You have a wife waiting for you to come home.

If the rescue and his triage and initial medical assessment at Kandahar had been a blur, the next twenty-four hours and the subsequent flight home felt as though someone else had lived them.

But he sat up in his hospital bed and went through the motions, shaking hands with the members of the team who had accompanied him to Texas and had crowded into the room to wish him well and tell him good-bye.

Their names he would always remember. Those men had risked their lives for him, and he had no idea on earth how he could repay them. He’d said his good-byes and given his thanks to Jones, Reed, Green, Mendoza, and Coulter in Kandahar, grateful to know that they would personally escort Rabia and her father quietly to Kabul, then head home from there.

Cooper, Taggart, Carlyle, Santos, Waldrop, and the Brown brothers, Mike and Ty, stood back as Nate Black extended his hand.

“Good luck, Albert. Proud to know you.”

“Thank you, sir.” He clasped Black’s hand firmly in both of his before letting go. “That goes both ways.”

“I’m sure you’ll be briefed after the doctors clear it,” Black went on, “but I want to assure you again that the lid’s on tight. No one’s going to get word that you’re back. Not from the military. Not from our end. Two people know. Your brother and your wife. How you handle it on your end is up to you. Mr. Kakar and his daughter are safe with their family in Kabul. No one will know of their connection in any aspect of the operation or of the aid they provided you—which, in a way, is unfortunate, as this country owes them a great debt.”

“The best way to repay them,” he said somberly, “is, as we discussed, never to acknowledge their existence.”

How strange that it was so easy to say those words, when everything in him wanted to reach out to Rabia. To talk to her. To know that she was safe.

To touch her. To see her face.

“Good luck, son.” Black’s voice brought him back to his new reality. To a world and a life that, ultimately, was as foreign as the life he’d just left.

NATE HAD A buddy he wanted to catch up with in San Antonio, and when the rest of the team decided to find a local watering hole and have a quick beer, Ty begged off.

“You guys go ahead,” he said. “I’ve got to make a few calls. I’ll meet up with you at the airfield.”

Mike hung behind, his eyes full of concern. “You’re waiting for Jess.”

“Yeah,” Ty admitted. It would be pointless to lie to his brother. “I’m waiting for Jess.”

“And then what?” Mike asked as the guys stood at the end of the hall, holding the elevator and waiting for him. “Why torture yourself?”

“Go,” Ty said, understanding that Mike was worried about him. “I’ll be fine.”

Only he wasn’t fine. He was never going to be fine again.

Mike gave him a hard stare, then lifted a hand in surrender. “Call if you need me.”

Ty nodded and watched Mike walk away.

He thought about going in to talk to Albert. And say what? Hey, man. Glad you’re home safe. And by the way, I’m in love with your wife.

Yeah, that would be a real stand-up thing to do. Hit the man while he was down. Albert didn’t even remember Jess. He didn’t remember anything about his life before he was captured. How could a man forget a woman like Jess?

By going through hell. By suffering untold horrors.

That could have been him… or a thousand other men or women who’d gone off to war. Any one of them risked being killed or captured every time they signed up for service. How would he feel if he’d lived through that kind of mental and physical terror, if everything in his life had been taken away from him for more than three years, and then come home to hear the news that, oh, yeah, by the way, your wife is in love with another man and had planned to marry him until you showed up and screwed it all up.

He had to let it go. He had to let her go.

Mike was right. He shouldn’t be here.

He headed down the hall toward the elevator and had almost reached the nurse’s station when he heard her voice.

Jess. Asking for J.R. Albert’s room.

Oh, God. He wanted to see her.

He couldn’t see her.

He ducked quickly into the men’s restroom and held the door open a crack so he could see the hallway.

Brad walked by first. Looking big and happy and anxious.

Jess followed. Slower, hesitant, brave.

Seeing her face, the uncertainty, the guarded hope, and the pain in her eyes, was all it took to make him realize he couldn’t go to her. Not without hurting her more. Not and still be the man he’d been raised to be.

He had no place in her life now.

So he left without saying hello.

Without saying good-bye one last time.

IT FELT ODD walking into Brooke Army Medical Center for more reasons than one. Womack, the Army medical center at Fort Bragg, was the last hospital where Jess had worked as a nurse. Brooke very much reminded her of Womack—except on a larger scale. And it was at Bragg that she’d last seen J.R. It was at Womack, while on shift, where she’d been told he was dead.

“Mrs. Albert?”

Jess swung around to see a doctor walking toward her, his white coat flapping around his legs as he rushed down the hospital hall just as she and Brad were about to walk into J.R.’s room.

“Mrs. Albert?” he asked again with a lift of his brows when he’d caught up with her.

“Yes. I’m Jess Albert.”

“I’m Dr. Jasper. I’m overseeing Jeff’s care.”

He extended his hand, and Jess shook it. “This is J.R.’s—” She stopped, corrected herself. Only family and friends at home knew him as J.R. “Jeff’s brother, Brad.”

