Page 87 of Wyatt

“Really? You remember that?”

“It was on a plaque in the kitchen. Hard to forget. But she said it too. And other verses. She used to stand at her kitchen sink, singing hymns.Be Thou My Vision…”

“I remember that. My dad’s favorite hymn. He had it written on a piece of paper on his desk.”

“I know you don’t want to be like him, Wyatt, but the fact is, you area lotlike your dad.”

He recoiled.

“I mean that in a good way—you’re tough. Driven to leave a legacy. And now you want to provide for your family.”

Wyatt pushed himself up from the couch. “Funny. Sometimes when I’m playing, I look up in the stands, just like I used to when I was twelve, and I wish…I imagine that he’s there. Watching me.” He gave her a chagrined smile. “Silly.”

She took his face in her hands. “Not silly. Not silly at all.”

Then she kissed him.

And he wanted to focus on just her, the taste of her lips, the fact that she hadn’t run away from him. But Jace was bothering him again.You’re still looking for something, trying to grab something that just keeps flying by you.

No. He had what he wanted right here in his grasp.

And now, he was bringing her home.

Wyatt, for the win.

She’d read the text under the groggy 4:00 a.m. sunrise.

RJ probably should have gotten a couple more hours of sleep instead of tiptoeing down the stairs and back into her crazy espionage life.

But frankly, RJ was tired of hiding.

Which was why, when her mother showed up in the kitchen with anAnd where do you think you’re going, young lady?she didn’t put up more of a fight.

Still, she should have never dragged her mother into this mess.

The voice had turned RJ from where she stood in the kitchen, looking at the coffee pot. No,willingit to brew more quickly. She wanted a quick and painless escape from the ranch, one that didn’t broadcast her intentions for the scrutiny of her mother, her nosy brother Reuben, or even Tate and Glo, although her little trip had been his idea.

One she’d been ruminating on for the last twenty-four hours.Tate wants me to go to Seattle and give the information to Senator Reba Jackson. She’s running for VP, but she has contacts that could clear my name.

York had even endorsed it with hisI don’t hate that idea.

Especially since he thought Gustov was heading her direction.

She needed to leave, for the protection of her family, and hope that Gustov hadn’t figured out where she lived.

It didn’t hurt that York had texted her. The one night she’d had a fairly decent night’s sleep and she’d missed his text.

On my way to Seattle. Meet me? Renaissance Hotel. Room booked in your name. York.

She didn’t recognize his number, but then again, he used burner phones like any good spy.

On my way.She’d texted her answer back just as the sun slid into her bedroom, then packed her meager belongings and tiptoed downstairs.

The decision felt easy. And, frankly, it was about time.

Harder, however, to explain it to her mother, how she’d felt sidelined, lost. Even a shadow of the person she thought she was. So she kept it simple. “I’m leaving.”

Her mother was dressed in a pair of leggings, an oversized flannel shirt, her brown curly hair pulled back. She set a duffel bag on the floor. “Good. It’s about time.”

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