by Julie Miller
“It’s Fiske...oh.” Rosy dots appeared beneath her freckles as her gaze darted up to his. Her fingers stroked him as she curled them into her palm, and his buttock muscle clenched at the unintended tickle. She pulled back, dangling the blue bandanna she’d stolen from his pocket. “Um...”
“You stopped that girl’s mouth from runnin’, Mr. Maynard.” Fiske chuckled from the porch. “You’re hired.”
Chapter Three
“Mr. Maynard.”
With his brain sidetracked by the blush creeping up Melanie’s neck, Duff didn’t immediately answer to the name on his fake driver’s license. She not only hadn’t been getting fresh with him, but she looked mortified for him to believe that she had been. Duff backed away a step, silently cursing how easily her bold touches had distracted him. And this feisty mouse wasn’t even trying! Reel it in, Watson. She was being resourceful, just as her uncle had directed, not putting the moves on him.
He knew better than to let any woman get in his head and derail his focus on his assignment. He looked over the top of Melanie’s wild red hair and nodded his thanks to her uncle. “I trust the open space and quiet time to think you promised me starts now?” He glanced around the circle of lingering onlookers and hardened his voice to a steely timbre. “Or does anybody else want to try to get their licks in?”
Fiske laughed as a few less-daring souls skittered away from the audience. “I promise we have a predictable routine and plenty of opportunities for you to make a living away from outside influences here.” The laughter ended as Henry eyed the slender young woman who had hurried over to help Skinny Guy off the ground. No doubt suffering from battered pride in addition to his bloody nose, he seemed only too happy to drape his arm around the pretty brunette’s shoulders and limp toward the side of the house. “Roy?” Skinny Guy turned. “You did well today. You didn’t quit. I can’t ask for anything more.”
Roy nodded. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
“But you aren’t going anywhere alone with my daughter,” he warned. “Silas, you take Deanna on into the house.”
“Yes, sir.” The big guy seemed eager to obey that order.
“Silas will do nothing of the kind.” The blonde who’d been leaning against the post walked to the edge of the porch to rest her hand on her husband’s arm. “Young people need a little time to themselves.”
Henry patted his wife’s hand before seeking out his daughter. “All right, then, tend to Roy. But, remember, dinner’s at six, and I expect to see you there. We have company coming.”
“Who? Silas?” the young brunette whined. “He’s not company.”
“You do as I say, young lady,” Henry ordered.
“Daddy—”
“Deanna Christine...”
The young brunette looked from her mother to her father. “What if Roy and I have plans? I’m not a baby, anymore. I’m almost twenty-two. You can’t tell me what to do.”
“Six o’clock, young lady. Or you won’t be seeing Roy at all.”
Deanna pouted out her copper-tinted lips. “Yes, Daddy.” She wound her arm around Roy’s waist and leaned into him. “Come on. I’ll make those boo-boos feel all better.”
Abby squeezed her husband’s arm before retreating to the corner of the porch to watch her daughter leave. “She’ll be fine, dear. I promise.”
Leaving his daughter’s love life up to his wife’s supervision, Henry repeated his order. “Give Mr. Maynard his bag and get cleaned up.”
Silas waited for a moment, then pulled the knife that was stained with Duff’s blood out of the ground. He held the blade down at his side as he picked up the duffel bag. Since Melanie was working on a field dressing for his cut again, Duff reached out to take the bag. “Thanks, Baldy.”
The big man didn’t immediately release the strap. His eyes sent the message that he was top dog at this place. “You may have the job, but you’re still on probation, Maynard. And you’ll be reporting to me.”
Duff was a big man, too. And backing down wasn’t part of the role he needed to play. He yanked the bag from Silas’s grip. “Just don’t expect me to salute you.”
Silas’s nostrils flared. He muttered something under his breath before wrapping his big bear paw around Melanie’s elbow and pulling her away from her work. “You’re going to that dance with me in a couple of weeks.”
