Six months later
NATALIESATONthedeck of another beach house in Santa Barbara. This one was quite a bit smaller than the one where she’d house-sat months ago. And a couple of blocks from the beach itself. Andrea and the Omega Sector team had helped her find it and, using money confiscated from accounts linked to Damien, had bought it outright for her.
Combat pay, they’d called it.
The house had become her saving grace.
It was here that she’d cried her eyes out for the teenager she’d been who’d made such a bad decision in who she’d married and paid such a steep price for it in the years to come. Here that she’d ranted and slammed dishes on the ground when she thought of the six more years of her life that she’d lost by running and hiding and living in terror.
At first she couldn’t even look at a pack of sticky notes without feeling shame. But then Andrea, who had become a regular visitor, had pointed out—for both of their cases—that someone never needed to apologize for the way they had chosen to survive. And more importantly, that Natalie didn’t need the sticky notes any longer. That was the most important thing.
Other members of Omega Sector had come by to visit also those first few weeks, some Natalie had seen before, others she hadn’t.
Roman Weber, a member of the SWAT team, brought his very pregnant soon-to-be-wife, Keira, also a good friend of Andrea’s.They explained how Freihof had nearly killed them both—on two separate occasions—and thanked her for what she’d done to help stop him.
Tiny, tough SWAT member and occasional bus-ticket-saleswoman Lillian brought her man, Jace, by. They told her the story of how Damien had almost blown up a huge chunk of Denver, and brought Lillian’s worst nightmare back into her life. They thanked Natalie for making sure they would never have to worry about Damien again.
And sharpshooter Ashton, whom Natalie had found out was the one to put the bullet into Damien, brought his new wife and adopted toddler daughter, Chloe, by. She’d played with the adorable little girl for hours on the beach and then set up a little easel for her to paint when she’d expressed interest in Natalie’s own pictures.
“Because of your strength and courage, the world is a better place,” Ashton had said in her ear the next day as he’d hugged her goodbye. “You’re part of the Omega family now. You and Ren both, even though he’s not working there anymore.”
“He’s not?” She couldn’t stop herself from asking, the same way she hadn’t been able to stop herself from thinking about him or dreaming about him.
“Nope. Went back to work on some sheep farm in Montana. Go figure. Said it was where half his heart was. And that he was hoping the other half would get there soon.”
Steve Drackett showed up the next day, a small dog kennel in one hand. He did not look amused.
“I’ve known Ren McClement for more than fifteen years. He’s saved my life more than once. Please tell him when you see him that, after this little stunt, I consider my debt to him well and truly paid.”
He set the crate on the ground and opened it. A puppy came bounding out.
A damned Old English sheepdog puppy.
Asheepdog.
Steve handed her a card.
This little guy might look out of place in Santa Barbara. But he’d be perfect in Montana.
Natalie grabbed the tiny ball of white fur and pulled him up into her arms, giggling as he licked her face over and over.
“Aren’t you just the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen? I shall call you... Cream.”
Steve had just rolled his eyes. “Damn thing howled the entire way here. Tell Ren that next time he has to do his own dirty work.”
But Steve had winked at Natalie, so she knew he wasn’t truly mad.
Cream became her constant companion, his unconditional affection helping to heal Natalie in ways she hadn’t even known she had been broken. She wanted to write Ren, call him, something. But couldn’t quite make herself do it.
The next month the first postcard arrived. It was obviously over ten years old and had a picture of sunny Barcelona, Spain, on the front.
I realized I’d never sent these while I was in the army because I never had someone I wanted to share my life with. You are that person. Yours, Ren.
A couple days later another old postcard, this one from Istanbul, Turkey, showed up.
Growing up, I loved to read but my friends teased me about it, so I used to hide it, only reading while I lay under the covers at night. Yours, Ren.
Every few days, another postcard from his collection would arrive. And on the back, some small truth about his life that would help her to know him better. Some funny. Some heartbreaking. But always honest.
