Page 12 of Ford

“Ten.”

He remembered ten. Brave, willful, but still a child inside. He’d been so impatient to catch up with his brothers—Reuben had been seventeen, driving, dating, playing football. Knox was riding bulls, Tate taking off for hours on his dirt bike. Wyatt, at twelve, already playing hockey for a traveling team, with thoughts of going pro.

Ford had wanted to prove to them he could be every inch a Marshall.

“Did they hurt you?” he asked, praying against the answer.

“No.”

Relief poured out in a gust. “I’ll get you home as soon as I can.”

“My papa will find us.” She nodded, so much faith in her words that he could be staring at Ruby Jane, so many years ago.

I knew you’d find us, Daddy.

“I hope so, honey.” Ford lay back.

“I don’t think you should go to sleep. I was scared that you wouldn’t wake up.”

Anastasia had a point. He knew about concussions, and with the world still spinning, he should probably sit up. If only fire didn’t engulf his entire body when he did.

Still, he forced himself up, gritting his teeth. A groan emerged.

“My papa says that when we’re afraid, we need to find things to be grateful for.”

“Really? Okay. ” He stared out into the horizon, the pitch of the sea, a deep blue against the mottled sky. “What are you grateful for?”

“Ice cream.”

Huh. “Me too.”

“And that I didn’t die.”

Yeah. Okay. “Ditto.”

“That you came for me, Mister.”

“It’s Ford. Petty Officer First Class Marshall.”

“Marshall Ford?”

“No, just Ford.”

“Why did you blow us up?”

Oh. “I didn’t want them to capture us.” There was more than that, like being made an example on the internet, for one. But he didn’t want to tell her that.

“They were bad men,” she said quietly.

“Yes, they were.”

“Are you sorry for killing them?”

He swallowed, blew out a breath. “I’m glad I got you out.”

She smiled at him, and it seemed the pain in his chest loosened a little.

“What are you grateful for?” she asked.