It wasn’t a question. Despite Duff’s vow to keep his hormones in check on this assignment, he dropped the bag to pry Silas’s hand off the woman.
“Are you kidding?” But the curvy redhead didn’t need his help. She smacked Silas’s hand away and gestured toward the corner of the house where the young couple had turned out of sight. “Ask Deanna if she’s who you want to be with. I’m not interested in being her substitute.”
“Silas.” The vein throbbing in the big man’s forehead receded at Henry’s summons. “Now’s not the time to be thinking about who you’re taking to the Hanover Lake festival. On second thought, you clean up later. We have work lined up that needs to be dealt with today. There’s a truck coming in later tonight.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Wipe your feet,” Abby reminded the two men as they entered the main house. “And take your hat off, Henry. Don’t worry, dear. I’ll keep an eye on Deanna.”
The two men disappeared into a room on the left side of the hallway before the front door closed. Fiske’s office? Definitely a place Duff wanted to get a firsthand look at. And he wanted eyes on that truck, to see whatever was being shipped in or out. But it was too soon to make a move without raising suspicions. Fiske and his lieutenant were probably discussing him and where they could put him to work. Hopefully, something on a night shift so that there’d be fewer people to see his comings and goings when he left the compound to meet with his task-force handler.
“Welcome to our farm, Mr. Maynard.” Abby Fiske offered him a silky smile as she came down the stairs. She swung her long hair off her shoulders and glanced at the redhead. “You couldn’t spare a minute to put on a little makeup, dear?” she chided before giving him a head-to-toe once-over that made him feel like some kind of prize bull that was up for sale. “My husband will send someone for you when he’s ready. Now all of you—the show’s over.” She shooed the remaining onlookers back to their jobs before she, too, disappeared around the corner of the house.
Once Duff confirmed the key players and uncovered how the illegal operation worked, he’d be one step closer to finding the man who’d pulled the trigger that had left Seamus Watson with a traumatic brain injury and a long road to recovery. Grandpa Seamus had learned to walk again, and was regaining some use of his left hand. But retraining himself to speak and enduring months of painful physical therapy had left the once-vibrant octogenarian a white-haired shell of his former self.
No one else had been shot at Liv’s wedding. Only Seamus. That afternoon in February had been all about creating terror, about destroying his family’s happiness and leaving them in a state of guarded vigilance in the months that followed. Somebody had to pay for that. Although his brother Niall had saved their grandfather’s life and uncovered the type of weapons used in the shooting, and Keir had gotten them a lead on the shooter himself, the KCPD detectives officially working the case hadn’t gotten the shooter’s name. All indications were that the shooter was a hired gun going by the code name Gin Rickey and that the weapons he’d used could be traced to this backwoods retreat—the Fiske Family Farm.
Maybe everyone here was part of the arms-smuggling ring, including the sheriff. Or maybe most of these people were innocent, unaware of the crimes being committed right under their noses. And maybe they knew, but were too cowed by Fiske and the tag team of Silas and Roy to do anything but look the other way. No matter what, Duff intended to get the evidence he needed to report back to his task-force contact the next time he—
“Ow.” Duff’s shoulder throbbed as Melanie Fiske pinched the bandanna around his deltoid. Right. There was one other player in the mix here—Fiske’s niece, Melanie. Out of every person here—man or woman—she’d been the only one to stand up to Silas and her uncle. Maybe she was part of the smuggling ring, too, and had stepped in before they wound up with a dead body to dispose of. Or maybe she just had the brassy temperament to match her red hair. “Easy, sweetheart. I’ve only got two arms.”
“How’s your tetanus shot?” she asked, tying off the short ends into a square knot.
His red-haired rescuer picked up the heavy duffel bag before he could grab it and hefted it onto her shoulder. “Your bedside manner needs a little work. You sure you’ve got training for this?”
