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  “Cassy … ?”

  She leaned her head back and looked up at him. Her blue eyes swam with unshed tears and uncertainty. “Boyce, don’t take this wrong. I’m happy, but I ... ”

  Oh, God. But. Boyce closed his eyes and rested his forehead against hers. “Don’t say anything more. Just let me have this moment, please.”

  Cassy nestled her head in the crook of his neck and stayed there. Boyce held her tightly, doing his best not to let the disappointment ravage his mind. She needed time to come to terms. After all, in the past he’d been stingy with his emotions, and he had left her. What was stopping her from believing he’d do the same again?

  Time. He still had more than a week left of his vacation. Plenty of time to convince her otherwise and sort out the rest of his life.

  As long as she didn’t reject him.

  • • •

  New Year’s Eve

  The noise of celebration in The Killdeer Pub nearly drowned the ringing phone. Cassy frowned; the sound was coming from Boyce. He gave her an apologetic smile as he dug his cell out of his pocket. After a cursory glance at the screen, he excused himself from his conversation with Con.

  “I’ll be right back,” he said to her, gave her a kiss on the cheek, and left.

  Cassy watched him thread his way through the small crowd until he disappeared around the corner that led to the back of the pub, where she knew the staircase would take him to the upstairs apartment. Sipping her punch, she stared at the spot, willing him to come back. She’d feared this call for more than a week. And now he was off alone, probably making plans to return to Memphis.

  Their interactions now were stilted, lacking the passion they’d had before he’d admitted his love. Most of it was her fault. She didn’t know what to do, or what to say, afraid she’d say the wrong thing and hurt him more than she already had. Boyce tried to hide it, but her rebuff had bothered him.

  Now things had gotten more complicated with the little secret she’d learned today, and she wasn’t sure how to tell him.

  “What’s that pensive look for?”

  Biting her lip, she shrugged. Nic peered around Cassy’s shoulder then glanced down at her hands clasped around a cup of punch. One eyebrow lifted.

  “Where’s Agent Asshole?”

  “On the phone.”

  “On New Year’s Eve? Who could he possibly need to talk to?”

  “Like I know.” Cassy pushed past her sister. “I’m not his keeper.” She was yanked back, sloshing the punch over the rim of the cup onto her hand. “Watch it.”

  Nic pulled her closer, until they were face-to-face. “For the past week you’ve been nothing but a pain in the ass.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Shush, and listen. I’ll be the first to admit that getting love advice from me is the last thing anyone needs. But I know that when the right one is standing in front of you, you don’t push him away. Does he love you?”

  Cassy found a place to set her cup down and wiped the sticky punch on her pant leg. She met Nic’s hard gaze and nodded. “He told me on Christmas.”

  “And?”

  “And I didn’t return it.”

  Nic’s shoulders sagged. “Cass, come on. Are you going to let him get away again?”

  “It’s not that simple.”

  Snorting, Nic shook her head. “Oh, don’t even go there. Compared to me, your life is simple.” She gripped Cassy’s shoulders. “He finally loves you. Tell him. Get back there and corner him, and you tell him.”

  “You’re awfully demanding.”

  “Because I don’t want to be the one you come crying to when you realize you were the idiot who let him go.” Nic shoved Cassy toward the back of the pub. “And don’t come out here until you’ve got news you can share with the whole damn crew.”

  “Nic … ”

  “Go.”

  Heaving a frustrated sigh, Cassy did as her sister ordered, muttering, “I’m gonna slap you two ways from Sunday for doing this to me.”

  She found the staircase at the back of the bar empty, but the door leading upstairs was open a crack. Quietly, she climbed the steps. As she drew closer to the top floor, she heard Boyce talking.

  “This is a lot to consider, sir.”

  She inched toward the door and leaned against the wall to peek through the gap. Boyce had his back to the entry, listening to whoever was on the other end of the connection and fiddling with something in his jacket pocket. Cassy pushed, and the door swung open silently on well-oiled hinges.

