As he spoke he tapped an icon on his phone and pulled up a picture.

There was no way to tell much about the watcher, except the fact that it sure as hell wasn’t a poacher, hunter, or lone fisherman. The figure was dressed in black, with a black military face hood in place and dark glasses. Male or female, who the hell knew?

“Was it off the farm when you caught sight of it?” Graham asked.

“Naw, I saw the little critter just ahead of that outcropping of boulders up the ways a bit.” Elijah tapped the phone again to point out the fifth of a dozen cameras spread around the house. Five was just above the back of the house, the same side Graham’s bedroom was on.

“I’m confident you’ll track it down,” he murmured, glancing over at Lyrica.

Leaning against the counter, she watched them in amused interest, though the expression on her face was frankly skeptical. The last gurgle of the coffeemaker indicated the brew’s completion, prompting her to turn, fill three cups, then slide the pot back into place.

“Here, you two drink your coffee and talk about your ‘bovines’ in peace,” she said. “I figure they’re kind of like Dawg’s ‘cows’ when he doesn’t want Christa to know he and Natches are out checking for trespassers. The two-legged variety.”

“Huh?” Elijah turned back to her, frowning as though confused.

Lyrica only laughed. “Natches uses a similar expression whenever he’s lying through those disgustingly healthy teeth of his, Eli. Save it.”

“Those are his teeth?” Poor Elijah, she distracted him so easily, Graham thought in disgust. “He’s too old for teeth like that.”

“He’s forty-three, not fifty-three,” Lyrica laughed. “Now, Rowdy just hit forty-five. And those are indeed his natural teeth as well.”

Graham frowned. Elijah’s gaze flicked to those pretty, sun-kissed legs as she set the two cups on the table.

“Hell, none of them look forty,” Elijah said with a grunt as she moved back. “They’re aging well at least.”

“Let’s see if I let them live to see their next birthdays,” Lyrica suggested, her smile tight as she turned away from them, collected her own coffee, and moved for the doorway.

“Lyrica.” Graham watched as she tensed at the doorway before turning back to him.

“Yes, Graham?” The saccharine sweetness of her smile didn’t fool him in the least.

“We’ll finish our discussion, soon.”

“Of course we will.” She shrugged as though not in the least concerned. “Until then, you have twenty-three hours.” Then she flashed Elijah a bright smile. “See you later, Eli. Tell Timothy and Dawg I said hey when you see them later.”

She left the room, the little skirt flirting just below her thighs as she turned the corner and headed back through the house.

As Elijah turned, his arched brows and the grin on his lips assured Graham that the other man found the situation immensely funny.

“Poor Graham,” he murmured.

Bracing his elbows on the table, Graham directed a focused, narrow-eyed look on the younger man. “You have something to say?”

“An observation, perhaps,” Elijah murmured.

“And that would be?” Graham doubted he really wanted to hear it.

“You obviously have twenty-three hours to fix the situation or she’s leaving.” Leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest, Elijah watched him knowingly.

“So?”

He shook his head pityingly. “Or twenty-three hours to give her a reason to hope it takes her brother a while to figure this mess out.” Dropping his arms, he rose to his feet, his gaze flashing with something more than pity as the amusement dropped away. “If you don’t want her, Graham, let her go—give someone else a chance to make her happy. Or finish what you started and see what you’ll be throwing away when it’s over. If you let her go now, she might have a chance of finding happiness later. That would be the humane way to handle this.”

Graham rose slowly to his feet. “Interested, Elijah?” he asked softly, his fingers curling into fists at his sides at the very thought of the bastard touching her.

“Not me.” His smile was hard, cold then. “I like living too much. But I’m sure there’s a nice, safe accountant, manager, or, hell, landscaper who could be. Give one of them a chance.”

Pulling the door open with a jerk, Elijah left the kitchen, the door closing just a little too loudly behind him.

Graham cursed.

The bastard.

Elijah had worked undercover in all three areas before coming to Somerset. Accountant, manager, or landscaper his ass. Graham would shoot him first.

But he had a point. Maybe the deadline wasn’t a deadline for her brother, but one for him.

Lyrica Mackay wasn’t nearly as maneuverable as she let her brother and cousins believe she was, he thought with a heavy sigh. Nor was she willing to give him time to find the self-control he needed to make sure her heart wasn’t shattered when this was over.

She was nothing like Betts.

The thought caught him so completely off guard that for a moment he was back there. The sun beating down on his desert helmet, attacking the dark sunglasses he wore as the military convoy dropped into base.

The four-man unit he was scheduled to take into the mountains above Kabul was in that convoy, he knew. His men were assembled, their gear ready for a week-long trek into territory sure to test the luck they’d held on to for months when it came to serious wounds or fatalities.

Then his third man turned and reached into the vehicle, and a second later Graham had kissed that lucky streak good-bye as the soldier helped a lone female from the truck.

Betts Laren. Delicate and black haired, though the shining cap was cut to frame her pixieish face rather than falling down her back. Her lashes weren’t as thick and lush as Lyrica’s, her slender body more compact than fragile, her eyes a softer green. But she’d relieved the lust he couldn’t seem to get a handle on where thoughts of the third Mackay sister were concerned.

The army intelligence officer was fearless and charming, and she’d fooled him in ways he’d never believed a woman could fool him.

Shaking his head, he stalked to the door and opened it, stepping out to the shaded porch to draw in the scent of Kentucky warmth as the memory of the smell of death began to fill his head.

He’d kept from touching Lyrica for two fucking days. Hellish days. He was so damned hard, so ready to fuck, it was all he could do to keep from throwing her over the table when Elijah flirted with her outrageously.

He’d known he wasn’t going to last much longer when he’d forced himself from the bed that morning. But he’d managed to get a handle on it, to push back the extremity of his lust. If he could detach himself from his need just a little more, then he could take her again and trust his ability to still think straight.

He would be able to still the hunger just a little while; keeping her heart from becoming more involved, perhaps. He didn’t want to hurt Lyrica.

There was no doubt he already trusted her. Lyrica didn’t balk at telling him exactly what was on her mind at any given time. And when she did, he always sensed it.

But he wasn’t a safe bet for her. He wasn’t a safe bet for any woman. His secrets were dangerous, and the chances of their resurrection far too probable. The only question was when.

He frowned, wondering . . .

Not possible; he shook the thought away. That particular secret still lay in a coma in a French hospital. He knew. He checked daily. And he lived with the knowledge that he’d jeopardized his own future when he hadn’t killed the man when he had the chance.

—

Breathing out a sigh of relief that Graham had left the kitchen, Lyrica stepped back inside to refresh her coffee and snag one of the prepared sandwiches Graham and Kye usually kept in the fridge for lunch.

Neither of them was big on cooking, Kye had laughed as she’d looked over the selection of sandwiches. So twice a week, one of them would put together the sandwiches, wrap them, and place them in the crisper.