“I’m a registered EMT-paramedic. Uncle Henry’s goal is to make the farm a completely self-sufficient community. I’m what passes for health care here.” She crossed the yard, heading toward the row of cabins and bungalows on the other side of the gravel road that ran in front of the Fiskes’ house. “Come with me. I need to stitch up your arm. You could use an ice pack on that cheekbone, too.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She halted and spun around. “I don’t appreciate being mocked. You can call me Mel or Melanie or Miss Fiske. Save the ma’am for my aunt Abby, and the sweethearts and jokes for one of the other girls if you want to impress somebody.” With that bossy pronouncement, she turned and headed out again.
His gaze dropped shamelessly to the butt bobbing beneath his duffel bag as he fell into step behind her. She might dress and talk like a tomboy, but there was nothing but shapely woman filling out those jeans. Not that her curves made any difference to his assignment, but he wouldn’t be much of a man if he couldn’t appreciate the scenery around this place.
“Okay, Mel. I’m Tom. Tom Maynard.” Using his real first name and an old family name was supposed to make this undercover profile easy to remember so he wouldn’t slip and make a mistake that could give him away. But they still felt like foreign words on his tongue. That’s why he liked to blend his fake persona with a little bit of reality—to make the role he had to play as real as possible. “My friends call me Duff.”
“I’m not looking to make friends, Mr. Maynard.” With a tone like that, she didn’t have to worry. Surely, there’d be someone else at this place who’d be an easier mark for developing a relationship with to get the information he needed. He followed her to the cottage at the end of the crude neighborhood street and headed up the brick pathway bordered by colorful flowers. She pushed open the unlocked door and held it for Duff to enter before closing it behind him.
The blast of cool air that hit him after the heat and humidity outside raised goose bumps on his skin. For some reason he hadn’t expected to find air-conditioning at this remote location. He sought out the source of the welcome chill in the steady hum of a window unit anchored over a small shelf crammed with books beside an empty brick fireplace. He used his survey to also identify a small dine-in kitchen area and a pair of open pinewood doors that led into a bedroom and a bathroom. The flowered love seat and white eyelet curtains at the front window seemed to indicate Melanie lived alone.
She dropped his bag beside the love seat. “Welcome to the infirmary.”
“Quaint little place you’ve got here. Does everybody get his own house?”
“Married couples and families get their own place. Henry will probably put you up in the bachelor quarters near the equipment shed for now. You’ll be able to eat meals there, too. Phyllis Schultz, who runs our bakery, cooks a big dinner for anyone who doesn’t have his own kitchen.”
“How did you luck out?” He nodded toward her left hand. “You’re not married.”
“No. I’m not. I doubt I’ll ever be.”
Now that was an odd addendum to make. Melanie Fiske might not be a beauty like her cousin, but the woman had fire and plenty of curves that would tempt the right man. Not me, he reminded himself. But even in this backwoods Eden, a woman in her midtwenties surely didn’t think of herself as an old maid.
“I give people nicknames,” he explained, telling himself not to be curious about what her cryptic comment might mean. “Baldy. Old Man. I ought to call you Red.”
“You can call me Melanie,” she drawled, slipping into that invisible armor again. Amusing him with her sass more than she knew, she opened a glass-paned door that was also hung with eyelet curtains for privacy off the west side of the tiny living room. “In here.” She gestured to an examination table that looked as though it had come out of some old country doctor’s office. “This is why I get to have my own place. Since I have to be on call around the clock, it makes sense to live in the quarters where all the medical supplies and sickbeds are kept.”
He took in the two beds that were little more than metal cots made up with crisp white sheets and blankets, and the metal cabinets that were marred with rust around the hinges and corners. She washed her hands at a tiny porcelain sink before opening a dorm-size refrigerator and pulling out a vial of medicine. Then she opened drawers and the cabinet, which were, as she’d claimed, sparsely stocked and pulled out sterile gloves, alcohol, gauze bandages and a syringe packet. Duff was all for playing his part as a grizzled vet looking for some peace and quiet away from the crowds and noise of the city, but did he really want to get medical treatment from a woman who wasn’t even a registered nurse, much less a doctor?
