by Grace Walton
It was the main reason he’d volunteered to go to the Middle East and infiltrate the terrorist militia they were now one step away from bringing to its knees. And it hadn’t been the first time he’d taken on a mission for Montana Miracles that was almost a form of guaranteed suicide. He’d done all that and more to save the girl from his obsession with her. He’d do anything to protect her. Anything up to and including getting himself killed.
There was no way he’d let her run away. No way he’d let her face what was out there lurking and slavering to ruin the lives of innocent young women all alone.
“Where?” he rasped out as he shrugged on his shirt and turned towards his truck.
Gage, boots rooted to the hard rocky ground, stared at his friend in disbelief. Hollister was legendary for his stoic unemotional reserve. At the moment, his friend looked more like a rampaging ancient warlord than the educated, erudite man he’d come to know over the years.
Hollister jerked open the truck’s battered door. He turned with intent eyes and clenching jaw. He shouted once more, “Where is she? Do you know?”
Gage spoke without thinking. “London, she’s gone to London to work in a church mission there. All I know is that it’s in a seedy part of the city.”
Hollister nodded. His eyes hardened. “I’ll bring her back.” With those terse words, he gunned the vehicle down the cow path that served as a ranch road.
Gage watched the truck disappear over a rise. He wondered how he’d never noticed that his friend and brother-in-arms was apparently in love with his little sister. Then he remembered the woman and man who’d so recently barged into his home. Even now, his wife was trying her best to play at being a hostess. She was probably praying he’d return with Hollister. His face hardened. He’d get rid of the British parasite and her companion.
He slapped his hat against the hard length of his jeans-clad thigh. He looked up at the wide blue of the Montana sky and asked God when life would get easier. The only answer he got was the high-pitched screech of a circling hawk.
Barreling down the rough road, at a speed much too great for any man’s idea of safety, Hollister made feverish plans for how he’d find and retrieve Maggie. It was imperative he catch up to her before she got to London. Once in the huge rabbit warren of a city, she’d disappear.
The city had been his own, once upon a time. He knew it well. But even a native could fall afoul of all the places hid in its darker corners. Like any sophisticated metropolitan area, London was a mix of high art, high living, and high commerce. The commerce ran along parallel twin paths, legal and illegal. He knew them both equally well.
London was a beautiful, awful city of great architecture and history intertwined with gangs, graffiti, and urban grittiness. To a tourist, it was nirvana. To the working class bloke who lived there and tried to scratch out a living, it was a minefield.
Hollister would do anything to make sure Maggie only experienced the jolly old England that was the pleasant façade. To do that, he must intercept her before she made her way into some crime-ridden borough. Those hellholes, and there were more than a few in London, would steal her innocent soul and leave her forever dark and scarred. Forever cynical and hard, like he was himself.
He decided to go straight to the Bozeman airport. He kept a bag stashed there in a locker. He’d spend a few minutes finding out what flight she’d taken, and then he’d fly one of the Black Knife planes to intercept her connecting flight.
In his mind, it was a simple plan. Execution of the plan, however, was not to be so easy. As his truck pulled into the small municipal parking lot that served the Bozeman Airport, he watched with narrowed eyes as a commuter puddle jumper took to the sky. The silver of its sleek silhouette glittered as the sun glanced off its side. It banked into a steep turn.
Cursing under his breath, the man took fast, deliberate strides towards the concourse inside the modest building. He eyed the triple screen monitors that served as reminders of flight numbers, arrivals, and departures. The jet that had just left was headed for Atlanta. If that was the one Maggie was on, she was taking a convoluted path to London.
But, if she wanted to disappear for a while, what better way to do it than to take the path least traveled to get to her destination? He shouldered his way through a line that was queued up at the airline whose jet had just departed. His boldness caused more than a few of the other passengers to shoot him dirty looks. But they made no complaints at his high-handed behavior. He looked too frightening for anyone to question.
Propping his arms up on the high counter between him and the woman who manned the booth, he asked one question, “Was Magnolia Ferguson on that last flight?”
The young woman, in her neat blue uniform, frowned. “Sir, I can’t give out any personal information about our guests,” she said. Her words were prim and proper, but the look she gave him was anything but.
His eyes darkened. His gaze dropped to her lips. His beautiful lips turned up into a rogue’s smile.
The woman visibly trembled from the force of that seductive look. She swallowed hard.
“I’d be very grateful,” his voice slid over her like dark, raw honey.
Her hands fluttered at her sides. She bit her lip in indecision. “I could be fired,” she whimpered.
He reached out and stroked a gentle finger down her quivering cheek. “I’ll make it right, if there’s any problem,” he promised in a voice that promised more than the prospect of the woman keeping her job.
She bobbed her head and looked down at the flickering computer screen in front of her. She typed in a few words and looked back up at him. “Miss Ferguson was aboard that plane,” her voice was so low, it was a scant whisper.
“Arriving at?” he asked in a deep delicious drawl.
“Hartsfield-Jackson,” she confirmed what he already suspected as she looked fearfully around.
So he was right. Maggie had fled to Atlanta. “Thank you,” he told the woman in crisp businesslike tones.
