Page 121 of Ford

And right behind her, a blur—maybe Ford—but he couldn’t make it out.

“There’s something written beneath the picture,” Kat said.

He turned the computer back around.

Everything inside him turned cold.

“York?”

He could barely speak, the words like tar in his mouth, hot and sticky. “Are you…”—Oh, God, help—“ready to play…again?”

Kat stiffened, and when he looked up, her eyes were wide. “Is that…from—”

“Damien Gustov. And this time, he wants Ruby Jane.”

Kat leaned back, stared at the ceiling. “We’re not going to Vladivostok,” she said.

She might not be. But he said nothing as he composed a new email.

Outside, the fingertips of dawn ran red down the pewter waters.

Please, please, be awake.

11

That’s what love is—doing what’s best for the other person, even if it’s hard, right?

RJ’s words hung in Scarlett’s head as she eased out into the hallway of the train car. The sun streaked through the window in the palest of rays, washing over Ford’s profile as he leaned against the railing along the corridor, staring out the window.

The man looked wrung out. Dirty from where he’d scrabbled out of the way of the train, and her stomach clenched at the thought of it.

She’d been scared enough to retch. And yet, when he showed up, she’d turned on him like a crazy person, spewing out all her fear into a mess of emotion and confusion.

I don’t know why you’re so mad, but whatever it is—please, please, let’s fight about this on the train.

His desperate plea could cut her in half, leave her in pieces.

She’d nearly derailed them, again. Because…

Truth is, I spend most of my time scared.

Yes. Scared.

Scared that she’d mess everything up. Scared that she’d end up with a broken heart. Scared that she wasn’t worth the fight of peeling back all her messy layers to find…

That’s what she needed to know. What did Ford see? What did he need? Because if she could figure it out, then maybe she could—

What? Become the person he needed?

But yeah, it made sense. She’d spent her entire life molding herself into the right person. One her mother would want. Or the Navy. Or even, yes, Ford.

What would it feel like to be wanted just for whatever was inside.

Ford picked then to look up and meet her eyes. They were reddened, probably from fatigue, but maybe unshed emotion too. He drew in a breath, then looked away, back to the landscape, the darkness lifting to reveal farmhouses and cattle and dirt roads and prairie grass. And in the distance, the jagged haze of mountains.

Kazakhstan.

She drew in a breath, found the truth, and held on. “I’m sorry.”

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