Devil's Fork

by Jesse Jacobson

  Devil’s Fork

  Brotherhood Protectors World

  Jesse Jacobson

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Rainhorse

  Also by Jesse Jacobson

  Original Brotherhood Protectors Series

  About Elle James

  Copyright © 2019, Jesse Jacobson

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  © 2019 Twisted Page Press, LLC ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  No part of this book may be used, stored, reproduced or transmitted without written permission from the publisher except for brief quotations for review purposes as permitted by law.

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please purchase your own copy.

  Brotherhood Protectors

  Original Series by Elle James

  Brotherhood Protectors Series

  Montana SEAL (#1)

  Bride Protector SEAL (#2)

  Montana D-Force (#3)

  Cowboy D-Force (#4)

  Montana Ranger (#5)

  Montana Dog Soldier (#6)

  Montana SEAL Daddy (#7)

  Montana Ranger’s Wedding Vow (#8)

  Montana SEAL Undercover Daddy (#9)

  Cape Cod SEAL Rescue (#10)

  Montana SEAL Friendly Fire (#11)

  Montana SEAL’s Bride (#12)

  Montana Rescue

  Hot SEAL, Salty Dog

  Chapter 1

  I woke up in a semi-panic, thinking I’d overslept. Luckily, I hadn’t. My ribs were stiff and sore, but they weren’t as bad as the previous morning—a good sign. I’d hurt myself three days earlier saving a jackass who failed to follow my instructions while rafting down a class three white water rapid. He was trying to show off in front of his family and friends by standing toward the front of the raft while I was navigating on choppy waters. The raft bumped a huge rock and over he went, hind end over teakettle as my mum used to say. Idiot. It’s a wonder he didn’t get himself—or someone else, like me—killed.

  It was all I could do to keep myself from letting him drown, but my training and programming kicked in and I saved the guy, badly bruising my ribs in the process. The ungrateful bastard then tried to blame me for his stupidity, but luckily, there was a company employee photographing the incident hoping to sell the photos to the passengers later. The evidence was incontrovertible. Bossman cleared me and banned Mr. Jackass from future white-water rafting expeditions.

  Because my injuries forced a hospital visit, the Bossman withheld me from rafting for three days. Today would be my first day back at work, just in time to take my position as an expedition guide for the six-day, five-night rafting and camping trip, the highest-paying gig available.

  My name is Roger Jolly, but in the Navy, everyone called me Jolly Roger, so named from the skull and crossbones flag which had a long, colorful history at sea.

  The most famous flags flown by pirates were all called the “Jolly Roger,” and were adorned with a variety of artwork or often no artwork at all. Records of pirate ships flying Jolly Roger flags go back almost as far as recorded history. The earliest reference is probably of the skull and crossbones flag used not by who you might think of as traditional pirates, but by the Knights Templar, well known for their own pirate-like acts on the sea.

  Legend tells the origin of the skull and crossbones. The most colorful story involves a beautiful woman once loved by a Templar but who tragically died in her youth. The day after her burial, the despondent lover crept to the grave, dug up her body and violated it. A voice from heaven—or from hell, depending on which account you read—told him to return in nine months and he would find a son in the tomb. He obeyed the command and opened the grave only to find a skeleton head resting on leg bones. The same voice spoke again commanding him to guard the skull and crossbones with his life, for it would protect him in all future battles. It became the Templar’s symbol for strength, and legend tells stories of how they defeated their enemies by merely showing them the magic head.

  The origin of the “Jolly Roger” name is as muddled as the legend itself, but there are several theories. One is the name was an adaptation from the English word “roger”, which basically just means “wandering vagabond.” Another theory is that, centuries ago, a slang name for the Devil was “Old Roger” and a human skull was as good a depiction of the Devil as any.

  Yet another theory is that the name came from a misunderstanding or mispronunciation of the name “Ali Raja,” which is what they called Asian pirate captains.

  I have no idea which of these legends are true, and I guess it doesn’t really matter. Jolly Roger was a name I embraced to the point of having a large skull and crossbones tattoo on my chest. Today, most people just call me Jolly, though I miss the nickname at times.

