Galen hesitated. He looked so tired. Despite her teasing, she never really thought of him as being older—all his energy and passion made him seem her age—but the lines around his mouth and the corners of his eyes had deepened. His cheekbone was bruised and swollen. His jaw had two days of beard growth. He hadn’t shaved…since she left?

“I lost my temper with you,” he said gravely. “You don’t need to forgive me, but I want you to know why I reacted so badly.”

She opened her mouth to say something flippant and stopped. Galen always apologized if he did something wrong, and she admired that. But he’d never looked so—exposed. All she could do was nod.

“A few years ago, I was married.”

Yes, he’d mentioned he was a widower, and his expression had been so closed she hadn’t asked any questions.

“I was on a violent crimes task force, concentrating on gangs. We’d just arrested several members of a gang.” He pulled in a breath. “Threats to agents aren’t uncommon, but I never thought…”

Vance stood apart, watching silently. He’d shaved, and beneath his dark tan, a purpling bruise ran along his right jaw, making her heart ache.

Galen leaned on his cane, something he rarely did when just standing. Tough Guy never wanted to show weakness. But she could see he was hurting, and her hand trembled with the need to hold his, to comfort him.

His voice was rough as he said, “My wife was home. Decorating for a birthday party for her sister the next night.”

He stared at the wall, his eyes tormented. Filled with pain.

God, Galen. As if pulled by a chain, Sally took a step forward, hesitated, and hugged him. She heard the cane hit the floor, and his arms wrapped around her so tightly she couldn’t breathe.

He held her there, a second, another.

“Go on,” she whispered against his shoulder.

His voice was husky. “She planned to meet me at a restaurant, since I had to work late. She didn’t arrive. Didn’t answer her phone.” His cheek was against her hair. “I drove home. Too late. Far too fucking late. Some of the gang had busted down the back door. They…took their anger out on her, used her as a lesson to me. And killed her.”

“Oh, Galen.” Sally rubbed her cheek on his chest, wanting only to comfort. How could someone so protective live with that?

“She died…in terror. In pain. I wasn’t there, Sally. I didn’t keep her safe. Instead, she was murdered because of me.”

And suddenly the reason he’d totally freaked out in the cabana blasted into her brain. She’d told him she loved him, and there she was, taunting the Harvest Association. If she died at their hands, what would it do to Galen?

A shudder ran through her. Turning her head, she looked at Vance. Jaw tight, eyes haunted. He was hurting too. She held her hand out to him, and he pushed off the wall.

Once he was close enough, she wrapped an arm around him. Now that she wasn’t blinded by anger, she realized he’d been as upset with her hacking as Galen. He’d just handled it better.

If they thought the Harvest Association would murder her as they had Lieutenant Tillman, of course they’d be afraid.

Sure she knew how good she was, but her Doms didn’t. Not that they’d given her a chance to explain, the jerks, but…

“I’ll stop,” she said. She pulled away and faced them, feeling a tug of loss for her work. She’d wanted to be hero. To do something special. Worthy. “I’ll give you my files. And I won’t do any more hacking.”

At one time, Galen had been able to make his expression unreadable, but either he’d lost the ability or her gaze was keener. She saw how his relief cleared some of the pain lurking in the shadows of his eyes.

Now that she knew what haunted him, maybe she could help.

“Are you sure, sweetheart?” Vance asked.

She wanted to hug him for just being his wonderful reasonable self. His steadiness balanced Galen. Okay, he balanced her too. And right now, she very badly wanted to see him smile. See them both smile.

Wrinkling her nose, she gave them her cutest pout. “If quitting is what it takes to keep you two safe, I guess that’s what I need to do.”

Galen rubbed his hands over his face as if to move on. “Keep us safe?” he asked in disbelief. When he glanced at Vance, his eyes held the amusement she loved to see.

“I like being safe.” Vance touched the tip of her nose. “I think we should take her up on her offer.”

“Well. Thank you, pet.” Galen nodded at the boxes on the bed. “Why don’t we load those into your car? We have rooms at the hotel in town. The one hotel. We can go back there and talk.”

