Then she saw him.

Nathan Walker. Forty-five years old. Six-foot-four. Broad shoulders, muscular arms, dark hair, and that thick beard she remembered far better than she probably should have. The same man she'd said goodbye to less than twenty-four hours ago.

He was sitting comfortably on her father's couch, wearing a plain dark T-shirt and jeans, one arm resting along the back of the sofa. A bottle of beer sat in his hand.

Her father was standing beside him, completely oblivious to the fact that his daughter had just recognized the man she'd never expected to see again.