to pick him up at the airport and to help him settle into his new apartment.

      Michael had discovered that the grown-up Ryan was a low-key kind of guy. He ran his own Irish pub and had settled into family life with a woman named Maggie who seldom took no for an answer. Michael had already had a few encounters with her on the phone and discovered she masked an iron will with sweet talk.

      Sean, however, was a recently married firefighter, an active man who would have chafed at the restrictions on his life, just as Michael did. Maybe that was the reason that Sean couldn’t seem to hide his sympathy each time he saw Michael in this damnable wheelchair. They probably needed to talk about it, but neither one of them had gotten up the nerve. Besides, what was there to say?

      “I still don’t know how I let you all talk me into moving back to Boston,” Michael grumbled as he waved off Ryan’s offer of help and struggled to move from the wheelchair to the sofa on his own. “There must be a foot of snow out there. In San Diego, I could be basking in the sunshine beside a pool.”

      “But you wouldn’t be,” Ryan said wryly. “The way I hear it, you hadn’t set foot outside since you left the hospital.”

      Michael scowled. His brother clearly had too much information about his habits. There were only a handful of people who could have given it to him, most of them men Michael could have sworn were totally loyal to him.

      “Who ratted me out?” he inquired testily.

      Ryan held up his hands. “I’ve been sworn to secrecy. Your men seem to think you have a particularly nasty temper when crossed.”

      At least he could still intimidate somebody, Michael thought with satisfaction. It was a consolation. He certainly hadn’t been able to intimidate Ryan’s wife, Maggie, though.

      Maggie was the one who’d called every single, blessed day pestering him to come East. She’d ignored his cranky responses, talked right over his blistering tirades and pretty much won him over with her silky sweet threats. He wondered if Ryan knew what a weapon he had living with him. Michael was convinced that Maggie Devaney could take over a small country if she was of a mind to. Michael could hardly wait to meet her in person, though he’d prefer to be in top-notch form when he did.

      “Why didn’t your wife come to the airport with you?” he asked his brother.

      “She thought you might like a little time to yourself to get used to things,” Ryan said. “She did send along a list of therapists for you to consider. She said you’d been discussing it, but hadn’t agreed to hire one yet.”

      Michael frowned at the understatement. “Actually, what I told her was that I wasn’t interested. I could have sworn I’d made that clear.”

      “You’re content to spend the rest of your life in that wheelchair?” Ryan asked mildly.

      “The doctors are the ones who consigned me to a wheelchair,” Michael responded bitterly. The shattered bone in his thigh had taken two additional surgeries, and the doctors still weren’t convinced it would ever heal properly. His knee was artificial. He felt like the Bionic Man, only one who’d gotten faulty parts.

      Even if everything healed and worked, he’d never have the agility to return to the kind of work he loved. His navy career was definitely over. He’d declined the offer to push papers behind some desk at the Pentagon. Michael shuddered at the very thought—he’d rather eat raw squid. So he was twenty-seven and out of work and out of hope. He’d learn to live with it...eventually.

      Ryan leveled an uncompromising look straight at him. “Is that so? You’re blaming this on the doctors? The way I hear it—”

      “You apparently hear too damned much,” Michael retorted. “Has it occurred to you that I was doing just fine before you and Sean—and your wives—came busting back into my life? I don’t need you meddling now. If I decide to stay in Boston, I won’t have all of you making me some sort of project.” He leveled a daunting look of his own. “Are we clear on that?”

      “No project,” Ryan echoed dutifully.

      Michael studied his brother with a narrowed gaze. That had gone a little too easily, he thought just as the doorbell rang. He scowled at Ryan. “You invite somebody else over?”

      Ryan looked just the teensiest bit guilty. “It could be Maggie.”

      “I thought you said she was giving me some space.”

      Ryan shrugged. “Well, that’s the thing with Maggie. She has her own ideas about how much space a man should have.”

      “Great. That’s just great.” Michael eyed his wheelchair with frustration. No way in hell could he haul himself back into the thing and get out of the room before Ryan opened the door. As curious as he was to see the woman who’d married his oldest brother, he wasn’t ready for the meeting to take place today. Unfortunately, there was nothing he could do about it. He resigned himself to an early introduction to his sister-in-law.

      Before he could catch his breath, Maggie burst into the room, her cheeks red, her eyes flashing and her hair like something from a painting of an auburn-haired goddess. No wonder his brother had fallen for her. Michael was half in love himself, but that was before he caught sight of the curly-haired toddler clutching her hand.

      “This is Maggie,” Ryan said unnecessarily. “And the pint-size replica is Caitlyn. She’s just learned to walk, and she has only one speed—full throttle.”

      The warning came too late. Caitlyn took one look at Michael, broke free of her mother’s grasp and hurtled straight toward him on her chubby, wobbly legs. She was about to grab his injured leg in her powerful little grasp when Michael instinctively bent forward and scooped her up.

      Wide green eyes stared at him in shock. He expected immediate tears, but instead a slow smile blossomed on her little face, and he was an instant goner. He’d never realized a kid could steal a person’s heart in less than ten seconds flat.

      He sat her on his good leg. “Hiya, Caitlyn. I’m your Uncle Mike.”

      She studied him intently, then lifted a hand and patted his cheek.

      “She’s not saying too much yet,” Maggie said, “but trust me, she knows how to make herself understood.”

      “Yeah, I can see that,” Michael said, already thoroughly under little Caitlyn’s spell.

      “Think you can handle her for five minutes?” Maggie asked. “I have groceries in the car. I’m afraid I overdid