Free Point of No Return by Susan May Warren Page A

Well, he might find out on the news, or perhaps through one of his father’s old chums. But drop everything, his career, even his life?
    No, he hadn’t deserved a friend like Mae. As she sat in the darkness, a silhouette of resolve, he knew that much.
    He should have given back to her at least what she’d given him.
    Trust.

FIVE
    Y ou’re the one with the selective amnesia.
    She wiped her cheek with the back of her hand, watching Chet in the dappled moonlight. He’d dropped off to sleep in roughly a millisecond.
    She didn’t have a prayer of sleeping. Not with his words ricocheting through her head.
    Selective amnesia?
    Hardly.
    She had his letters practically memorized—every lying, deceitful word. I was hoping we could build a life… She’d looked it up when she returned from Moscow, after Gracie’s wedding empty-handed, her future like a wind sock on a lifeless day, limp and dead. Yes, he’d written that. Twice, in fact.
    The first time he’d written that, she’d attributed his words to heavy pain meds. After all, that particular letter had arrived shortly after David Curtiss had, under duress and to keep his cover, put a gun to Chet and shot him clear through his gut. But he’d written those words again after he’d emerged from deep cover.
    When he decided to move to Prague.
    So, what exactly had happened?
    Priorities. His own company, on his terms. She’drealized right after he’d told her she couldn’t be on his team that she probably didn’t know him at all.
    And he’d proven that with his announcement in the truck. He wasn’t here for Josh or her. He wanted to save the world, be some sort of international hero, whatever it took and whoever he ran over.
    She leaned back against the trunk, her eyes to the heavens. Why, Lord, was it so hard for her to let go of this man? Clearly he wasn’t the person she’d fallen for in Seattle, or even the man she’d met in his letters.
    Folding her hands, she shivered as the night closed in around them. If only the spongy forest floor didn’t offer such a compelling enticement to curl up in the loam and let fatigue wash over her. She exhaled a long breath…
    â€œStop! No!”
    Mae jerked awake.
    â€œNo!” Beside her, Chet thrashed against his dreams.
    Shoot. After all her bravado, she’d fallen asleep. The sky had just begun to wax gray, blotting out the stars, dawn just below the horizon.
    He cried out again and she pressed her hand to his chest. “Chet, wake up.”
    Something had a hold on him, something violent and agonizing, and it shook him underneath his blanket.
    â€œChet!”
    He woke with a start, blue eyes wide, looking at her but not seeing.
    â€œIt’s me, Mae. You were having a nightmare.”
    He shuddered out a breath. He still didn’t seem to see her.
    â€œChet.” She ran her hand down his face, over the stubble of whiskers. “Wake up.”
    He curled his fingers around her wrist, turning his face into her hand.
    She froze. “Chet, wake up.”
    Perhaps her tone, rich with shock, and too much longing, brought him to himself. He blinked, and then his eyes found hers. “Mae?”
    â€œYou had a nightmare.” She gently pulled her wrist from his grasp, hoping he didn’t remember that part.
    He sat up, the blanket fell, and he shook, running his hands down his face.
    Oh, Chet. He fought wars even in his sleep. He lifted his face, and even in the wan light she made out fatigue, a press of sorrow in his eyes.
    â€œDo you want to talk about it?” she asked softly.
    He didn’t look at her. “Is it my watch?”
    Okay, so they weren’t going to talk about the demon that had him thrashing about, screaming in the leaves. His words swept fatigued tears into her eyes.
    â€œI think it’s time to go. It’s almost light out, and we probably need to figure out where we are.”
    He