“She’s a tough girl.” Truman fought to keep his voice even.

I have to be strong for Ollie.

“Chief Daly?” came a voice behind Truman.

He gave Ollie a final squeeze and turned to face one of the detectives.

“I’m Detective Ortiz. We’re done with this young man. He can leave.” The detective’s face was grim but flashed with sympathy as he looked at Ollie.

“What’s the word on the shooter?” asked Truman.

“No word.”

Truman stared at Ortiz for a long second as his heart dropped.

That’s it?

The man held his gaze. He had no news for Truman.

Truman was nauseated. “Got it.” He gave Ortiz his card. “Keep me updated.”

“I understand the girl is your niece,” Ortiz said as he glanced at the card.

“Yes.” Not quite true. But feels like it. “Practically my daughter. I’m going to take Ollie home to get cleaned up and then head to the hospital.”

“Good luck, Chief.”

Truman didn’t like the guarded hope in the detective’s gaze, but he understood it.

At the house Truman tried to get the teen to eat something. Ollie picked at the food, took two bites, and then pushed it away. Shep sat at his feet, his back pressed against Ollie’s shin. Lots of head rubs and scratches for his dog had perked Ollie up more than his shower. Even Simon walked a dozen figure eights around Ollie’s legs, her tail hugging his jeans.

Now in the vehicle with Ollie, Truman was nearly back to Bend and the hospital.

“What’s happening, Truman?” Ollie asked, his voice so low Truman almost missed it.

He glanced at the boy in the light of the setting sun, not understanding his question.

“Why is everyone around me getting hurt? Or dying?” Ollie’s voice cracked.

The words were like a mallet slamming into Truman’s chest. He’d watched Ollie open up and accept people into his life over the last several weeks. It’d been a big step for someone who’d been alone and suspicious of others all his life.

“I know how painful it is to see someone you care about get hurt.”

Ollie was silent but wiped his eyes.

“Don’t let this make you keep people at an arm’s distance. Shit happens, and we deal with it when it comes. The benefits to having people you care about far outweigh the pain.”

“Doesn’t feel like it right now.”

“No. It doesn’t.”

The Tahoe rocked as he turned into the hospital parking lot. He stopped the car. He and Ollie sat staring at the hospital for a long moment, neither making a move to get out.

“I don’t want to know what’s happened,” Ollie whispered.

“Mercy would have called me . . .” If Kaylie had died. He swallowed hard. Assuming Mercy could function after that news.

He clapped a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Let’s go give Mercy some support.”

Ollie nodded, a look of determination on his face, and he opened his door.

Mercy couldn’t sit in the damned chair any longer. She got up and paced the room again. Someone with good intentions had decorated the surgical waiting room in muted greens and blues. Even the artwork was mellow, landscapes and seashores. The room was long and narrow, with several groups of furniture, giving a sense of privacy for each arrangement. The tissue boxes on every flat surface negated the notion that this room was for relaxing.

It’d been almost two hours.

She wanted to scream.

Pearl, Owen, and her mother shared the airless room with her. It was a good-size room, but Mercy had felt the need to step out into the hallway multiple times. She swore the air pressure was different. Eddie was still in the hospital somewhere with his gunshot wound. She had considered popping in to see him, but she knew that if she left the waiting room, that would guarantee the doctor would show up.

I could call Eddie. She immediately rejected the idea. The thought of telling him about Kaylie made her want to curl up in a ball and hide under one of the room’s sofas.

“Let me get you another cup of coffee, Mercy.” Pearl stood and stretched her back. Her oldest sister looked exhausted, and she’d been up since 4:00 a.m. to get the Coffee Café open. It was on the tip of Mercy’s tongue to refuse, but the hope in Pearl’s eyes told her she needed something to do.

“Another cup of coffee might launch me into space. Maybe something else.”

“Decaf, then. Or I’ll see if that machine has something else that won’t wire you. Maybe chicken broth?”

Chicken broth out of a coffee vending machine? Her stomach stirred in a disquieting way.

“Not broth.”

“Anyone else?” Pearl asked, looking from Owen to her mother. Both shook their heads. She vanished out the door, her tennis shoes making no sound in the hall.

Owen shifted in his seat. He looked as uncomfortable as Mercy felt. He played with his cowboy hat, spinning it in his hands, fingering the brim, probably wishing his wife had come with him, but she had the flu. Mercy’s mother, Deborah, glanced at Owen’s hat several times, but he didn’t pick up her silent plea to stop the constant fiddling. Her mother looked as composed as always. The rock in every storm of their lives.

