long-fingered hands rested against his stomach, just above where his leather belt

wrapped around a narrow waist. Long legs and scuffed desert combat boots

completed the picture. No way anyone could mistake him for anything other than a straight-up warrior.

He shifted against the cushions and my gaze went to his face. He was watching me, the blue of his eyes had lightened to a storm-tossed gray. “I’d tell

you take a picture, but you probably would.”

I struggled to keep my blush from rising. It was a losing battle. “My

camera’s still packed.”

“I saw some of your pictures in a gallery in San Diego, about a month ago.”

I looked away, knowing which photos he was talking about. The same photos

which led to my invite to chase the four-footed wildlife in Alaska.

“They were…”

When he trailed off, I finished, “Brutal?”

“Real.” His correction brought my gaze back to his. “Some I recognized.

You took while you were on tour?”

I gave a short nod.

“But the others?”

“Came after.” After my discharge, when being home left me feeling

displaced. It hadn’t taken long to pack up my camera and head back where my

nightmares roamed.

I hid the truth of my trip from Kelsey, telling her it was a proposed photo shoot for a national magazine. I spent seven long weeks retracing my steps over

the shifting sands to those places and faces haunting my nightmares and my darkroom. The ravaged villages, shattered families, and hollow-eyed children may have disappeared, but their ghosts still walked the desert landscapes. The soldiers who tried to save them had paid a heavy price, sometimes too heavy.

Someone had to bear witness.

“Why?”

“I had to finish what I started.” My simplistic answer barely scratched the complex surface. Revisiting the past was one of many steps needed to move forward.

“Did you?”

Around the lump in my throat, I pushed out, “Yeah, for now.” There were times when I thought I left the panic, the fear, and the uncertainty of choices I had made behind. Then, when I least expected it, they would sneak up and kick

me in the ass.

“So why photography?”

“Safer to shoot a camera than a gun?” My statement switched to a question.

He slowly shook his head without raising it. “No, I’ve seen your records.

You’re a natural sharpshooter.”

“Didn’t discover that until I enlisted, but photography…” I turned away and

stared at the ceiling before continuing. “I got my first camera right before I started high school, right after Kelsey and I moved in with the Ardens.” At the

mention of my family, grief intruded. I kept my attention on the conversation.

“Your foster parents?”

“My parents,” I corrected softly. “Becca and Carl Arden were the only

parents I’ve ever had.”

My past rose and it took a second before I could continue. “Carl had a friend,

Eric, who would stop by and visit. Every time he came, he had a camera. He would traipse through Oak Canyon, taking picture after picture. I’d sneak out and follow, trying not to be seen.” I smiled at the memory of stalking Eric through the high-desert terrain. “After a couple of weeks, he started handing me

the camera, giving me pointers. I was hooked.”

“Your parents didn’t mind you tagging after their friend?”

My grin sharpened at the suspicion in his question. “Eric served under Carl

when he first joined the marines. Kept in him one piece, Carl used to say before

giving a huff and changing the subject. When I enlisted, Eric said it was his turn

to keep Carl’s daughter in one piece.”

Understanding dawned. “Flash?”

I nodded, grateful to Kayden for reminding me of better times. “Yeah, he was

a good soldier, but he was an even better artist with his camera. I learned a lot

from him.”

“So, you joined the marines because of Carl and Flash?”