Slowly she glanced up and met his eyes again. “Because you’re not the only one who cares, Brandt.”
“And that’s where it ends.”
“Does it?”
His eyes narrowed sharply. “What are you saying, Dalilah?”
“I don’t know what I’m saying.” But she did know—she was thinking beyond caring for him. She was thinking about the possibilities of acting on her affection. Of being with him beyond this mission.
He moistened his lips, a pain gleaming in his eyes, brief, then gone. He wiped his brow, fingered his gun.
“When I was twenty-one,” he said slowly, “just after I got out of the army—they had conscription back then in South Africa—I married the woman I loved. We had a son.”
Shock whispered through Dalilah—this she had not expected.
“What’s his name, Brandt? How old is he?”
“He’s dead.”
Double shock. Dalilah’s brain raced, a reticence to push further fighting with her now-intense curiosity.
“What happened?”
He checked his watch as if the time would miraculously give him a way out. He shifted his body on the sand, features tight. He was like a caged lion who couldn’t handle immobility, trapped with her questions in this cauldron of dust and heat.
She touched his hand. “It’s okay, I don’t need to know.”
He inhaled deeply. “His name was Stefaan, Stefaan after my father. A beautiful blond little boy, hair like white fluff—blue eyes.” His voice thickened, catching. His eyes were raw.
Emotion gripped Dalilah’s throat.
“He was two years old when he was mauled and killed by our dog.” Brandt looked away, getting a grip on himself. “It was my fault. I left the two of them alone in the garden for one second—went in the house to get lemonade for Stefaan.” His voice was flat now, empty. “Yolanda, my wife, blamed me for it. We ended up in different rooms, different beds. She wouldn’t—couldn’t—look me in the eyes. Sometimes I’d feel her watching me, though, and I’d turn, and recognize pure hatred on her face.” He inhaled, blew out a long, slow breath, wiping sweat from his brow again.
“She was in pain. We both were. Yolanda looked to my older brother for comfort. Pieter.” His jaw tightened around the name. “Pieter had always had a thing for Yolanda, and he stepped in and took on the role of comforting her. And sleeping with her.” He paused, a long while. “He shot the dog.”
Words defied Dalilah. But she suddenly understood Brandt wholly, the bitterness. The issues with promise and commitment.
“It was my damn dog,” he said very quietly. “A Staffie cross, russet coat. I found him living wild in the bush when I was stationed up at Caprivi. I sneaked him home, named him Jock.” He made a wry smile. “Like the old story we all read as kids, Jock of the Bushveld. Do you know it?”
She shook her head.
“Written by Sir James Percy Fitzpatrick in the 1800s, a true story about his travels across the veldt with his dog. Jock’s become part of South African culture. My Jock was a good dog—I thought he was fine with kids. Until that day. I still don’t know what set him off. Maybe Stefaan just got in his space.”
She touched his arm, gently. His skin was hot. He stared at her hand.
“Brandt, I’m so sorry. You should have been able to grieve together—”
“Damn right.” He ground out the words. “I figure she’d have eventually cuckolded me with that brother of mine. Losing our son was a catalyst—gave him opportunity.”
The wind rose, dust picking up in small dervishes.
“Is that when you joined the FDS, after your marriage fell apart?”
“Yeah. Buried my boy. Buried the dog. Sold the farm. Got as far away as possible. I worked with men who understood loyalty. And I earned good money, played too hard, didn’t think too much.”
“Except for the photos.”
His eyes shot to hers. But he said nothing.
“And then you met someone else?”
He snorted softly. “Carla. Daughter of a Nicaraguan police chief. He had a big drug crackdown looming, a battle with a cartel leader whose son his daughter had started seeing. He wanted me to get her away and keep her away—he expected bloodshed and retaliation, and he figured the cartel would use his daughter to get to him. My job was to abduct her and hide her, protect her. It was a mission that took months. She was beautiful—dark hair, smoky eyes, dusky skin, body to die for. She pushed all my buttons.” He glanced her way. “You remind me of her.”
Dalilah swallowed, another puzzle piece clicking into place—his conflict over her, his brusqueness when they’d first met.