Page 69 of Wyatt

“What—and lost his cell phone?”

“Nat was on the train with me for nearly twenty-four hours,” Wyatt said. “Even if he did call her, the messages might not have come through.”

“And if he got a train or a plane…”

York was looking at her. “If he read my email, he knows where RJ is. I’ve been writing to her. He could track her ISP address. If he thinks Natalya did her job…”

“RJ is the only loose end,” Wyatt said.

“Excuse me.” York pushed past Wyatt.

Wyatt watched him go. Turned back to Coco. “Mikka is asleep. I tucked him in to the lower bunk in Vitya’s room.”

She reset her encryption on her cloud, then logged out. Pulled the jump drive out of the computer, got up, and handed it to Wyatt. “Hang on to this one.”

He slipped it into his pocket as she stepped past him into the hallway, over to the bedroom.

Shadows pressed through the window, the night falling in great swaths. Mikka lay on the bottom bunk, his breathing soft. She knelt beside him and ran her hand over his face. “I’m so afraid he has cancer.”

Wyatt touched her shoulder. “I know.”

She pressed a kiss to Mikka’s cheek, breathing in the smell of him, the fact that right now, in this moment, they were safe.

She stood up and turned to Wyatt.

“About…that talk…”

He drew in a breath, those brown eyes latching on to hers.

“He’s your son, Wyatt.”

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I know.”

Her eyes widened and crazily started to fill. “You know? How?”

His gaze fell on Mikka, his mouth lifting in a half smile. That dimple emerged. “He’s just like me, isn’t he?”

She covered her face with her hands, her shoulders shaking.

“Aw, Coco. You should have told me.” Then he reached out and pulled her into his arms, that wide, strong chest, rubbing her back as she started to weep.

“It’s going to be okay,” he said, his own body starting to tremble. “I promise. I’m not going to let anything happen to you. Either of you.” Then he simply lowered his cheek to her head and held her as he, too, quietly fell apart.

At least RJ hadn’t forgotten how to make cupcakes. Or muffins. Or cookies. Or cinnamon rolls and even a stack of buttermilk waffles.

If she wanted to go undercover in a bakery, she’d be golden.

Except, she wasn’t undercover, and frankly, was gaining weight like Knox’s prize baby bucking bull, now six months old. He was cute, too, with his big brown eyes, those reddish-brown ears poking up every time she walked out to the corral.

She wasn’t quite so cute, probably, dressed in her yoga pants and a T-shirt, her dark hair pulled back. And flour. She wore her flour like the champion of cupcake wars, down her apron, across her chin, up her arms.

That was the price of excellence.

That, and Tate’s smile as he reached for another cupcake. “So, is this a thing now? Late-night baking?”

Outside, the night pressed against the windows, the glow of the kitchen holding it at bay. Holding back, too, the nightmares that awaited her upstairs.

So, “Yeah. I do my best work at zero-dark-thirty.”

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