by Layla Chase
Text copyright ©2017 by the Author.
This work was made possible by a special license through the Kindle Worlds publishing program and has not necessarily been reviewed by Twisted Page Inc.. All characters, scenes, events, plots and related elements appearing in the original Brotherhood Protectors remain the exclusive copyrighted and/or trademarked property of Twisted Page Inc., or their affiliates or licensors.
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RANGER IN CHARGE
A Brotherhood Protectors
Kindle Worlds Novella
By
Layla Chase
Chapter One
“Esteemed members of the…um, too stuffy.” Caitlyn crossed the tapestry rug of her apartment living room, head down and fingers linked behind her back. “Respected members of the Senate sub-committee…is that the right title?” Shaking her head, she swung her arms across her body to enliven her over-tired brain. “I need to get the tone just right. Don’t want to offend anyone before I even start.” Turning, she braced her hands on the front window ledge and gazed at the twinkling skyscraper lights of Minneapolis across the Mississippi River.
Tossing back her head, she clenched her fists and kicked the base of the couch. “Ergh.” So much is at stake. Then she flopped back on her comfy sofa. On the low table in front of her sat two laptops with tilted screens displaying charts and tables. Next to them balanced a stack of overlapping open binders. Pulling the silver laptop into her lap, she scanned the text on the screen, lips moving as she read through what she had prepared so far.
The testimony scheduled in two weeks was essential for the continuation of the Bridging Veterans Foundation’s grant. When the family-run foundation was originally funded five years ago, her father, Brady Auliffe, handled the formal presentation. She leaned back her head and stared at the ceiling, fighting the burning sensation attacking the backs of her eyes. But this year, she had no choice but to add public spokesperson to her duties as clinical research coordinator. Treatments for prostate cancer had sidelined her dad for a while. Right now, she didn’t want him to be distracted from anything other than maintaining his health.
A black window slid into the lower right of her screen, and she tensed until she spotted her youngest cousin’s name on an arriving email. Then she let out a relieved breath. Clicking the icon for her email program, she grinned at the crazy parade of emojis on the first line of Jude’s message containing a wine bottle, horse, mountains, tree, flower, dog, cat, telescope, pool, and a microphone. What was this about?
I called but got a disconnect message. You changed your phone number AGAIN? After only two weeks? What’s up? Sure you can’t come for the three-day weekend? Last chance for the decent weather before fall sets in. Although some of the trees are already turning colors, and they are gorgeous. Great vistas for relaxing horseback rides and dreamy nights spent star-gazing in the hot tub. (Did I go overboard on using my marketing degree?) Just miss ya, cuz. Tilda and Malin send their love and remind you the gate is always open at Dream Vistas Ranch.
Not supposed to type this where the email could be snatched in cyber-space and sold to a gossip rag BUT we’re hosting the wedding of a star you’ve drooled over in the theater. WAAAH.
Smooches, J, followed by a cheesy grin emoji and kissy lips.
Caitlyn leaned back, closed her eyes, and sighed. The image of Dream Vistas, the stone-fronted log cabin flanked on three sides by a windbreak of evergreen trees, materialized behind her eyelids. Craggy mountain peaks in the distance and acres of rolling Montana prairie disappearing into the foothills of the national forest. She pictured herself in the saddle atop a strong horse, losing herself in the motion of the powerful animal beneath her. Letting her hair stream behind as they rode so fast the grass underfoot became a golden blur. She nestled deeper into the couch, heat pooling low in her belly and her hips flexing like she matched a rhythmic gallop.
The entry buzzer sounded near her front door. Pulse racing, Caitlyn popped upright and blew out a breath. Blinking to reestablish her surroundings, she stood and hurried to the intercom. Her stomach rumbled, reminding her she’d been working on the presentation through both lunch and dinner. “Yes?”
“Delivery for apartment 306. That you?”
She rolled her eyes. If he punched 306, that’s who he got. “From what restaurant, please?” As she waited for confirmation, she leaned over to the small wooden table and grabbed her wallet and keys.
“Yeah from Dragon Garden.”