Her father was absent. “On a call,” her mother had said. “Twin calves and no vet. I talked to him on the phone, and he said he’d be here as soon as he could . . . but you know how it can go.” Mercy did. Her father had helped ranchers with calving for as long as she could remember. He was who they called when they couldn’t get a vet. Some called him first.

The door clicked, and Mercy spun. Surprise made her mouth open. A very pregnant Rose and a very concerned Nick entered. Sweat dotted Rose’s temples and neck. She was breathing hard . . . and looked like crap. Mercy had told her not to come. She was still sick. Mercy touched her sister’s hand and was immediately enveloped in a hug. Heat radiated from Rose.

Mercy glowered at Nick, thankful Rose couldn’t see her.

“Don’t get mad at Nick for bringing me,” Rose ordered. “I gave him no choice.”

“Oh, Rose.” Deborah stood and approached her second daughter. “You shouldn’t be here! In fact, you shouldn’t be out of bed.”

“I’m fine, Mom. How’s Kaylie?”

For the seconds Rose had been present, Mercy had been distracted from worry. With one question, Mercy’s stress and anguish came rushing back. “We haven’t heard anything since she went into surgery.”

Rose’s face fell. “Well, no news is good news, right?”

A phrase Mercy had silently repeated a hundred times in the last hour. Her heart had jumped every time the door opened.

Deborah guided Rose to a chair, sat beside her, placed a hand on Rose’s forehead, and began questioning her in depth about her symptoms and the pregnancy. Owen rose and shook Nick’s hand, clearly grateful for a male presence in the room.

The urge to scream overwhelmed Mercy again. Instead she walked the long room, from one end to another, trying not to remember Kaylie’s laughing face as she’d told Mercy goodbye that morning. Or to think of Dulce the cat sitting at home, wondering where her bedmate was. Or of Kaylie bleeding out in a parking lot.

Nausea swamped her, and she grabbed the back of a chair.

The door swung open, and Truman entered with a crestfallen Ollie tagging behind. His gaze instantly found her, and she locked on to it like a life preserver. He strode to her, ignoring the rest of her family, and took both her hands. “Is she okay?”

“We don’t know.” Her voice was a shadow of itself.

Strong arms surrounded her, and the nausea abated. She relaxed into him, digging her face into his shoulder, feeling the anxiety start to dissolve. But with it went her strength. Her extremities went cold. She wavered, and he sat in the chair and pulled her onto his lap. No speaking. No questions. Just his rock-solid dependability. It was practically a physical entity, and she clung to it, desperate for someone to help shoulder the load.

“She’s mine,” Mercy whispered, her icy cheek pressed against his warm one. His internal furnace felt different from the sickly heat from Rose. “She’s mine to take care of.”

“She is.”

“I let him down.” Levi.

“He knows what happened. He knows it had nothing to do with you.”

She shuddered. “I love her so much. I had no idea . . .”

His smile moved against her skin. “We all do.”

They sat silently for a long moment. Simply being.

Then she remembered that most of her family was in the same room. Looking over her shoulder, she saw they were politely ignoring her and Truman. Pearl had returned and taken charge of Ollie, seating him beside her.

“How is Ollie?” she whispered to Truman. The lost look on his face in the parking lot flashed in her memory.

“He’s a wreck. It’s been a lot for him lately.” He paused. “He wanted to bring Shep. I didn’t think I was going to get him out of the house without the dog.”

“I can see that.” She took a settling breath and leaned back so she could see Truman’s face. A good man.

“Tell me what the doctor said,” he said gently.

Mercy looked away and focused on a painting of the ocean. “I can’t remember everything they told me. It all happened so fast, and the ER team sent her to surgery immediately. I know they said the bullet went through her liver before exiting out her back.”

“No wonder there was so much blood.”

“The team should be able to find the bullet and hopefully the cartridge at the scene.” And then the shooter.

A realization slammed into her, and she gasped for breath.

Why didn’t I think of this before?

Because I was fixated on Kaylie’s survival.

She spun to him. “Truman. What if that shot was meant for me?”

“Why—”

“Kaylie was wearing my coat. Who shoots a random teenager?” Her fingers dug into his shirt, her theory feeling stronger by the second. “They were ballsy enough to shoot in the FBI parking lot. Their motivation had to be huge . . . two million dollars huge?” she whispered.