Page 70 of Wyatt

Tate gave her a look even as he peeled the wrapper from the chocolate cupcake. “I know about PTSD, sis. You can’t bake your way out of it.”

“I don’t have—”

“Seriously. You were shot at. Had to escape Russia. There’s an entire genre of books about escaping Russia, so don’t tell me that’s not traumatic. You have PTSD, and it never really goes away—you just get better at pushing through.”

She opened the oven and pulled out her final tray of cupcakes. Set them on the island of her mother’s remodeled kitchen.

“I’m trying.”

“Reuben says you’ve been binge-watchingAliasagain. Listen, I get it. I think I watched all six seasons ofLostwhen I got back from Afghanistan. That’s about 120 hours of my life I’ll never get back.” He ate half the cupcake in one bite. Made a noise of appreciation.

“Yeah, well, I’ve been helping Ma harvest the garden, canned some tomato sauce, made some pickles, and even sorted through more boxes of Dad’s books to donate to the library.”

“That’s real high-action stuff there, Sydney.”

“Maybe I’m not…well, Sydney Bristow. Have you ever thought of that?”

He finished off the cupcake. “Of course you’re not. She’s a made-up television character. You’re a real kick-butt heroine who did something scary and noble and nearly got killed doing it. You’re allowed to…bake. But the fact is you can’t cook…or binge-watch…away your fears. You have to get it in your head that you’re safe now, and no one is going to show up in the backyard and try and kill you.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“I hardly think this Russian is going to hop the pond and track you down in the middle of our ranch.”

“Why not? Glo nearly got killed here.”

Tate’s mouth tightened into a dark line. “Points to you. But—”

“You’re probably right. It’s just an excuse to hide out and get my feet under me. But I’ve called my boss a dozen times and she’s not answering me. And I’ve been shut out of my access to my computer, my files, and any research I could get done. I’m just twiddling my thumbs here, and it’s driving me crazy. As soon as Wyatt gets here with the information from Coco, I’m going to DC. I’m going to slap it on her desk and…”

“Maybe you don’t.” Tate got up and went to the fridge, opening it. He grabbed the milk. “Maybe you give the information to Reba Jackson.”

“The VP candidate?”

He took out a glass from the cupboard. “And Glo’s mother. She has connections—she’s on the Armed Services Committee. She could get you cleared.”

He filled his glass with milk and turned. He was dressed in a black T-shirt and a pair of very faded jeans hanging low on his hips, and in the light, with the dark window behind him, he looked very much like the off-duty bodyguard, former spec ops soldier he was. Even with his tousled brown hair and haze of brown whiskers.

He and Glo had arrived just a few hours ago, surprising them. Apparently, Glo and the country band she played with—the Yankee Belles—had a few days off from their tour with NBR-X, a professional bull-riding show. Knox and Kelsey had stayed on the tour, thanks to Knox’s job as the livestock supervisor.

Tate took a drink, and it left a white mustache. “Come with us to Seattle.” He wiped his upper lip with his sleeve.

“What—why?”

“Glo’s mom is having a political rally there. You can see Wyatt—I think the Blue Ox have a pre-season exhibition game with one of their junior teams—the Thunderbirds.”

She hadn’t heard from Wyatt for a couple days—not that she was worried but…oh, fine! Yes, she was worried.

“Listen, don’t you want to…stopbakingand—”

“I don’t know what I want, okay?” She was transferring the cupcakes she’d just pulled from the oven onto a baking rack. The heat bled through to her fingers, and she yanked one away and put it into her mouth.

“I’m thinking maybe it’s just as dangerous for you to be here.”

“Go to bed.”

“I can’t sleep.” He set down his glass and sighed.

Tate sighing never boded well. “Why not?”

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