The two men shook hands.

“I wanted to catch you before you went in to see your husband. Do you mind? Can we talk a bit first? We can use the waiting room down the hall.”

She looked at Brad, who nodded, and they followed the doctor toward the waiting room. Jasper looked to be in his mid- to late fifties. He was trim and fit and reminded her a little bit of Tommy Lee Jones.

“Has anyone briefed you about Jeff’s condition?” Jasper asked after they’d found a quiet corner in the waiting room.

Jess shook her head. “Not yet, no. I know only that he has multiple medical issues that need to be addressed. And that I need to be prepared because he’s lost a lot of weight.”

Jasper offered a kind smile. “That’s true. He has lost weight. When he arrived, it was immediately clear that Jeff suffers from severe malnutrition. According to his military records, his weight upon arrival in Afghanistan was two hundred pounds. He’s now down to one hundred thirty.”

Jess sucked in a breath. Beside her, Brad swore softly.

“He’s lost a great deal of muscle mass, and his metabolism has been damaged by chronic malnutrition—basically, a starvation diet. The NATO medical facility in Kandahar did a triage of sorts, stabilized him, and sent along their findings, but we’re still in the midst of a more thorough physical and mental evaluation. We’ll know better how to help him with his issues as more test results come in.

“In the meantime,” Dr. Jasper went on, “what we’re trying to do is replace what we can with IV fluids and medications and work to get him eating right again. We’ll have to do this slowly so as to not cause more damage to his system.”

“But he’ll recover from that, right?” Brad asked.

“In time, yes.” Jasper nodded. “Unfortunately, there are certain conditions he won’t recover from. Jeff suffered a detached retina in his right eye. Had he had medical assistance available immediately, it could have been treated. Since it wasn’t, unfortunately, the blindness in that eye appears permanent. Of course, we’re consulting with our best ophthalmologists, and their assessment is not yet complete, but in situations such as these, the sooner medical treatment is given, the better the chances for recovery.”

“So you’re saying there’s little chance he’ll regain his sight in that eye,” Jess said shakily.

“Unfortunately, that’s correct. I’m sorry. But we’ll wait for the final word before we assume the worst.”

“His other eye. It’s OK?” Brad sounded anxious.

“Perfectly fine. He’s already adjusted remarkably, considering the circumstances.”

“What else?” Jess needed to know.

“At some point—at least three years ago, according to the X-rays—Jeff incurred a broken left tibia.”

“Tibia?” Brad scowled.

“The main bone in his shin,” Jess explained, interrupting Jasper’s reply. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt. I’m a nurse, Dr. Jasper. The last place I worked was Womack.”

“Well, that’s great news for Jeff.” Jasper smiled kindly, then went on. “The bone was never set; consequently, that leg causes him a deal of pain. There’s also a loss of function in that extremity. It’s not life-threatening, but it will have to be dealt with later, most likely with surgery. The concern is that he’s currently not strong enough to tolerate the procedure, so we will have to wait until he’s recovered some of this strength.”

Jess felt physically ill. Starvation. Detached retina. Broken bone. In an attack? During torture? She wanted to know. She didn’t want to know. “What… what else is he dealing with?”

Again, Dr. Jasper smiled gently. “Another concern is his diagnosis of positional vertigo. He’s fine unless he moves his head the wrong way or he’s jostled, and then it manifests itself. His vertigo is most probably a result of a traumatic brain injury. A blow or several severe blows to the head,” he clarified when Brad looked puzzled. “The TBI also causes him intense headaches. There are several good noninvasive treatments including physical therapy and medications that can help treat both the vertigo and the headaches. We’re conducting a complete neurological workup to find out exactly what we’re dealing with. The good news here is that they started him on medication in Kandahar, and he’s already seeing some relief on both counts, so that’s very positive.”

Jess nodded and attempted to smile at this bit of good news, but she suspected she hadn’t heard the worst of it yet.

“That’s the extent of his physical issues, although you must be prepared. He was tortured. He has scars from injuries that, fortunately, did not result in long-term health issues but will affect him emotionally for years to come.”

“PTSD,” Jess whispered, and closed her eyes. She’d been prepared for this diagnosis, but still a wave of nausea hit her.

“Yes, I would be very surprised if Jeff doesn’t exhibit some manifestation of post-traumatic stress disorder. Regardless, it’s going to be difficult for him to adjust to the real world again. Medications can help, if it’s determined that he needs them, but he will most likely require extensive therapy to regain some semblance of normality. We won’t know how much until we perform further evaluations. Which leads us to the final concern.” He faced Jess somberly. “Jeff’s memory has been affected by all he’s been through.”

“His memory?” Brad leaned forward in his chair. “What’s wrong with his memory?”

“Jeff advises us that it was only recently that he was able to recall his name, his unit and battalion, and what happened to him the night his team was attacked.”