Arapaho Terms 3ooxonouubeiht: crabby beniinookee: general or highest-ranking official betee: heart betee3oo hohe’: Shadow Mountain bexookee: mountain lion bih’ihoox: mule biitei: ghost bixoo3etiit: love ceece’esbeniiineniiit: armed forces ceeyoubeiht: talking foolishly ciibehbiiwoohu: don’t cry ciini’i3ecoot: grief heebii3soo: bastard heneeceine3: lion hiihooko’oet: bewitched hiihooteet: death hiixoyooniiheiht: charm hookecouhu hiteseiw: little sister nebii’o’oo: sweetheart neehebehe’: younger sister neenii3o’neihi: behave well or be quiet netesei: my sister noniiteceenoo’oot: temporarily crazy noonsoo: it is chaos or a mess noo’uusooo’: storm notonheihii: medicine man teittooneihi: be quiet tei’yoonehe: baby; infant wo’ouusoo: kitten
Author’s Note
Dear Reader,
I hope you enjoyed Forged in Smoke, the third installment in my Red-Hot SEALs series.
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As always, thanks for reading!
Best wishes,
Trish McCallan
Another Red-Hot SEALs novel by Trish McCallan
Forged in Ember
coming soon
Editor’s Note: This is an early excerpt and may not reflect the finished book.
EXHAUSTION DRAGGING AT every synapse in her brain and sinew in her body, Amy Chastain paused in the doorway. The hall lamp burned bright and harsh behind her, casting a thin wedge of light to the right and left of her body, which illuminated her two bundles of blanket-wrapped boys.
The small apartment the Shadow Mountain housing committee had assigned her boasted two bedrooms, a bathroom, and a small living area with an attached kitchenette. The larger of the two bedrooms barely accommodated two narrow, cot-like beds, which had been pushed against the walls in an L formation. At the foot of each bed was a four-drawer dresser. At best, the small closet behind the door held a coat or two. Her room was even smaller, with a single bed and a built-in wardrobe. Combined, the entire space occupied around four hundred square feet—maybe.
But the rooms were safe. Secure. Private.
Qualities that were much more important than space these days.
Upon reaching the bed to the right, she leaned over and straightened the collection of blankets before tugging them over Benji’s shoulders. It wouldn’t be long before the covers were tossed aside again. Her youngest had always been a restless sleeper—thrashing around in bed as though sleep couldn’t contain his enthusiasm or exuberant personality.
Straightening, she arched her achy back, kneading the tight, throbbing muscles above her hips. At least the events over the past few days—or even months—hadn’t impacted her youngest. While his father’s death had dimmed his sunny personality for a while, he’d treated everything else—from their kidnapping to the flight through the tunnels with the compound exploding overhead—with uncontained excitement. Not even the battery of medical tests he’d endured over the past four days had squelched his spirits for long. But then, unlike Brendan, his older brother, Benji had no idea what the test results had yielded.
Brendan knew, even though she hadn’t told him—yet. Although only four years separated her two sons, her oldest was a millennium older in maturity and perception.
Turning, Amy headed toward the bed on the left and found Brendan watching her. It didn’t surprise her. She suspected that he hadn’t been sleeping any better than she was herself.
Unlike Benji’s trashed cot, Brendan’s covers were neatly folded at his chest, the blankets smooth and straight, as though he hadn’t moved a fraction of an inch since he’d climbed into bed.
She settled beside him, and reached out to stroke his cheek. “Couldn’t sleep?”
He studied her face before answering, as though trying to judge what she needed to hear. Such a subtle, heartbreaking response to a simple question.