A Cop's Honor

by EMILIE ROSE

  Then her son continued on his way. Hannah’s heart swelled with love. Mason was a good boy. Whatever the cause of this rough patch, she’d get him through it.

  “It’s not safe to use the rope with that dog out.”

  “He’s just an overgrown puppy who likes to play.” She risked looking at Brandon. His scowl deepened and she added, “I’ll talk to my neighbor and see what we can do to keep Rocky in the fence.”

  “Who’s ready to cook some hot dogs?” Lucy asked in an overly bright tone.

  The girls all squealed, “Me, me, me.”

  Brandon shifted his attention to the girls. His tight grin was clearly forced. “I’d better light the grill.”

  He strode toward the patio like the Pied Piper, with Belle, Celia and Ella skipping behind him. She wasn’t disappointed when he stopped to pick up and don his shirt. When she peeled her gaze away, she caught Lucy staring at her. Embarrassed, she didn’t know what to say.

  Her friend threw up her hands. “Forget it. He’s yours. I know when I’m beaten.”

  “He is not mine,” Hannah protested.

  “Oh, please. You two are circling each other like boxers in the ring. You can fight the attraction all you want. But girl, you are going down. And if you’re smart, you’ll stop fighting it, and write yourself a prescription for some therapy with him. You need it. And from the way he looks at you, he does, too.”

  “I can’t write prescriptions.”

  Lucy rolled her eyes. “You know what I mean. You swear you’ll never marry again, and a fling with him could never be more than a temporary scratch to your itch because of his job. So screw his brains out, for pity’s sake, and relieve some of that tension before you pop an aneurysm. Then give me all the juicy details.”

  She strolled after the others, leaving Hannah dumbfounded. Lucy was wrong. She and Brandon weren’t going to have an intimate relationship. They just had the unfortunate spark of bottled-up chemistry between them. But that could be controlled.

  * * *

  BRANDON’S SISTERS HAD always predicted that one day his need to be a hero would bite him in the ass. Today was that day.

  Hannah’s near-fall and his instinctive dive to catch her had left him with a hunger that he hadn’t been able to soothe throughout cooking and consuming lunch. He’d been stung by that same bee in the barn at the orchard and in her stairwell during the storm. You’d think he’d have enough sense to avoid the nest.

  But he’d made a promise and the job here wasn’t finished.

  He sprung to his feet after the meal. “Mason, let’s head to the front yard, and I’ll teach you some self-defense moves.”

  Mason scanned the squealing, talkative girls and jumped up. “I’m in.”

  Brandon intended to cover a few basic strategies and slip an interrogation into the process. They rounded the house. Brandon found an area with thick grass and kicked a few pinecones out of the way. “This is a good spot.”

  Mason looked eager and focused as Brandon faced him. “Remember, your goal is to escape.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I know. Fighting’s a last resort. So what do I do? Kick the guy in the nuts?”

  “Try it.”

  Mason looked at him like he was crazy then kicked. Brandon caught the boy’s heel and held it. Off balance, Mason jumped on one leg, flailing his arms to keep from falling.

  “This is why going for the groin is not the best starting point. Everyone expects it. All I’d have to do is yank your foot out from under you, and you’d be flat on your back and at my mercy.” He released his hold and Mason regained his balance.

  “That’s not good.”

  “No. Now, picture your opponent.” He gave the boy a moment. “How big is he?”

  “About your size,” Mason replied without hesitation.

  “Age?”

  Mason’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Why?”

  He’d anticipated the question. “Age determines experience and often strength and ability. You don’t have to be exact. Ten? Fifteen? Twenty? Fifty? Ninety? Is an old man going to whip you with his cane?”

  Mason snorted a laugh, distracted, just as Brandon had hoped. “Um...fourteen.”

  He made a mental note. “Is this attacker a bully who’s a pain in the ass or someone threatening your life?”

  Mason’s feet planted. His gaze lowered to his shoes. “Um... I don’t know.”

