The time he’d spent in the military had left a lasting effect. He assessed his surroundings, listening for what had awakened him. He heard it again. Crying. Who? Erin. She never cried. Even as a kid. It was one of the things he’d always remembered about her. With Stoner in her face, she’d been dry-eyed and defiant, as tough and hardheaded as any of the Richardsons. Sam bolted out of bed, snatched a pair of sweat pants over his boxers, which were already a concession to having a female in the house, and padded silently along the hallway. She lay on the couch, curled on her side toward the woodstove. He started to say something to her, then realized she still slept. He approached her cautiously. God, when had he ever approached Erin with anything but caution? He squatted next to her. “Don’t hurt them,” she mumbled. “Not Matty!” “Erin,” he coaxed. “Come on, baby, wake up. You’re having a nightmare.”