  “I understand, but this isn’t a decision I take lightly. I have a lot to consider.” Boyce’s hand stilled inside his pocket. “Yes, any agent would want to move up ... ”

  Her heart thundered in her chest. Was she too late? Was the caller about to give him an offer he couldn’t refuse?

  “Sir, if I may, I’m well aware that it’s a career-ender if I turn this down.” Boyce turned and froze when he caught sight of her. “However, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking while on vacation, and I’m considering a different career path.”

  Her legs threatened to buckle. She gathered her wits and willed her muscles to still. A strange look filled Boyce’s green eyes, nearly making her come undone.

  “I have to go, sir. I’ll call you tomorrow with my decision.” He shut off the phone.

  “Director?” Cassy’s voice cracked on the word.

  “Yes.” Boyce placed the phone on a dust-covered end table. “He was trying to convince me I should take the SAC position Ulrich left open when he was dismissed.”

  Cassy stared at the floor. If she looked him in the eye now, she’d see the awful truth that she was about to lose him. “It would be a nice step up.”

  “It is.” He tipped up her chin.

  “Boyce, I’m pregnant.” Her eyes widened when it hit her she’d blurted it out. Shit! That was not how she wanted to tell him.

  Shock crossed his face, melting into a smile. “Are you sure?”

  “It’s early, but the home test said I was.”

  “You’re pregnant?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  His smiled widened. “Cassy, that’s ... ”

  She escaped his touch, wandering a few steps away, driving her fingers through her hair. “I’m sorry. I should have paid better attention. We didn’t exactly stop to think about … Boyce, I don’t want this baby to make you—” He spun her around, stalling her words, and kissed her. She sagged into him, fisting his coat lapels as he deepened the kiss.

  When they came up for air, he couldn’t make up his mind where to rest his hands. Boyce never fidgeted this much. “I will not abandon you or our child. I swore if I ever became a father I would never put my child through the same agony I endured. But this baby changes nothing.”

  “Changes nothing?”

  He reached into his pocket and withdrew a small black-felt box.

  She clamped a hand over her mouth. Criminy! Was that … ? Holy … It was!

  “I am fully prepared to convince you that I am sincere about loving you. Cassy, I’m resigning from the FBI. I’m done with that life, and I won’t go back. My mother is finished and will be locked away for a long time. I want to be with you and nowhere else.”

  Tears marred her vision. She blinked, swallowing hard, and lowered her hand.

  He took hold of her hand and squeezed it. “I just need to know. Do you love me?”

  “I’ve loved you from the first time you kissed me. I hated you for leaving, but I never stopped loving you.”

  “Then”—he opened the box to reveal the twinkling diamond ring—“will you marry me?”

  “Oh, God, yes.”

  Her hand shook as he placed the ring on her finger. Once it was settled, she wrapped herself around him and claimed his mouth. Withdrawing, she hooked a hand on a cocked hip and pointed a finger at him. “I need to know one thing. Why do you call me sweet pea?”

  Boyce gave her a roguish grin. “Because you’re as sweet as a pea, darlin’.”


  That answer would have to do. There was plenty of time to get to know the real Boyce Hunt, and she looked forward to the challenge.

  Acknowledgments

  First and foremost, always, to The LORD, my God, who’s been my Rock and Foundation. You will always be Adonai. Soli Deo Gloria.

  During the writing of this book, America went into a dark place. There was a huge divide in the public, and sadly, a group of dedicated people found themselves with targets on their chests. Police officers all over the country were on high alert and dying in the line of duty, because someone thought their lives didn’t matter. I’m a firm supporter of the Blue Lives Matter movement. I have close friends who are cops, and one I had the privilege of going to school with, and who is one of my husband’s long-time friends, spared some of his precious time to consult for me on this book. Ed, thank you—without your finite details, some of these scenes would be pure hogwash. I bear blame for anything that isn’t kosher. Stay safe.