She faced him again, frowning when she saw he was still standing. “You’re not afraid of needles, are you?”
He wasn’t. Duff leaned his hip back against the table and sat. “You’re sure you know what you’re doing?”
Her chin came up and she pointed to the framed document on the wall. “I may not have all the medical training I’d like, but I have enough to do this job. There’s my certification from the Metropolitan Community College in Kansas City.”
So she’d been to school in KC. Someone commuting back and forth to classes could certainly smuggle a trunkful of guns into the city. He’d have to check to see if her schedule coincided with any of the suspected weapons deliveries. “When were you in Kansas City?”
But she wasn’t interested in getting friendly. “We’re talking a shot of topical anesthesia, cleaning the wound and eight, ten stitches, tops. I don’t have antibiotics on hand to administer right now, but if you show signs of infection, there’s a doctor in Falls City who does.”
There was also a medical team on call for the task force. Duff would ask for one of those doctors to check him out when he made his scheduled report to his handler later tonight. In the meantime, if he thought about how confident her hands had felt checking his wound outside, and not how iffy the modernity of this infirmary might be, he had a surprising degree of confidence in her ability to heal him.
“Do your worst, Doc. I can take it.” He reached for the hem of his T-shirt and peeled it off over his head, gingerly maneuvering the soiled material over his injured shoulder. By the time he’d wadded up the bloodied shirt and tossed it into the trash can, he had two big brown eyes staring at the center of his chest.
Well, I’ll be damned. Melanie Fiske wasn’t all cold and prickly and disinterested in men, after all. Although he could guess that a woman with medical training had seen a half-naked man before, her eyes seemed more than professionally curious about the particular dimensions of his bare chest and torso. He was built like a tank. Maybe she’d just never seen this much exposed male skin in her infirmary before.
“You, um—” she swallowed, and he watched the ripple of movement down her throat as a telltale blush moved in the opposite direction “—never answered my question about a tetanus shot. Is yours up-to-date?”
Maybe he could play off the innocence peeking through her tough tomboy facade and make a friend here, after all. “I’m good. That’s one thing the army does right.”
She ten
ded to him for several minutes in silence, keeping her eyes carefully averted from bare-naked-chest land as she untied the bandanna and irrigated the wound. While she waited for the area where she’d given him the shot to grow numb, she shifted her attention to the tender swelling on his cheek and gently cleaned the scrape there. “How did it feel to punch Silas in the face?”
Interesting that that should be the first personal question she’d asked him. “Like it needed to be done.”
“I can’t tell you how often I wished I could...” Her fingers paused for a moment and he thought he glimpsed the dent of a dimple, indicating a brief smile before she went back to work. “I’m surprised he didn’t pull the knife sooner. He hates to lose. Let me see your hands.”
“They could use a little TLC. But I’ll live.”
After cleaning his hands and putting a bandage on one finger, she touched the boot-sized bruise on his flank. Duff sucked in a sharp breath as her fingers brushed across his skin. “Sorry.” She’d thought she’d hurt him, but that eager response was all on him and the years he’d gone without a woman’s tender touch. She prodded the skin all around the bruise, and Duff gritted his teeth at the exploration. “I’ll get an ice pack. If it starts to swell, or you feel like you’re struggling to breathe...”
She suddenly drew back her fingers. Had she maintained contact more than was medically necessary? Duff hadn’t noticed. Or minded. Instead, he’d been thinking that the space between them smelled of the summer heat coming off her skin. And beneath the tinge of perspiration and antiseptic that lingered in the air, he detected a soft scent reminiscent of baby oil. That was her. The curvy tomboy with the plain features and wild auburn hair smelled like that. Sweet and down-to-earth, yet sexy—like she’d be soft to the touch if he reached out and brushed his fingertips across her skin. He hoped she wasn’t one of the bad guys here. Because he was seriously tempted—