He turned on his heel and strode away leaving the woman at the desk to stare like a lovesick calf after him. He’d already called the hangar from his cell phone on the way into Bozeman. A small white corporate jet emblazoned with the logo of the Black Knife Ranch sat waiting on the tarmac for him. He climbed up the steps leading into the airplane, threw his bag on a richly upholstered divan and made his was up to the cockpit. He slid into the number one seat and immediately began his pilot’s check list.
“Do you want anything from the galley, Hollister?” asked the tall steward who hovered nearby.
“No,” the man said without looking up from the array of blinking lights that surrounded him in a loose semi-circle. “Get ready for takeoff, Seth,” he ordered.
The steward nodded and settled into the copilot’s seat. He was an instrument rated pilot who accompanied the Black Knife flights. Even though most of the men who were employed by Montana Miracles flew all manner of air borne conveyances, this particular man’s primary duties were extraction and evasion. He was especially suited to both. And he always traveled with the Fergusons and those who worked for them. Seth Knox was a good man to have at your back.
After being cleared to take a runway, the high-powered little plane taxied out and down the tarmac. Within a few minutes, it was air born.
“What’s going on?” Seth asked, once they were at a safe cruising altitude.
“We’re heading to Atlanta,” Hollister said looking out over the clouded horizon.
“A Miracle job?”
“No, personal business.”
“What kind of personal business?”
Hollister shot him a frown. “Take the stick. I need to do some digging on my computer.” He got up and left before the other man could ask him any more awkward questions.
It wasn’t that the big dark-haired man had any compunction about telling lies to his co-worker. He didn’t. And if the man had pressed him, he would have spun a list of wholly false reasons why he was suddenly intent upon
getting to Atlanta by the fastest means possible. And they would be believable. He was a very skilled liar. So no, it was no ill-placed sense of integrity that held Hollister back. Any honor he’d once possessed was long since besmeared by all the horrific things he’d done, by who he’d become. He just sought to save time and effort.
He’d use both to discover all he could about Maggie’s sudden flight from her home. By the time the jet landed at Hartsfield-Jackson, he’d know everything about this ill-fated run she was making. He’d know everything, down to the color of the lingerie in her suitcases and the name of the scent sprayed on them. He’d know her intended destinations and when she would be arriving at each one of them. And he’d catch up to her in the world’s biggest airport. He’d catch up to her and fetch her home where she belonged. Home where he could guarantee her safety. The Black Knife Ranch was like an old world fortress. He’d made sure of it. And he kept it fortified so Magnolia Ferguson was always safe.
He didn’t like to question his motives concerning the young woman very closely. When she was a teenager, he’d watched over Maggie because she was precious in a way that a man’s younger sisters were. Over the years, she’d blossomed into the most intriguing, lovely, and enticing woman he’d ever met.
Of course, he just wanted to ensure her safety, he told himself, and that was all. This restless, protective feeling that played on him and kept thoughts of Maggie ever present in his mind was just about her safety. Every night, while he’d been chained in that filthy, arid prison in the Middle Eastern desert, he’d lain awake and stared at the stars from his open cell thinking about Magnolia Ferguson. Was she well? Was she happy? Did she ever spare a moment to think on him? Did she wonder where he was? Did she even care enough to ask her brother why he’d been gone so very long? Three years he’d been gone. Those three years were the longest he’d spent undercover. Even when they’d beaten him, he’d focused his mind on Maggie. When he’d been forced to watch and participate in the most disgusting of acts, she’d been the one thing, the one person, who’d kept him sane.
He’d never tell her that, of course. Because she already showed the unmistakable signs of forming some kind of infatuation for him. He wouldn’t encourage her young regard, for both their sakes. He knew if he ever allowed himself to touch her with any kind of carnal intent, he’d be lost. One touch, one taste of Maggie Ferguson would never be enough. And if he took what she’d so innocently offered, surely both of them would be dammed.
Retrieving the laptop from his bag, he saw the traces of ranch dirt still clinging to his hard hands. Stringing fence was hard physical labor. He’d always welcomed it. Sometimes the exhaustion would hold the demons of his past at bay for an hour or two. But at the moment, the grime and dried blood on his fingers just seemed like an ironic metaphor for what he’d become. He was dirty. He was damaged beyond redemption. And he had no one to blame but himself. All the choices he’d made, all the roads he’d taken had been of his own choosing.
No, he couldn’t do anything to change the dark direction he’d taken over the course of his life. He couldn’t even do much to alleviate the pain his sisters had suffered. But he could do one good thing. He could make sure Maggie had a decent, safe life. An ordinary life of family, security, and peace. An everyday miracle of a life, that’s what he wanted for her.
Maybe he’d never know that kind of peace or that kind of life. But he’d make sure she did. And the first step towards making that happen was to drag her back to her brother and sister-in-law. Once she was safe, he’d see about rectifying the harm that had been done to her. He’d force those folks in small-town Bozeman to see Magnolia Ferguson for the jewel she was. He’d make sure nobody; nobody ever said an unkind word to her or about her again. And he’d find her a husband. Even if it killed him, he’d find her some kind, stalwart boy to be her spouse.