  An author’s life can be hectic, especially when there’s a lot of upheaval, and in the months I was writing Born to Die, I had a lot of upheaval. One thing remained constant for me, and that was the long-distance shoulder and support of my very best writing partner, Rachel Smith. I couldn’t keep going without you.

  I also found myself brought under the awesome care and fantastic umbrella of The Corvisiero Agency and became a client of Marisa Corvisiero. While this partnership is still brand new for both of us, I’m finding it’s top-notch.

  A book never becomes its best until an editor has ripped it to shreds. But this time, editor extraordinaire Julie Sturgeon’s constant teachings finally sank in and Born to Die turned out better than I originally hoped. I couldn’t have asked for a better editor to fine-tune my books, or a greater friend. Julie, you’re forever to blame for this sudden onset of college basketball fever.

  Many thanks to the great team at Crimson Romance. I found a great home with great people to take me further down the road in my publishing career.

  Thanks to my family. It’s been hard moving this from a “hobby” into an actual profession. Thank you to my husband, my sounding board and the one I lean on. Shawn, we’ve come a long way, and I’m grateful to God every day that I took that crooked path with you.

  About the Author

  Winter Austin perpetually answers the question “were you born in the winter?” with a flat “nope.” Living in the middle of Nowheresville, Iowa, with her husband, four teenagers, and two crazy dogs, Winter is trying to juggle a career while writing deadly romantic thrillers.

  Find Winter Austin at www.winteraustin.com, on Facebook, and on Twitter @WinterAustin_.

  More from This Author

  Atonement

  Winter Austin

  Once she looked into the lens, she embraced death.

  Deputy Nicolette Rivers settled against the Remington’s cheek weld and peered through the Leupold scope. Five hundred yards away in a two-story farmhouse with chipped, white paint flaking off the wood siding, a domestic situation had turned volatile. For the first time in more than three years Nic was called on to use skills she’d hoped to never use again.

  While the sheriff wanted to negotiate a peaceful end, he wasn’t stupid enough to keep Nic on the sidelines. He needed her eyes on the target: the out-of-control man standing over the cowering woman and her three children. Nic’s mouth drew into a thin line. She’d chosen this area for its lack of hostility and crime. Had chosen Nowheresville, Iowa, because there wasn’t a need for a former marine sniper.

  Nic regretted putting her special skills on her résumé.“This is Rivers reporting in. I’m in position,” she said into her mic receiver.

  “Go ahead,” Sheriff Hamilton replied.

  The sheriff’s command post was on the opposite side of the house from her position. The abandoned truck made for a perfect spot. It was the right height from the bed to the roof, leaving her able to settle against the rusted frame and lean into her scope. And the huge, uncovered picture window at the back of the house gave her access to the hostage situation.

  Nic rattled off the position of each person in the room, the layout as far as she could see, and what the subject was doing. All info the sheriff expected, knowing he’d use it as he negotiated. Inside the house, the man lifted a bottle of liquor to his lips and guzzled. His actions tugged up the bottom of the shirt and revealed more surprises. “Male subject … Dusty is drinking. He’s carrying a twenty-gauge and has a nine-millimeter tucked in his pants’ waistband. Do you copy?”

  “Copy that, Rivers.”

  Before the sheriff’s link fully closed, Nic heard a fellow deputy’s protests in the background. He’d been harassing Hamilton to be allowed to talk to the target—his cousin—and was denied. In fact, Deputy Doug Walker had been ordered to leave the premises before Nic hiked off to grab her rifle and get into position. Walker swore up and down his cousin would never in a million years hurt his wife and kids. Never.

  Famous last words.

  Nic blew air between her puckered lips. Another disgruntled husband taking matters into his own hands. She ground her teeth, popping her jaw. Even at 500 yards away, she could sense the tension flowing from the man. The Leupold put her right there in the middle of the action, minus the noise.

  Dusty threw the now-empty bottle. His wife and kids recoiled; the younger of the bunch ducked her head into her mother’s neck. Words were exchanged between the adults; Dusty’s face turned a ripe shade of crimson. He waved the shotgun at the front of the house.

