LOGAN STOOD IN front of his mother’s house in the early hours of the morning. He didn’t like to think about his family’s tragedy, but sometimes thinking about it was all he could do. Memories crept up on him at strange times, and last night Stormy had stirred memories that made him want to go back and live parts of his life over. If only he’d been around when his parents had been attacked. He’d saved the lives of a woman and three children while he was out on a mission that very weekend in Afghanistan. He remembered the wide eyes of the little seven-year-old boy and the screams of his two- and three-year-old sisters, who were huddled against his frail body. He’d yelled at Logan in his native tongue, turning his back to him and shielding his baby sisters, ready to protect them with his life—at seven—while his mother lay bleeding two feet away. At that moment, as Logan sealed the room as best he could and then went back out to eliminate the remaining Taliban that had stormed the Pushkin village, Logan felt like he was doing the right thing. He was saving lives, protecting his country. What he hadn’t learned until later was that while he was saving strangers, his father lay dying in a pool of blood on his bedroom floor. Shot while trying to shield his wife from a burglar.
Logan shoved his hands into his pockets and bowed his head. When he’d left Stormy, he’d gone home and showered and tried to sleep, but sleep had evaded him. He couldn’t shake the fear he’d heard in her voice, or how similar she’d sounded to his own mother when she’d finally relayed that awful night to him.
He walked the perimeter of the old bungalow-style home. His mother had refused to move after the attack, which had driven him and his brothers nearly insane. They’d grown up in the small two-story home. Their parents’ bedroom was on the first floor in the back of the house. Logan and Heath had shared a small bedroom at the top of the stairs. They’d had bunk beds, like Jackson and Cooper had in the loft. That was all that would fit in the small bedroom. The closet served as their dresser, while Jackson and Coop kept their clothes in a pint-sized dresser in the loft. They had years of good memories in that old house—and now they were overshadowed by one terrible night.
Logan checked the locks on the windows as he made his way around to the back door. The old stairs leading to the door creaked, and he hoped his mother and her supersonic hearing didn’t wake from the noise. He checked the lock on that door and peered into the kitchen. Even blind, his mother somehow managed to keep the house spotless, as if she’d spent the thirty years she’d been living there before losing her sight memorizing every counter, every hallway, every nook and cranny of the place.
A light flicked on down the hall, and he knew he’d woken her. Damn. She still hit the lights when she woke up, a force of habit at this point. He hadn’t wanted to scare her. He waited until she shuffled out of the bedroom in her ancient housecoat to call out to her and unlock the door. He worried about frightening her, but Mary Lou Wild had a sixth sense when it came to her sons. She sensed each of them before they announced themselves. Logan would bet she’d known it was him standing on the porch before she’d left her bedroom, but he wasn’t taking any chances.
“It’s Logan, Ma.” He watched a smile form on her lips. Her hand trailed along the wall as she made her way into the kitchen. Logan unlocked the door and walked inside.
“Logan.” She never failed to sound happy to see him, even at five thirty in the morning.
He folded her in his arms and kissed her cheek. “I’m sorry to wake you, Ma. I was just…” He shrugged, knowing she couldn’t see it, but also knowing she’d somehow sense it. From what she’d told Logan, she’d sensed something ominous coming and had told their father she felt uneasy, though she didn’t know why. It wasn’t until hours later, when she awoke with a start and found the man entering their bedroom, that she understood her earlier apprehension. Her gasp had awoken her husband, Bill, and he’d leaped from the bed like a true hero, ready to take on whatever had scared the woman he adored. And adore he did, every minute of every day. The family hadn’t had much while the boys were growing up. Mary Lou had stayed home with them, taking on seamstress work from the dry cleaner’s down the road for extra income, and Bill had worked at a factory. But Logan and his brothers had never wanted for anything. They’d had loving parents who’d demanded they do well in school and pinched pennies to help pay for their college.