“Be right down.” Next to the intercom hung the number pad for her security system, and she keyed in the five-digit code. Figuring she needed the exercise, she bypassed the elevator and dashed down two flights of stairs to the building’s foyer.
On the other side of the keyed entry glass door stood a guy in a bright yellow silky shirt with an embroidered red dragon over the red pocket. He lifted up the white sack. At the curb was parked a compact with a matching magnetic dragon sign on the door.
Everything looked right and normal. Caitlyn pressed a hip on the crash bar and shoved her stocking-clad foot into the opening. Cool night air washed up her leg. “I know the person on the phone told me, but I forgot. How much?”
The guy, who wore the beginnings of a baby moustache, glanced at the receipt. “Twelve seventeen.” His light eyebrows wrinkled, and his chin dipped as he took in her appearance from head to toe.
The aroma of sesame oil and soy sauce hit her salivary glands, and she breathed out a grateful sigh. Catching his frown, she glanced at her outfit—an eccentric mix of flowered leggings under pink gym shorts and a baggy ROTC shirt she inherited when her brother, Renny, when he outgrew it. She shrugged, and the neckline slipped over a slim shoulder. “What? These clothes are comfortable.” She held out fifteen dollars. “Here. And thanks for delivering at this hour.”
Money and food exchanged hands.
“Not too far of a delivery. You could have walked the two blocks yourself and saved the extra three bucks.”
“Yeah, well, what would that do for your job? G’night.” Caitlyn scooted back her foot and waited for the decisive click of the closed door. She didn’t have to explain to a delivery guy who barely looked old enough to have a driver’s license why she chose not to walk the streets of St. Paul alone after dark. Even if her apartment was located in a redevelopment area and ranked the second safest neighborhood in The Cities last year.
Retracing her steps to the stairwell, she dug into the sack, pulled out a vegetable egg roll, and bit into the crispy warm goodness. Fifteen minutes of indulgence in sweet and sour chicken, sticky rice, and cashew shrimp would help her focus on her preparations.
As she turned the corner into the hallway leading to her room, she sniffed a familiar odor and wrinkled her nose. Patchouli and cigarette smoke. Her stomach clamped, and her steps halted. She gaped at the tulip mat in front of her door where an envelope rested. An envelope that hadn’t been there when she left to collect the food. A shiver ran across her shoulder blades. Hurrying forward, she unlocked her door and slipped inside then slammed it and snapped the deadbolt. After dumping the sack of food on her kitchen counter, she yanked a set of tongs from the ceramic holder near the stovetop and dashed back to the door. Maybe this time the taunter left behind traceable evidence.
Minutes later, she sat in her favorite chair with her knees tucked under her chin as she punched in a number on her cell phone. Seeing the time was ten thirty made her wince. The envelope affected Bridging Veterans, and the chief executive office needed to be informed. “Bertie? I know the hour’s late, and I’m sorry.”
“Caitlyn, what’s wrong? Your voice is shaking.”
My everything is shaking. “Another message. But this time it was on my
doorstep.” Her grip tightened on the phone, and she wrapped her free arm around her quivering legs. “The person was inside my building.” Saying the words aloud set her stomach tumbling like towels in a dryer. She straightened a leg and pushed her toes against the floor, setting the rocker in motion.
“Where are you now, Katydid?”
Bertram Winslow, her father’s best friend, was one of the few people who could use her childhood nickname without causing her to react. The concern in his gravelly voice warmed her like a thick quilt. “My bedroom.” Like when she was a child, she’d retreated to where she felt safe. In this apartment, that meant an oversized upholstered rocker in the corner of the room. Complete with Art Nouveau floor lamp and crocheted throw her mother made, the spot was perfect for reading on rainy afternoons and seeking sanctuary on scary Wednesday nights.
“Is the door locked? And the security system is armed?” He cleared his throat. “The one on the windows, too?”
Her stomach settled from its wild jumping. Hearing Bertie’s calm voice reminded her of the ways her place was safeguarded relaxed her agitation a smidge. “Yes to all three. I shoved the envelope in a plastic bag, and I’ll drop it by the precinct tomorrow on my way to the foundation.”