  Suddenly he jerked straight as a board and then rotated. An ugly scowl crossed his face as he stomped out of sight.

  “He’s left my visual.”

  “Stay steady. He’s probably answering the phone.”

  A bead of sweat slithered between Nic’s shoulder blades. More formed on her upper lip. She was roasting in full tactical gear. She should’ve set up the blind to protect her from the late September sun. But Hamilton worried the situation would escalate quickly, and he needed her on the rifle. The heat wave sweeping through Iowa hurled her back to the Afghan climate.

  Don’t go there, Nic. Focus on the target with the bottle.

  Target. Not Dusty. Old habits died hard. In the back of her mind, she knew that was a man inside the house, a father and husband with friends, family, and coworkers. But in the course of the day, maybe the week, he’d lost it and decided holding his family at gunpoint sounded like a good idea.

  She had to separate the situation from the personal aspect.

  Shut it down, Nic. You weren’t trained to sympathize with the targets. He’s pointing a gun at children, endangering their lives. And that makes him a threat.

  The truck creaked under her as she shifted her weight. She needed to kneel. If she stood for too long her back would start cramping from the weight of the Remington and being in a bent position.

  Nic blew at a single stubborn strand of hair that had worked its way out from under her cap. How long had it been since the call came in? Two hours?

  She needed water. Where the hell was a spotter when she needed one?

  Inside the house, the wife’s head darted back and forth. She must be looking for a means of escape. Her desire was thwarted when the target returned to view, a cell phone pressed to his ear. Since Nic couldn’t hear the conversation, she assumed the sheriff had silenced his side of the comlink to keep her focused. The target pointed the shotgun at one of the kids.

  “Damn,” Nic muttered.

  His face graduated from dark red to purple dotted with white blotches. He pulled the cell away and screamed into the mouthpiece, then threw it at the window. The unit hit the glass, and a web of fractures blocked her view.

  “Shit!” Nic lifted her head. “Male subject has obstructed my visual. Moving to secondary position on the other side of the house.”

  “Move fast, Rivers. Situation is on a hair trigger.”

  Nic hoisted the Remington onto her shoulder. In her previous trek around t
he property to find the perfect shooting position, she’d managed to find a good backup. Hooking her rucksack on her elbow, she hopped out of the back of the truck and ran.

  The underbrush and brambles snagged at her pants. Recent rains had saturated the ground, and it squished under her boots. But nothing was stopping her. She wouldn’t lose an innocent on her watch.

  “Rivers, be advised, I’m attempting to make contact again.”

  “Copy.”

  Nic ducked under a tree and shuffled to the spot looking directly at three small windows on the east side of the house. Falling onto her kneepads, she removed the tripod from her rifle and prepped the weapon for a kneeling position.

  She brought her right knee up and planted her booted foot into the firmer soil. Bracing her right elbow on her thigh, she leveled the rifle at the window and adjusted her sights. Movement in A2—the first-floor second window—snagged her attention. Nic lined up with the window and saw the man. Her gut twisted. “Male subject spotted. He’s got the shotgun leveled.”

  “Rivers, stand by.”

  Deputy Walker’s fading hollers of protest rattled through Nic’s head. Oh hell! Sheriff Hamilton was thinking she’d have to put one in the subject.

  Focus, Nic. Counting to five, she slowed her breathing. Her focus zeroed in on the image in the scope. Detach. Her breathing now matched the pace of her pulse, slow and steady. Embrace the death. It’s a good kill.

  “Rivers, you’re clear to shoot. Do you copy?”

  “Copy.”

  Negotiations had broken down. Male subject was a risk. Nic’s finger curved around the trigger.

  A brilliant flash inside of the house made her blink.

  “Son of a bitch!” Hamilton’s exclamation hissed in her ear.

  The subject pumped the shotgun and lifted it. In that split second, from about 600 yards, Nic took the shot and neutralized the threat.

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