  Brandon kept circling him, trying to keep Mason focused on actions rather than the questions. “C’mon, kid. It’s important. The level of threat determines how you respond and what I need to teach you. If the guy’s just a nuisance who harasses you in gym class then you don’t want to cause permanent damage by say, gouging his eyes out or slamming the heel of your hand into his nose and driving bone fragments into his brain.”

  He demonstrated each action as he spoke with quick jabbing movements that stopped short of Mason’s face but captured his attention. “That could possibly kill him. If he’s after your life, then all bets are off. You do what you have to do.”

  “I uh... I don’t think I’ll need to kill anybody.”

  Two questions answered. “Good. Physical threats aren’t the only ones. These days with social media, you have to worry about cyber threats. Do you have any accounts?”

  Mason lowered his arms to his sides, his body language going tight. “I’m thirsty.”

  Filing the evasion away, Brandon reached out and grabbed Mason’s wrist to prevent him from returning to the house. “See if you can escape.”

  Mason squirmed and twisted, but Brandon held fast. “Stop. Now rotate your wrist so that your thumb points upward.” He waited until the boy complied. “Snap your elbow as quickly as you can, bringing your fist to your shoulder.”

  Mason did, successfully breaking the hold. “Cool.”

  “See how easy that was? You’re using physics to find and break the weakest point. And if that doesn’t work you can twist and break loose. Grab my arm and I’ll show you how.” Mason did and Brandon quickly freed himself with a circular sweeping motion. “Same thing works if someone grabs both arms. You use their own body against them. Try it.”

  He caught a glimpse of movement at the dining room window. Hannah. His heart thumped and his brain emptied. His flesh burned anew at the memory of touching her soft skin and the slick slide of her bare back against his abdomen when her shirt had ridden up when he’d caught her.

  He wanted her. And she knew it. But that didn’t make it any less wrong.

  Willing himself to focus because he was gaining ground with Mason, he quickly broke Mason’s grip then circled the kid again, turning his back on the window.

  “Regardless of the threat level, a good slap to the ear hurts like hell. Make sure your palm is flat. Like this.” He demonstrated the technique without making contact.

  “Slapping’s for girls.”

  “Not when it ruptures an eardrum. Now turn around. I’m going to grab you from behind in a bear hug.” He followed through. “If someone gets you in this position, you drop to a squat, pivot and step away. It works well when the attacker is bigger than you, but you need to react fast—before they can lift your feet off the ground. Try it.”

  Mason did, then straightened. His gaze flicked to the house. “Mom’s watching.”

  “I know. Try to block her out and concentrate,” he ordered himself as much as his sparring partner. But how could he forget Hannah’s strength as she’d climbed the rope or the triumphant gleam in her eyes when she’d reached the top seconds before that damned mutt had endangered her life? Brandon’s visceral reaction to Rick’s wife was almost enough to derail his strategy with Mason.

  “Let’s do it again and this time we’ll add an additional level of defense. As you escape, fight. Either throw an elbow back into your attacker’s groin as you go down or turn and punch his nads as you come up.”<
br />
  “I’m not touching another guy’s junk!”

  Another clue. “If you’re in danger you will do whatever it takes. Try it but without contact. I want to be able to walk to my truck later.”

  Mason snickered, getting on with the lesson as Brandon had intended. He tried the turn and punch maneuver.

  “Good. Now we’ll try a variation on that. Drop, turn and follow up with a kick to the kneecap instead of the groin using your instep. You’ll drop ’em fast. It hyperextends the leg, and causes serious and usually permanent damage. Only use it in a potentially lethal attack.”

  “You keep saying that.”

  “Keeping my job depends on me reading the threat level accurately and reacting appropriately. It’s a skill I didn’t pick up until I was much older than you. I used to fight at the slightest provocation. Got me into after-school detention more times than I care to admit.”

  “What did you fight about?”

  “Not what. Who. Your dad.”

  “You fought my dad? Why?”

  He shook his head and grabbed both of Mason’s wrists this time. “I fought for your dad. He was an egghead. That seemed to draw bullies like roadkill draws buzzards. Know what I mean? Try to escape.”