“Contact the police tonight.”
His stern voice chilled her blood. “At this hour?” So, she hadn’t been exaggerating the incident. He recognized the threat, too. Her grip tightened.
“The longer you wait, the farther away the culprit gets. Plus, someone in the building might unknowingly destroy an important clue.”
“You’re right. Of course, you’re right.” She ran a hand through her wavy hair, disheveling it even more from its clip. “I’ll call as soon as I hang up. Thanks, Bertie.”
“Will you be all right? Should Evie and I drive over the bridge?”
Guilt slammed Caitlyn upright. She thought of the dear man’s perpetual squint and his refusal to have the prescription updated on his decades-old glasses. “That’s absolutely not necessary. When I go downstairs to let in the patrolman, I’ll carry the shillelagh Daddy gave me.”
“No patrolman. You ask for a detective. This latest incident is evidence you are being harassed by a stalker, and a case needs to be established.”
Bertie’s words hammered at her psyche. Harassed. Stalker. No longer could she hope the terse emails and annoying late-night hang-ups would disappear. “I understand. But you stay put, old friend.” She forced a cheeriness she certainly didn’t feel into her voice. “I’ve got this handled, and I’ll see you tomorrow in the office. Thanks again, Bertie.”
“Anytime, Katydid. Good night.”
After ending the call, Caitlyn headed straight for her closet. If she wanted her situation to be taken seriously, she needed to be dressed like a responsible adult, not a rebellious student.
Three hours later, after numerous retellings of the night’s events, Caitlyn keyed in her security code and slumped against the door. Detective Lundquist had handled everything in a professional manner, but she suspected he thought her complaints were more imagined than real. When the emails started that warned her against providing testimony, she’d just deleted them. Big mistake, because that meant she only had the last half-dozen. And she was on her third phone number since the late-night calls started, so only two traceable phone numbers were in her call history.
Fatigue pulled at every limb, but she stumbled over to the living room couch and booted up her laptop. Through bleary eyes and with fingers that still trembled, she typed two sentences.
Hope your invitation was serious. Arriving Friday.
###
The Montana highway lay wide open and empty before him, so Rhys Morgan tromped his scuffed boot on the gas pedal. His truck wasn’t the latest model, but that didn’t keep his truck’s engine from purring at peak performance. As the son of the owner of a successful garage and body shop in Soledad, Texas, Rhys possessed the mechanical skills. The morning sun warmed his left arm as he headed southeast out of Helena toward Eagle Rock. After a short meeting with his boss, Hank Patterson of Brotherhood Protectors, Rhys was looking forward to a few days off.
If his good ol’ dog Rebel was still alive, he’d lift that arthritic border collie into the passenger seat, grab his fly fishing gear, and head out to find a secluded fishing hole. He’d heard the Crazy Mountains had a mess of alpine lakes. But Rebel passed over the rainbow bridge—as Rhys’ big-hearted mama called it—during Rhys’ last overseas tour. Rest in peace, buddy.
He swallowed against the sudden lump that attacked his throat and reached over to punch on the radio. No sense in getting maudlin. Life is for the living, like his Granny Lurleen liked to say. A Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers’ song emitted from the speakers. Rhys cranked up the volume and sang along. The next tune started with a familiar guitar riff that he imitated against the steering wheel. As the tires ate up the road, he kept singing. No matter if he spotted oncoming drivers doing a double-take as they passed. You can take the boy out of Texas, but you can’t take Texas out of the boy.
A warm breeze ruffled the hair over his ears. Feeling the fresh air on his skin lightened his spirit. Serving as personal security for a crazy-busy lobbyist in Montana’s capital had kept Rhys indoors—and in business suits—for too much of the past nine weeks. But, at least, his nightmares had lessened to only an occasional one.
A sign announced Canyon Ferry Lake ahead two miles. As he rolled by, he glanced over and saw several sailboats and paddleboards gliding over the surface. People were getting an early start on Labor Day weekend. In a few hours, I’ll be counting myself among those vacationers.
