Mary nodded and maneuvered her wheelchair toward the ramp with easy grace. Bert watched her ascend it, noting the strength in her arms and the way she navigated the incline without hesitation. She was accomplished and clearly determined that everyone knew it.
Mary rolled through after Logan, and Bert hung back, watching them disappear into the building. Sisco and Devlin were already heading back toward the headquarters structure.
“Damn, she’s a pretty one,” Sisco said, his voice carrying back to Bert.
“If she’s half as efficient as what Logan said the colonel told him, she’ll be a welcome addition,” Devlin enthused.
Bert stood alone for a moment, staring at the closed door of the office building, the afternoon sun warm on his shoulders. Something had shifted in the past five minutes that he couldn’t quite name but felt nonetheless. He’d come to Montana to build a new life, to find purpose after the Navy.
The familiar weight of his tactical awareness settled over him… all the calculations that used to keep people alive in combat zones.
Except there were no threats here. Just a woman in a wheelchair who’d handled her arrival with the kind of quiet competence Bert recognized from his best teammates. The ones who didn’t need to announce their capabilities, who simply demonstrated them through action.
He’d watched her maneuver that wheelchair with the same practiced efficiency he’d seen in operators handling their weapons. There was no wasted movement, and she exuded confidence in the equipment and total awareness of her environment. She’d known exactly how much space she needed, exactly how to position herself, and exactly when to engage and when to observe.
That took training. Discipline. The kind of mental toughness that didn’t come naturally but was forged through adversity and refusing to quit.
Bert recognized it because he’d lived it. His hearing loss had forced him to develop new ways of operating and new strategies for navigating a world that wasn’t designed for his limitations. He’d learned to position himself strategically in conversations, to read lips, to use visual cues to compensate for what his damaged ear couldn’t detect.
Maybe that was what had knocked him sideways about Mary Smithwick. Not just that she was beautiful in a way that made his chest tight and his thoughts scatter. But that she carried herself like someone who’d faced hard things and refused to let them define her limits.
Like someone who understood that strength came in many forms.
Bert’s jaw tightened as he forced himself to turn away from the office building. He had equipment manifests to finish, storage to organize, and weapons systems to catalog. All the detailed, meticulous work that kept operations running smoothly. The kind of work that had been his salvation after the explosion that ended his field career, and he was still an integral part of something that mattered.
If Logan hired Mary Smithwick, and Bert had a feeling he would, then they’d be working side by side—every day. And any attraction he felt for her would need to be kept closely guarded so it wouldn’t impede their working relationship or the business Logan was building.
As Bert descended into the cool shadows of the underground facility, he couldn’t quite shake the memory of blue eyes and a firm handshake and the strange certainty that his carefully ordered life was about to get a lot more complicated.
But maybe, after a couple of years of feeling like he was just going through the motions, complicated was exactly what he needed to feel more alive.
4
One Year Ago
Mary gripped the steering wheel of her accessible van, her knuckles white as she turned off the highway onto the two-lane road that would take her deeper into Montana’s backcountry. The mountains rose ahead of her like old friends welcoming her home, their peaks still dusted with snow despite the warmth in the valleys below.
Back home.
The thought whispered through her mind, and she let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Ever since the accident that had changed everything, the time spent in rehabilitation facilities and adaptive equipment training, she’d grown tired of well-meaning therapists telling her she needed to “adjust her expectations.” And now, finally, she was back where she belonged. Not just visiting family, but hopefully employed in a career she craved being a part of.
The landscape rolled past her windows in waves of gold and green, dotted with dark stands of evergreens that covered the hillsides toward the mountains. Open country. The kind of space that made you remember how small you were and somehow made you feel larger at the same time. She’d grown up about an hour from here, on a small ranch where she’d learned to ride before she could properly read. Her childhood had been filled with the smell of hay and leather, the sound of wind through prairie grass, and the endless Montana sky stretching overhead.
She’d joined the Navy to see the world, to prove she was more than just a ranch girl from a tiny town. And she had. She’d excelled in logistics, rising through the ranks, earning respect and responsibility. She’d been good at what she did. No… I was fucking excellent at what I did.
Until a distracted driver ran a red light on base and turned her life inside out.
Mary’s hands tightened on the wheel again, her jaw clenching. She forced herself to breathe, to release the anger that still flared up at unexpected moments. The accident that caused the incomplete spinal cord injury at the T12-L1 junction, which had stolen the use of her legs, wasn’t her fault. But it had still happened. And she’d had to learn to live with it.
The GPS on her phone chirped, indicating her turn was coming up. Mary slowed, spotting the entrance to what the map labeled simply as “Bishop Property.” A security camera was mounted on a post near the gate, discreet but visible to anyone who knew to look for it.
As she approached, the gate swung open smoothly. Logan Bishop must have been watching. She’d been clear with him on the phone about her requirements for this interview, and apparently, he’d taken her seriously. That was another good sign. Too many people heard “wheelchair” and immediately decided they needed to help, to manage, to take over. She’d learned early on to be direct about her boundaries.
“If you’re going to hire me, you need to see what it’s really like. No special accommodations. No extra assistance. Just me, doing the job,” she told him.
Logan had agreed without hesitation. “Fair enough, Ms. Smithwick. We’ll see you Tuesday at eleven hundred hours.”
Military time. Military directness. She’d appreciated that.