  Mason broke Brandon’s hold with the skills he’d just learned and then rounded his shoulders. “Yeah. I know.”

  “Being a brainiac is like being a star athlete. Everybody wants to be you, but they can’t. So some will try to take you down out of spite.” Brandon circled him and grabbed the boy from behind, practicing the moves he’d taught him moments ago and trying to keep Mason engrossed in the physical rather than the mental part of this exercise.

  “I’m a farm boy,” he said into Mason’s ear. “You don’t mess with me, my family or my friends. If someone was bothering you, your mom or Belle, I’d be battle-ready in the blink of an eye.”

  Mason hesitated, giving Brandon time to lift his feet off the ground. “See how helpless you are now? You need to react faster. But if you get caught like this become a deadweight. Your captor expects you to fight not go limp. It’s likely to throw him off balance, and if it does, it gives you another shot at getting free.”

  He set Mason down. “Try again.”

  Mason dropped as soon as Brandon grabbed him then turned. “Now practice the kick but don’t bust my knee.”

  The boy grinned and followed through.

  “Good. There’s all kinds of intimidation. We covered bodily threats, but we haven’t hit on verbal or written ones yet. You have to figure out how to respond to those. Sometimes, the best way is to ignore them, too. Other times the only solution is to ask for help.”

  Mason stiffened, his lips pinching tight. Brandon pretended not to notice and kept circling him like a boxer in the ring.

  “When someone wants to control you verbally, they’ll try to cut off your escape routes with threats against you or your family. In every kidnap movie you’ve ever seen the bad guys always say, ‘Don’t contact the police,’ because they know that’s exactly what you should do. If you don’t, they maintain control.”

  He clamped a hand on Mason’s shoulder. The kid’s muscles were rigid. His fight or flight instincts had kicked in. Brandon was on to something. He had to narrow it down.

  “If someone grabs you like this, come around and strike their face with the heel of your hand. It’s almost like swinging a baseball bat. Try it.”

  Mason complied, then Brandon repeated the procedure, this time holding tighter—just long enough to say into Mason’s ear, “You know you could talk to me if you had a problem.”

  Mason twisted away and backed several steps out of Brandon’s reach. “Why does everybody keep saying that?”

  Defense. Damn.

  “Because you’re about to enter your teen years. I’m not going to lie, Mason. Parts of being a teenager suck rotten eggs. Your body will do things you can’t control, and you’ll be put in situations that are uncomfortable. Middle school is a training ground for juvenile delinquents and future felons. If you haven’t encountered any of those yet, you will. You need to know how to handle them. It helps to have someone who won’t judge you but will listen and give advice. Your dad’s not here to do that, but I am. I’ve seen just about everything.”

  “No! You haven’t. Not you or my mom,” Mason exploded, rocking Brandon back on his heels. “My world is completely different than yours was at my age. You have no clue! So don’t tell me you understand. You don’t!” Then Mason pivoted and raced toward the house. He bolted through the front door, slamming it behind him.

  Brandon watched him go. The over-the-top reaction was telling, albeit circumstantial, evidence. He’d need something concrete to move forward with the investigation. But Hannah stood between him and the facts.

  * * *

  UNABLE TO BEGIN the task she’d been avoiding for five years, Hannah perched on the edge of the bed she’d shared with Rick and stared at the dresser. Rick’s dresser.

  His spare change still filled the beer mug in front of the mirror. His broken sunglasses—the ones he’d kept meaning to repair, but hadn’t—were hooked over the glass rim by the remaining earpiece. Beside the mug lay an unopened Chapstick, two peppermints and a money clip he’d been given as a gift but never used.

  The line of his personal items stood like sentinels, guarding the contents of his drawers. The bedroom still smelled like him. That was the main reason she never entered this room except for a rush dust job and vacuuming once a month.