“But—” She was done packing. No need to stay here. “Okay. But talk about what?”

Vance took her shoulders. “Don’t you want to stay with us?”

Stay?

Vance was frowning, and the expression on Galen’s face probably mirrored her own—indecision, worry. “I… Let’s talk at the hotel.”

She heard the heavy thud of her father’s boots on the stairs and a rap on the door. “Sally, Tate’s having us there for supper. The men are invited, as well. We leave in fifteen minutes.”

Great. A horribly uncomfortable meal at her brother’s. Could she refuse? No, it might—probably would—be the last time she’d ever see them. Why the realization should make her heart hurt, she didn’t know. It wasn’t as if there’d been any love there. Ever. She looked at the men. “Do you two mind?”

Vance’s mouth was set in a line. “You’re sure not going there without us.”

Galen nodded. “Let’s load up your car first so you don’t need to return here.”

God, she really did love them, and how scary was that?

* * * *

Leaving their vehicles—the Feds’ rental, her rental, and her father’s truck, Sally followed the three men up to her brother’s house, escorted by an elderly yellow lab and an energetic Australian shepherd.

Before reaching the porch, Sally looked around. Their grandparents had owned the place, but they’d died when she was little and, although her father planted the fields, he’d let the farmhouse and barn deteriorate.

Tate had put everything back into perfect condition, and the old two-story clapboard was a pristine white with navy-blue shutters and trim. The barn had been painted the traditional red-brown. The eight-foot spirea bushes that lined the gravel road to cut down the noise and dust were pruned. And to her surprise, pink petunias lined the concrete sidewalk.

Since when had Tate planted pretty flowers? Or owned dogs, for that matter?

Probably alerted by the barking Aussie, her brother came down the porch steps, sidestepping the dogs. He was clean shaven, brown hair cut short, wearing jeans and a Willie Nelson T-shirt. “Sally. It’s good to see you.”

The welcome in his voice and his smile made her stare. “Uh. And you.” Flustered, she turned and pointed to each man in turn. “Vance Buchanan, Galen Kouros. Guys, this is my brother, Tate Hart.”

Tate’s eyes narrowed as he looked over her scruffy, bruised men…and he could probably see Galen’s weapon under his open leather jacket.

Off to one side, her father watched with his usual frown.

As the men performed a guy handshaking ritual, Sally noticed more changes. A small bike with training wheels and a bright red trike were parked by the porch. A football lay near an overturned dollhouse, where dolls were scattered around like victims in a war.

Tate hadn’t had children three years ago…had he?

“They’re here!” The childish scream came from one of the two children tearing out the front door. A boy, perhaps around eight, was followed by a slightly younger girl. Both blond and blue-eyed. Maybe not Tate’s then.

“C’mere, you two.” Tate motioned. The boy stepped up to his right.

The girl pressed against his left side and studied Vance and Galen warily. Her attention turned to Sally. She beamed. “You’re Daddy’s sister.”

Tate a daddy? Sally gave herself a mental shake, grinned, and held her hand out. “That’s right. I’m Sally. Who are you guys?”

The boy took her hand. “I’m Dylan, and she’s Emma. Do you really live in Florida?”

“I do. I’m—” She was interrupted by a woman’s voice.

“Tate, don’t keep them standing out there. Bring them in.” With coloring that matched the children’s, a woman in a V-necked silky red top and blue jeans stood on the porch. She gave Tate a frown and waved at the group. “We have beer and wine and pop. Come on in.”

“Beer sounds good,” Vance said, hooking an arm around Sally. “And something smells delicious.”

“Leigh Anne is a great cook,” Tate said. He waved them up the steps, dodged the stream of children and dogs, and followed with their father.

It was a welcoming house. The living room held comfortable-looking, worn couches and chairs in dark greens, a large-screen television, and toys spilling from a wooden trunk. The woman led the way through and into the dining room. “Since the food’s all ready to go, why don’t you go ahead and be seated. And what would you like to drink?” She rolled her eyes. “I forgot—I’m Leigh Anne.”