The thin edge of the laptop’s sleeve cracked under the pressure of his clenched hands. With no emotion he watched the plastic splinter. With a deep breath he forced his white-knuckled hands open. Setting the computer onto the divan, Hollister went into the small bathroom and washed the blood and mud off his fingers. He watched the rust-colored water swirl down the small drain. Too bad, he thought cynically, that a life can’t be cleansed so easily.
Off the subway and inside the giant terminal at Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport, Magnolia trudged to the massive and steep escalators. There was a sea of hurried, anonymous humanity crowded around her. People of all hues, cultures, and beliefs pressed close in on her.
Instead of feeling trapped, the girl wondered at God’s handiwork. He made every person unique. She smiled at the cliché. It may be something that was often said, but she marveled at the truth and beauty of what only an omnipotent God could create.
There was a kind of peace inside her as she was transported along with hundreds of others up into the main part of the departure terminal. The savory odors of all kinds of ethnic food drifted towards her. Boutiques offering Southern specialties and exotic foreign goods all vied for space in the hustling wide corridors of the airport. A soft beeping heralded the passing of a special golf cart. A smiling driver, his grin wide in his dark face, ushered an elderly passenger to her waiting area.
Maggie knew this would be her chance to start over. This trip to London would be the place she planted her metaphorical flag to begin again with her life. Just knowing she’d make new friends who knew nothing of her past made her almost giddy.
What would it be like, she wondered to feel so free and easy around others again? How good would it be to be of service to folks who needed her help and not worry if they were judging her motives? Imagine speaking to others and sharing her life without the fear of rejection and humiliation.
If everything worked out as she hoped, she may choose to stay in Great Britain. Learning a new culture might be a grand adventure. And perhaps the people she’d be working with would not expect her to date. Her body shivered with an involuntary shudder. No, she’d never let a man get close again. Never.
Looking at the huge schedule monitors, she found her gate. Setting the suitcase on its wheels, she ambled down towards her waiting area. She wondered idly if her brother knew where she was. Gage had a vast network of contacts any of whom could have helped him find her. Maggie knew her sister-in-law, Carrie, would keep her word about staying quiet. But the young woman was sure that, by now, her over-protective brother would be fuming at her disappearance.
Maggie was sorry for the way she’d left. It wasn’t the way she should have handled the situation. She knew that. But she just couldn’t face Gage and tell him she was running away. Fergusons didn’t run from their problems. They faced them head on. A goodly amount of fierce Native American blood ran through their veins. They were bred to be warriors.
She wondered briefly if running made her a coward. She knew it did. She tried to distract herself from that guilty thought by studying the folks around her. When she looked up, she gasped.
Bearing down on her with that effortless conqueror’s stride and equally arrogant face was Hollister. How did he find her so fast? She’d known either he or Gage would be coming after her. But she’d hoped and even prayed that this confrontation would take place on British soil. In her mind, it’d be harder for either of the two powerful men to drag her back home if they were in a foreign country.
It was too late to try and hide from Hollister. The stern look on his face boded no good for her. And she was sure he’d never listen to reason. A sad smile settled on her full lips as she noticed the lascivious looks he was getting from every woman he passed.
He, apparently, took no heed of them. Or maybe it was just that he was so used to fending off predatory females, he didn’t even notice them anymore.
Maggie gloried in the sight of him. Even with a monumental argument brewing between them, she couldn’t stop her heart’s leaping in her chest. He’d always had that effect on her. And she’d prayed more times than she could count that he’d never kno
w just how susceptible she was where he was concerned.
This obsession alone was proof enough that she needed to live at least a continent away from the man. A lock of his jet black hair fell over one eye. If he’d lived two centuries earlier, he’d surely have been a pirate. His confident masculine swagger and take-no-prisoners expression were proof of that fact.
Yeah, Hollister would have looked right at home on the deck of a ship facing down the storms of life. The same storms she was fleeing from, she thought with no small amount of shame.
As he neared, she straightened her shoulders. This would not be easy. And if she dared to allow any hint of the unreturned love she felt for him to show, he’d use it against her. She knew he would.
Oh, she was sure he’d rationalize his manipulations. He’d tell himself he was doing it for her own good. He’d reason that he needed to protect her, in any way that he could. She’d seen him do as much with others.
Maggie would have to remain strong. She prayed silently that God would be with her. Hollister might be a seasoned and ruthless warrior. But nothing and no one could conquer a believer, if God was on their side.
Maggie bit her plush lower lip. But she stood her ground. Maybe her hands were shaking at her sides. But she faced him.
Seeing the stubborn tilt to her pointed chin, Hollister wanted to howl in frustration. Not that he’d ever let her see anything other than a purely professional detachment on his face. His keen searching eyes saw the paleness of her cheeks. He saw the shadowed bruising under her large tip-tilted eyes.
It was worse than he’d anticipated. She looked about three breaths away from collapsing right in front of him. He knew that look. He’d sported it himself when he’d come back from his last foray into the Middle East. It was the look of a person who’d reached the end of their rope. He saw it in the mirror every morning when he wondered whether life was worth all the effort one had to put into it.