An hour or so later, he turned onto the road that wound into the foothills and delivered him to the White Oak Ranch. After shutting off the engine, he leaned a forearm against the steering wheel and took in the setting. The big, sprawling house looked newly constructed. Rhys remembered hearing that Hank’s ex-sister-in-law blew up the family house that had sat in this spot for decades. Some crazy-shit like hating Montana.
Shaking his head, he climbed out of the truck and arched his back to stretch out the kinks. The skin on his left side pulled. The deep tissue scar from being hit with shrapnel from a roadside bomb in Nangarhar Province still bothered him from time to time. He eased off his hat and ran a hand through his hair, unused to the length that held a couple tangles. After grabbing the pistol case from the seat, he shut the truck door. Before he reached the front door, he spotted the screen moving outward.
“I thought I heard an engine.” Sadie Patterson stood in the doorway, patting the rounded bottom of a baby snuggled on her shoulder.
“Morning. Is Hank in?” He scraped his boots on the sisal doormat before crossing the threshold.
Smiling, the blonde nodded. “In the den on the phone, as usual.”
Rhys dipped his knees to look into the baby’s face. Languid eyelids moved over bright blue eyes like her mother’s. “She’s looking pretty sleepy.”
“I can only hope.”
“I know the way.” Rhys glanced around at the expansive house, a bit envious about what an ex-SEAL only a year or so older had achieved. Sharing ownership of a vineyard and ranch in New Mexico with his cousin and two college buddies didn’t quite stack up. In the doorway to a room occupied by a massive wooden desk, he paused.
Hank stood at a window, gazing over the valley with his cell phone pressed to his ear as he listened. Medically discharged from the service two years ago, the man still kept himself fighting fit.
Rhys patted a hand on his stomach. Not enough time in the gym on this last assignment had softened his muscles a bit. He’d soon remedy that condition.
“Right. I’ll expect that report by the end of the day. Later.” Hank turned and eased the phone into his shirt pocket. He stepped forward and extended a hand. “Radar, good to see you.”
The handshake was firm and welcoming at the same time. Rhys swept his free hand toward the view. “You’ve got the best of both worlds—the valley t
hrough one set of windows and the Crazy Mountains through another.”
“Can’t argue with that sentiment.” With a grin, Hank gestured toward the leather-padded chairs in front of his desk before he settled in the executive chair. “Have a seat. Can I get you anything? Coffee, water, or iced tea?”
“No thanks. I’m good.” He set the case on the adjacent chair and lowered himself directly across from his boss. Rhys lounged into a chair and rested his right boot on the opposite knee. “I’m assuming you got the report I emailed last night.”
Hank angled his chair toward the computer on his desk and clicked the mouse. “I skimmed it first thing this morning. Let me pull it up while we talk.”
“Writing reports isn’t my strong suit so don’t hesitate to tell me how I can improve. Thank God for the built-in spell check feature.” Seeing Hank’s gaze scanning the computer screen, he leaned back and glanced out the window at the so-blue Montana sky marked with a few puffy white clouds. They reminded him of one of his guilty pleasures—s’mores—and how the marshmallow puffed into strange shapes in the microwave. He made a mental note to buy the supplies before heading out. Maybe he’d toss his camping gear and mess kit in the back of the truck and drive until he found a spot by a stream. Anticipation about getting out into nature thrummed under his skin.
“Everything looks in order. The client—well, his assistant—called this morning and gave a positive review on your performance.”
Just what I like to hear. Relaxation here I come. “I’m returning the weapon to be checked into the armory downstairs. Never fired but I cleaned it.” Rhys set the pistol case on Hank’s desk and slapped both hands on the armrest. “So, we’re good here?” The total amount of his expense report crossed his mind, and he paused. “Maybe you hadn’t planned on the cost of the suits I had to buy to be inconspicuous in the professional world. So I only billed you for half. I went to one of those specialty stores where three suits with matching shirts and ties are cheaper when bought as a bundle.”
