His chest ached with every mile, but he drove on, jaw locked, breath harsh, pretending silence could shield him from the truth. Bailee Thunderhawk was the only woman who had ever made him want to speak.
Pippa, Joker’s wife, had designed the house as much as she’d designed the clothes that had made her name. Glass and light, clean lines, warm wood under bare feet. It looked like it belonged in a spread for Architectural Digest, not ten miles from the Teams’ barracks. Joker had the kind of family money that made all of it possible, but he’d earned his own respect the hard way, through grit, through combat, through loss.
Bear slowed as he turned onto the cul-de-sac, headlights gliding over the manicured hedges and the house that sat at the top like it owned the view. Floor-to-ceiling windows spilled golden light across the drive, laughter flickering faintly behind the glass.
He cut the engine. For a long minute he just sat there, the sound of the ocean pulsing faintly beyond the cliffs. Inside that house was warmth. A family. Safety. The kind of world he’d never quite learned how to enter.
Then he climbed out, boots crunching on the stone path, and headed for the door before his silence could talk him out of it. Before he could knock, the door swung wide. Joker stood there in a faded T-shirt, barefoot, beer in hand, eyes narrowing the instant he saw Bear.
“Locklear.” One word. Heavy with question.
Pippa’s voice floated from the living room. “Elias? Who’s at the door?” She appeared a moment later, her red hair pulled up, an easy warmth in her smile. “Dakota. Come in.”
Bear shook his head. “Can’t stay. Just need a word with the LT.”
Joker cocked his head, his gaze like a spotlight. “Middle of the night, and you show up looking like someone carved you hollow. Go ahead. Spit it.”
Bear ground out the words. “I want to move up my BUD/S rotation.”
That earned him a long stare. Joker didn’t blink. Didn’t move. Then his mouth curved in that razor smile. “Do I look like a mushroom?”
Bear’s throat worked. “Yeah, I got it. Don’t feed you shit.”
“Good,” Joker said. “Because I know damn well this isn’t about recruits.”
Pippa touched her husband’s arm lightly, her presence softening the sharp edge. “Dakota,” she said gently, “are you all right?”
The question cut deeper than Joker’s stare. Bear forced himself to nod. “I just need the rotation. That’s all.”
Silence stretched. Joker swigged his beer, never taking his eyes off him. Then he gave one curt nod. “Done. But hear me, Locklear, running doesn’t fix what’s chasing you.”
Bear inclined his head, already turning back toward the night. He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Silence had always been safer.
McAllister Ranch in Parker County, outside Weatherford, Texas, Two Years Ago
The cicadas screamed in the Texas dusk, heat still clinging to the porch boards when Flynn banged out of the house. He’d spent all morning arguing with M&M, Margaret Mary McAllister, his grandmother, the woman who’d taken him in after his parents were murdered on their sheep station in Queensland. He called her by her initials because anything else felt too formal, too distant.
Strong-boned and striking, with silver streaking her dark hair and Irish fire in her green eyes, M&M looked every inch the ranch matriarch. Jeans, boots, and a blue cotton shirt for work. Pressed dresses for Sunday Mass.
“Don’t you bloody dare walk out on me, Flynn Patrick Gallagher!” Her voice cut through the humid air like a whip.
He stopped at the steps, jaw tight. “We’re going in circles, M&M. I’ve got chores waiting.” Flynn’s words carried a twang that was never just Texas. The long vowels of Queensland still ghosted through, softened by Parker County heat.
Clint Harlan McAllister sat in his usual spot, sipping lemonade. His M&M made the best in Texas. Maybe all of Australia, too.
“You’re fifteen,” she snapped. “Fifteen. You can’t just run off to California like some drifter.”
M&M wasn’t a woman you said no to. She’d buried too much, carried too much, to take disobedience as anything but betrayal.
“Graduated, didn’t I? Bloody earned it, too,” Flynn shot back. “School’s done. What else am I supposed to do? Sit here and rot while the world passes me by?”
Her hand shook as she pointed at him. “Your world is here. Clint gave you a home when you lost everything. And this is how you repay him? Running off to?—”
“That’s enough.” Clint’s low rumble cut through, steady as bedrock. The old man leaned heavily on the rail, Stetson brim shadowing his eyes. “Boy’s got chores. We’ll jaw about this after supper.”
Flynn swallowed, half relieved, half still burning. She could scream his full name till the stars came out, but he wasn’t backing down. He’d already made up his mind. Sunshine State or bust.
The barn smelled of hay and leather, horses shifting in their stalls while Flynn forked feed into the bins. Sweat clung to his shirt, muscles tight from a day of chores he’d barely seen while his head spun. He was brushing down the last gelding when boots scuffed behind him.
