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desperate, more in control. She wanted to look like anything except what she was—on the run.
    Taking a deep breath, she said, “I need your help, Mr. Gabriel.”
    “If you’d come for help, you could’ve said something when you walked in.” Retrieving her coat and purse from the barstool, he held them out to her. “And if it’s a donation you want, you’re out of luck. I really am broke.”
    Emily stood her ground, meeting his hard gaze without flinching. She slipped a hand into the pocket of her habit and touched the dog tag. The tag was her proof, but caution kept her from showing it yet or telling him that Patrick was dead. Promises to dead men were easy to ignore.
    And there was always the chance he’d want revenge. Revenge wouldn’t bring Patrick back or keep her safe. So she told only the beginning of the truth.
    “Patrick Talbot sent me.”
    Every hair on the back of Gabe’s neck stood up at the name from his past. He let the coat and purse slide out of his hand and back onto the stool. “What are you talking about?”
    “Patrick sent me,” she assured him, her voice stronger. “He just didn’t tell me Christian Gabriel was the bartender. And you don’t look like your picture.”
    As he listened, Gabe felt the urge to swear. His old SEAL buddy was one of the few people who knew his full name or his retirement address. He owed Patrick.
    Patrick sent a nun?
Yeah, well … she didn’t
feel
like a nun, and Gabe was an expert on nuns. More than anything else, she felt like one of Patrick’s infamous practical jokes.
    “The name’s Gabe.” He closed the distance between them, towering over her once more. “Exactly what kind of help do you need, Sister?”
    “I need to disappear.”
    Calmly Gabe waited for a laugh and a “gotcha” that never came. He waited for her to pull off the veil and grin. She didn’t. The woman in front of him seemed small and frightened, not bursting with a need to spring the punch line.
    Gabe frowned, his suspicions working overtime. He studied her for a moment, taking note of the shadows beneath her eyes and the way she leaned against the chair as if she was going to fall down any minute. Not that she would—he also noted the way her chin rose a notch.
    Softly he said, “
Patrick
is the U.S. marshal—not me. Making people disappear is his job.”
    “He can’t help me.”
    “Why not?”
    “Trust me. Patrick can’t help me,” Emily repeated dully.
    “How can you be so sure?”
    Because he already died trying to protect me
.
    Before she found a better answer, one of the small windows across the front of the bar exploded inward. Shattered glass flew in all directions. Emily froze in horror, but Gabe reacted.
    He grabbed her and dove for the floor, rolling untilthey were away from the flying glass. His body formed a shield for hers. Emily fought to slow the beating of her heart which thumped hard in her chest as adrenaline-charged blood pounded through her body and roared in her ears. She didn’t realize she was clutching Gabe’s shoulders until he rose up slowly, head turned toward the door as if he might go and investigate.
    “Don’t,” she heard herself whisper in a broken voice she hardly recognized as her own. Emily was scared she’d been found, scared someone else was going to be killed protecting her, scared she’d spend the rest of her life feeling this way. “Don’t go out there.”
    Surprisingly gentle Gabe pulled away and drew her up on her knees. He picked up her glasses, which had flown off, and pressed them into her hand. “I’m not going anywhere, but I want you to get behind the bar and stay there. Before anything else happens. And stay down.”
    She nodded and did what he said, scooting behind the bar and folding herself into a very small ball in the corner—between the big aluminum beer cooler and the wall.
    “Please, God, not again. Please, God, not again.” Over and over she repeated the short prayer. Bits and pieces of what