He reached the scene of terror and chaos ahead of emergency responders and began snapping pictures, including the one that became iconic: Franklin Trapper, recently retired from the U.S. Army, emerging from the smoking building leading a pathetic group of dazed, scorched, bleeding, choking people, one child cradled in his arms, a woman holding onto his coattail, a man whose tibia had a compound fracture using him as a crutch.

The photographer, now deceased, had won a Pulitzer for his picture. The act of heroism he had captured on film immediately earned him and the photo immortality.

And, as Trapper well knew, immortality lasted for fucking ever.

The story behind the photograph and the people in it wouldn’t come to light until later, when those who were hospitalized were able to relate their individual accounts.

Though, by the time the tales were told, the Trappers’ front yard in suburban Dallas had become an encampment for media. The Major—as he came to be known—had been ordained a national symbol of bravery and self-sacrifice. For years following that day in 1992, he was a sought-after public speaker. He was given every honor and award there was to be bestowed, and many were initiated and named for him. He was invited to the White House by every subsequent administration. At state dinners he was introduced to visiting foreign dignitaries who paid homage to his courage.

Over time, new disasters produced new heroes. The fireman carrying the toddler from the Oklahoma City bombing overshadowed The Major’s celebrity for a time, but soon he was back on TV talk show guest lists and the after-dinner speaker’s circuit. September eleventh gave him a new slant to address: his random act of heroism compared to those performed every day by unsung heroes. For more than two decades he kept his story timely and relevant.

Then three years ago, he stopped cold turkey.

He now lived very privately, avoiding the limelight and refusing requests for public appearances and interviews.

But his legend lived on. Which was why journalists, biographers, and movie producers emerged now and again, seeking time with him to make their particular pitch. He never granted them that time.

Until today none had ever sought out Trapper’s help to gain access to his famous father.

Kerra Bailey’s audacity was galling enough. But damn her for snagging his interest with that remark about the magnifying glass. What could he possibly see in that photograph that he hadn’t seen ten thousand times?

He longed for a hot shower, an aspirin, his bed and soft pillow.

“Screw it.” He opened his desk’s lap drawer and, instead of reaching for the bottle of Bayer, searched all the way to the back of it and came up with the long-forgotten magnifying glass.

Four hours later, he was still in his desk chair, still reeking, head still aching, eyes still scratchy. But everything else had changed.

He set down the magnifier, pushed the fingers of both hands up through his hair, and held his head between his palms. “Son of a bitch.”

Chapter 2

It’s called Gringos, so you should fit right in.”

John Trapper’s remark had been snide, but after the terse phone call when he’d given Kerra a place and time to meet him, she dressed down, replacing the pantsuit she’d worn earlier to his office for a pair of jeans and a plaid wool poncho.

She hoped he would at least shower.

She arrived at the restaurant early, put her name on the wait list for a table, and claimed a stool at the bar where she had a view of the entrance. She hoped for an opportunity to observe him before he became aware of it.

But the instant he walked in, he homed in on her as though by radar with eyes that belonged in a spectrum of blue all their own. Electric. Like neon light. And when he looked at her, antagonism radiated from them.

The hostess greeted him. He gave her a slow grin and said something that made her giggle. She indicated Kerra. He nodded and walked toward her.

He had swapped the wrinkled suit pants he’d obviously slept in for a pair of jeans with knees almost worn completely through. The hems were stringy against the vamp of his cowboy boots. He had on a black leather jacket over a white western-cut shirt with pearl snaps instead of buttons. He wore the shirttail out.

When he reached her, he didn’t speak, just stood there looking down at her. He wasn’t clean-shaven, but he had showered. He smelled of soap. And leather. His dark hair was clean, but he hadn’t tried to tame its natural growth pattern. The thick swirls were as tousled as they had been this morning, and Kerra found herself thinking: Why mess with a good thing?

They continued to stare each other down until the bartender approached. “I’m fixin’ the lady a margarita rocks. How ’bout you, cowboy?”

“Dos Equis, please.”

“Want ’em brought to your table?”

Before she could reply, Trapper said, “That’d be great. Thanks.”

He wrapped his hand around Kerra’s elbow, hauled her up off the barstool, and propelled her toward the hostess, who was waiting with menus the size of overpass signs. She led them to a table for two.

“Do you have a booth?” Trapper asked. “Where we can hear ourselves think?” He gave her a wheedling smile, and she smiled back, and without delay they were led deeper into the restaurant where the lights were dimmer and the mariachi music wasn’t blaring.

Once they were seated across from each other, Kerra said, “Still hung over?”

“The beer should help.”

“Do you get drunk often?”

“Not near often enough.”

To avoid meeting his hostile gaze, Kerra looked around, taking in the strands of Christmas lights strung across the ceiling and trying to think of a topic of conversation neutral enough to alleviate the tension. “When did you move from Dallas to Fort Worth?”

“When Dallas got too far up its own ass.”

The topic wasn’t the problem, she decided. He was. Anything she said would rub him the wrong way. As soon as the cocktail waitress delivered their drinks, she figured she had just as well skip cordiality and get on with it. “You saw it?”

“I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

“Did you actually use a magnifying glass?”

Before he could answer, a waitress arrived with a basket of tortilla chips and a bowl of salsa. “Ready to order?”

Daunted by the scope of the menu, Kerra opened it and scanned the first page. “So many choices,” she murmured.

“You eat meat?”

He asked as though she would get demerits if she didn’t. She bobbed her head once.

He took her menu from her and handed it along with his to the waitress. “Double fajitas, half chicken, half beef, all the trimmings, split the tortillas fifty-fifty, and I want a side of beef enchiladas, chili on top. Queso’s okay, but don’t come near me with the ranchero.” Then he smiled at her, winked, and added, “Please.”

After the simpering waitress withdrew, he folded his forearms on the tabletop and leaned toward Kerra. No smile, no wink. “I want to know two things from you.”

“Only two?”

“Why’d you come to me?”

“The reason should be obvious. You’re his only living relative.”

“Well, what isn’t obvious, at least to you, is that I’m a dismal disappointment to him. If you’re thinking that my intervention on your behalf will make a dent, you’re sadly mistaken. In fact, my involvement would work against you.”

“That’s a chance I have to take. I don’t have a choice.”

“How’s that?”

“His property is posted. If I showed up on his doorstep unannounced and unaccompanied, he could have me arrested for trespassing before I even introduce myself. If you’re with me—”

“He’ll kick you off his place twice as fast.”

“He can’t. Your name is on the deed. When your mother died, her share bypassed him and went straight to you. You share ownership of the land.”

With anger, he plucked a chip from the basket, dunked it in the salsa, and popped it into his mouth, chewing as he studied her. “You did your homework.”

“You’re damn right I did.”

“By bringing your secret to light, what do you hope to achieve?”