thirty some odd years."
"Do they live here?"
"They share a smaller house on the west end of the property. They've been roommates for a long time."
She didn't miss the way he said roommates and simply rolled her eyes. "Roommates? Is that really how you're going to play that one, Niall?"
"That's the way they describe their arrangement. Far be it from me to label them. Besides, it's probably a good idea to keep up that charade considering the way small towns work. Rumor is one thing. Confirmation is a whole other beast."
Cruz didn't want to get into a discussion of small town politics so she let the subject drop. Her stomach pitched with hunger when Niall slid a steaming hot plate of eggs, ham and biscuits in front of her. She wasted no time tucking into her breakfast. Niall plunked down a glass of orange juice near her plate before moving to his place on the other side of the table.
"This isn't ideal, Cruz. I realize my place isn't some cushy five-star hotel, but it's the best you're going to get. Better adjust your expectations and make the best of it." He picked up his fork and stabbed some scrambled eggs. "I'm not going to kid you, Cruz. This won't be easy."
4 Chapter Four
Niall dove behind a crumbling stone wall and crouched low to avoid the bullets snapping overhead. He grimaced at the sharp pain stabbing his side and placed his palm over the area. His hand came away bright red, the metallic scent of his blood filling his nose and making his stomach roil. Ignoring his injury, he cast a glance over his shoulder and prepared to bark orders to his men.
But there was no one there. He spun around, his knees digging into the hard ground, and searched almost frantically for his team. Carlos, Lefty, Griff, Jack—not a damn one of them was in sight. He swore angrily and reached for the radio mic at his throat. His fingers felt only sweat-slicked skin. He scratched at his neck and touched his ear. Both the mic and earpiece of his radio were gone.
Panic gripped his chest. Pinned down and cut off from his team, Niall's options were few. He reached for his weapon but grasped only air. His eyes widened at the realization his rifle had vanished. What the hell?
The growing whine of an incoming mortar round tore his attention away from the inexplicable disappearance of his weapon. He shielded the back of his neck and pushed tight against the wall for protection. The explosion rocked him off his feet. Before he recovered, the whine began again. A never-ending barrage of mortars threatened his position. He had to move.
As chunks of stone and dirt pelted him, Niall skittered along the wall in search of safety. Louder and louder, faster and faster, the mortars fell closer and closer. One hit too close and suddenly he was airborne…
Niall jerked awake. He sucked in a long, deep breath. His lungs expanded painfully. Dizzy and shaking, he slowly became aware of his surroundings. Somehow he'd ended up on the floor of his bedroom. His trembling hand tapped the wood floor around him. He'd learned the hard way that sometimes he'd break light bulbs or picture frame glass in the throes of his nightmares.
His fingers found the bedside table and lamp. Both were inches from his body and on their sides. His cheek and chin ached. He'd probably taken out both bits of furniture with his face when he fell out of his bed. His alarm clock rested nearby. It was nearly three in the morning. Niall panted and squeezed his eyes in a desperate attempt to slow the spinning, out of control feeling.
And then he heard the hesitant rapping at his door.
"Niall?" Cruz's worried voice carried through the wood. "Are you okay?"
"Go back to bed." His throat burned when he spoke. He'd been screaming again.
"Niall, I can help. Just open the door—"
"Damn it, Cruz, I don't want your help!" He lashed out in anger and humiliation. "Just get back in bed where you belong."
Her hurried footsteps retreated from the door. There was a squeal and a slam before the