But Walter’s generator was on the side of the community closest to the shooters—and moving chest-type freezers around was a two-man job that would require them to be in the open.

Gena couldn’t bear up any longer, not even for Angelina’s sake. She buried her face in her hands, sobbing in great, raw sounds, her entire body heaving. Cate remembered when she, too, had cried that way, and she crossed to Gena, sat down, and put her arms around her. There were no words that would make the pain less, so she didn’t say anything. Angelina’s face crumpled and her big dark eyes began swimming with tears. “Mommy, don’t cry!” She patted Gena’s leg, both giving and searching for comfort. “Mommy!”

Cate gathered Angelina close, too. Her babies had been too young to know anything when Derek died, too young to miss him and cry for him, but Angelina wasn’t. When she understood that her daddy was gone and was never coming back, nothing in die world except time would give her solace.

“Mow do you do it?” Ciena sobbed, the words so thick with tears and choked out through sobs that Cate barely understood her. “How do you manage?”

How do you function when your entire body has been overtaken by searing emotional pain? How do you function day to day when a huge hole has been ripped in your life? How do you ever smile again, laugh again, feel joy again?

“You just do it,” Cate answered quietly. “Because you have no choice. I had my babies. You have Angelina. That’s why you have to do it.”

The door opened and Cal came in.

He’d changed clothes. He was wearing what she thought of as deer-hunting clothes: a pair of woodland-pattern camouflage cargo pants, an olive-drab T-shirt, and an unbuttoned shirt in the same woodland pattern as his pants. He also had on flexible Gore-Tex boots, a hunting knife in a scabbard on his belt, the shotgun with its sling hooked over his left shoulder, and a rifle with a big scope mounted on it in his right hand. 11 he’d been going deer hunting, though, he’d have been wearing either a cap or a hunting vest in bright orange.

The bottom dropped out of her stomach. What he was wearing told her louder than words that he intended to go after the men who were shooting at them. She released Gena and stood up, galvanized by the sheer, icy terror that seized her. She wanted to scream; she wanted to tackle him and tie him up so he couldn’t go. She refused to let him do this; she couldn’t watch him walk away knowing there was a strong possibility he wouldn’t come back—

His gaze snagged hers. She saw him take in her white, strained expression. Carefully he stood both weapons in a safe place where they couldn’t be knocked over and then threaded his way across the crowded, cluttered room to her side. People spoke to him, patted him on the shoulder, and he nodded and spoke and traded greetings, but he never paused, never wavered from his course.

When he reached her, he touched her hand and said, “Are you okay?”

She felt as if she would choke if she tried to utter a word. She gave a fierce, single shake of her head.

He looked around, saw there was no privacy to be had for even a moment. “Follow me.”

Numbly she did, scarcely aware of anything around her as she trailed in his wake, seeing nothing but his back. He led her outside, into the warm sunshine, but stopped while they were still protected by the downward curve of the land. Turning to study her with his pale, steady gaze, he said. “What’s wrong?”

What was wrong? “Your clothes,” she blurted, unable to formulate a more coherent reason.

Bewildered, he looked down at himself. “My clothes?”

“You’re going after them, aren’t you?”

Understanding dawned. “We can’t just sit here,” he said quietly. “Someone has to do something.”

“But not you! Why does it have to be you?”

“I don’t know who else it would be. Look around you. Mario was the youngest man, and he’s dead. Josh could have done it, but he’s got a cracked bone in his leg. Everyone else is older and out of shape. I’m the logical choice.”

“Screw logic!” she said fiercely, grabbing his shirt with both hands. “I know I don’t have the right to say anything because we aren’t—we haven’t—” She shook her head, fighting a sudden rush of tears. “I can’t lose… not again—”

He stopped her incoherent babble by dipping his head and putting his mouth on hers.

His lips were soft, so soft. The kiss was gentle, questing. His lips moved against hers, learning and asking, and she tilted her head up to answer.

“You have the right,” he murmured, and framed her face with his hands, his fingers sliding into her hair as he took her with a series of tender, hungry kisses, as if he were eating her mouth. She gripped his forearms, digging her fingers into the hard muscles and tendons, holding on for dear life as she sagged against him.

His tongue made leisurely forays, touched and stroked and enticed as though he had all the time in the world and couldn’t think of a better way to spend it.

She had never before been kissed so… contentedly.

He was aroused; she could feel the hard bulk of his penis against her. She expected to feel his hips move, but he remained still except for his tongue and those soft, soft lips. Warmth glowed to life within her, pushing away her fear, her anger that he would take such a risk when they were hovering on the verge of something that felt so wonderful she could scarcely believe it.

Leaving her mouth, he pressed kisses on her cheek, her temple, her eyes, then went back to her lips for more.

If he made love as leisurely as he kissed—oh, dear God.

“We should go back inside,” he whispered against her mouth, then rested his forehead against hers. “I have a lot to do.”

She pulled back and looked into his blue eyes. They were as calm as always, but now she recognized the steel core of this man. He wasn’t dramatic; he wasn’t someone who demanded attention—because he didn’t need it. He was supremely certain of himself and his capabilities. He would risk his life for them without a moment’s hesitation.

She would have stayed out there and argued until they were both drawing their social security checks, but he turned her and somehow herded her back into the basement. A lot of smiling, knowing looks were directed their way, but that wasn’t a surprise, considering how he’d acted last night, and that they’d just now been kissing outside the door. What did surprise her was that no one, absolutely no one, seemed surprised. Apparently, she was the only one who was having trouble coming up to speed on this, but then, she was the only one who had deliberately worn blinders.

In the irritating way that most men seemed to have, he’d already reverted completely to business mode, gathering with Creed and the other men. Creed even had a notebook and was mapping out something with swift strokes of a pen. Everyone crowded around to hear what was being said.

“The bridge is out,” Cal was saying. “That was the explosion.

The electricity went out right before that, which means they cut the wires. The phones are out, too. From the way the shooters have positioned themselves, their intention is to keep anyone from going for help through the cut in the mountains. They wanted to cut us off and hem us in.”

“But why in hell are they doing all this? And who are they, anyway?” Walter growled, running his hand through his thinning hair in frustration.

“I haven’t seen anyone, but my guess is those two guys from last week brought in reinforcements, and as for what they want—” Cal shrugged, “I’d say they want me.”

“Because you got the drop on them?”

“And bashed one of them in the head,” Neenah added. She was sitting on the cold concrete next to Creed. She hadn’t strayed far from his side since the night before.

“I didn’t say it was reasonable,” Cal said. “Some people let their egos get involved, and they turn vicious.”