  When she’d answered the phone last night she’d still been shaken up over the close encounter with Brandon. More specific, she’d been rattled to the core by her response to him. The church’s bereavement coordinator had asked a favor. Hannah had agreed without thinking about how hard—how paralyzing and gut-wrenching—the simple act of giving could be.

  She wasn’t ready. And now she had to find the nerve to call the coordinator back and renege on her promise.

  The clank of the backyard gate jarred her. She checked on Belle, but her baby was sleeping on the sofa. Mason’s youth pastor had picked him up and taken him to church. Who could it be? Surely Mason hadn’t run away from church?

  She hurried to the French doors overlooking the yard. Brandon, pushing a wheelbarrow, crossed her lawn. Her heart thumped against her sternum like a bass drum as she watched him dump his load beneath the slide. Mulch. He turned and headed back out the gate.

  Anger stirred in her chest. She couldn’t afford more of his “help.” She’d be repaying him for the next decade. She shoved open the door and marched outside. “What are you doing?”

  He stopped, glanced back to the master bedroom door she’d exited, then his gaze returned to her. “Why aren’t you at church?”

  “Belle has the stomach flu. I asked you not to spend any more money on us, Brandon. And yet you sneak in here while you think I’m away?”

  “I got the mulch free from a day care center that’s closing. I figured I’d install it and reinforce the fence between you and your neighbor’s dog while you were out.”

  She crossed the lawn, halting a yard from him. He wore jeans and a gray T-shirt, which already sported sweat-dampened armpits. The shirt also happened to accentuate his pectorals and biceps. He hadn’t shaved. The stubble made him look—She squashed her appreciation and focused on her anger.

  “You figured, huh? Without asking. While I was out. Because you knew it was wrong.”

  He parked his leather-gloved hands on his hips. “Would you have agreed?”

  “No.”

  “But you want the kids to be safe using the equipment, right? And the rope isn’t safe without cushioning underneath.”

  He had her. “You swear the mulch was free?”

  “To anyone willing to haul it away. Just let me finish. I’ll stay out of your way.”

  “Fine.” Distance would
be for the best. She turned to go back inside.

  “Hannah?” She paused. “Have you moved back into the downstairs bedroom?”

  If anyone could understand the difficulty of the task ahead, Brandon would. She slowly pivoted. “No. One of our church members lost everything in a fire Friday night. He needs clothes—clothes he can’t afford to buy because he wasn’t insured. He’s Rick’s size—tall and thin. One of the church ladies asked if I’d donate Rick’s stuff.”

  He dragged a hand across his face and whistled. “You still have everything?”

  “Yes. I couldn’t... I haven’t...” She met his somber gaze and sucked in a shuddering breath. “I don’t think I can do this, Brandon. It hurts too much.”

  “Yes, you can. I’ll help.” He peeled off his gloves and tossed them into the wheelbarrow. “Rick would be the first guy to give someone the shirt off his back. He’d want you to do this, Hannah.”

  Her eyes and throat burned. “You’re right.”

  “Let’s get it done. Do you have boxes?”

  She nodded because she couldn’t speak. He put his arm around her shoulders and steered her back to the house. The first shock of contact rippled through her. She ordered herself to relax. Brandon was only offering comfort—comfort she desperately needed to get through the job ahead. That was all it was. All it could be. Nothing more. That meant leaning into him and soaking up his surety was a no-no.

  Inside the bedroom he paused and slowly scanned the room. His arm dropped to his side and his fists clenched. His jaw muscles bunched and grief invaded his features, carving lines across his forehead, at the corners of his eyes and bracketing his mouth. Then he directed pain-filled eyes her way. He obviously wasn’t any more eager to do this than she was.

  “I’ll take the closet if you’ll take the drawers.” Without waiting for her reply, he set off like a man on a mission.

  Forcing herself into action, she started with socks. There were no memories attached to those. She dumped them into the box then surveyed the rest of the drawers. Underwear was next. Rick had been a tighty-whitey guy. No nostalgia in those. But then in the back corner she found a set of satin boxers covered in kisses that she’d given him as a gag gift one Valentine’s.