  I’ve worked for the Mountaineer Expedition Company for the last three years, ever since my discharge from the Navy, where I served for eight years as a Navy SEAL on the underwater demolition team. My expedition supervisor and long-time best buddy is Tommy Jasper but almost no one outside of myself and his mother knows him by that name. His Navy handle was “ToeJam.” I know, it’s not nearly as sexy as Blade, Viper, Maverick or even Jolly Roger. When we first arrived our BUD/S Drill Sergeant saw Tommy’s initials on his duffle bag, written in magic marker. He asked Tommy what the initials stood for.

  All he had to do was say his name, Tommy Jasper, but my friend, as you will come to know, is a man of few words, a quiet guy. He froze. When he didn’t answer right away, the Sergeant made up his own name, and it turned out he was a big fan of the movie, Full Metal Jacket. Sarge dubbed him “ToeJam” after a character in the movie and the name stuck. Some people shortened it to just “Toe,” but if you asked anyone who Tommy Jasper was, they’d have no idea who you were talking about.

  The Navy discharged ToeJam a few months before me. He had some difficulty fitting into civilian life, that is until a man named Hank Patterson contacted him.

  Hank founded an organization called The Brotherhood Protectors, based in Eagle Rock, Montana. He was a former Navy SEAL and created the organization as an outlet for retired SEALs to use their skills to help others as well as help each other. When it came to Hank’s attention that a SEAL brother was struggling, he recruited ToeJam into the Brotherhood and used his contacts to help him get the job at the MEC.

  When I was released, Toe got me a job alongside him and I’ve been here ever since. I’ve asked ToeJam about joining the Brotherhood myself, but he doesn’t think it’s a good fit for me, yet. He insists I have personal growth and development needs that must be met before I’m ready… whatever the hell that means.

  I loved the job. The pay was crap, but it kept me outdoors and on the water. Plus, I got to hang out with my best friend. There were downsides, however. They mostly involved sucking up to the wealthy, thrill-seeking customers who didn’t think safety rules applied to them. Some of the
m were middle-aged men—or women—who wanted to enjoy the thrills of rafting the rapids and camping in the woods but also have the creature comforts of having someone else wait on them hand and foot. God forbid they should carry a bag, pitch a tent or light a fire.

  Mostly, I enjoyed the people I met, however. A few, like the aforementioned jackass, are a pain in the butt, but fortunately there weren’t many of them, and even then, most weren’t that extreme.

  I showered and made myself breakfast, egg-whites and a protein shake. I’d just buttoned my jeans when I heard a knock on my cabin door.

  “Who is it?” I called out even though I knew who it was.

  “Scarlett Johansson,” came the reply. “I’m here for my butt massage.”

  “Door’s open, Toe, c’mon in.”

  The door opened and ToeJam’s bulk blotted out the sun beating in from the low morning horizon. My behemoth friend lumbered in. I’m a big guy, six-foot-three, two-thirty, give or take, but Toe towers over me at nearly six-feet-seven. He keeps his weight to himself but I’d have to think he checks in at over two-sixty. One thing is for certain, when Toe and I walk into a bar together, everyone gives us a wide berth.

  The big fella looked around and sniffed, making a sour face as though he were smelling polecat.

  “Damn, this place looks like crap. It’s even smaller than mine,” he noted.

  “Smells worse than it looks,” I said.

  “Don’t I know it.”

  “You want coffee?” I asked, pulling out my duffle.

  “Love some,” he replied.

  “Good, get in the kitchen and make it while I pack my grip,” I told him.

  “Asshole,” he spat, shaking his head. He ambled toward the kitchen which was just one corner of a four hundred square foot cabin with a tiny living area, a loft with a full-sized bed and a bathroom so small I had to step into the shower to close the door from the inside.

  ToeJam started the coffee as I packed for the five-night expedition, “Aren’t you going to ask me how my ribs are doing?” I asked.

  “Nope,” he replied, not bothering to turn around. “Where are your coffee filters?”

  “Right in front of you, dumbass, on top of the microwave.”

  “Oh.”

  “You don’t care if my ribs are still sore?”

  “Last time I checked, I didn’t have a vagina,” he retorted. “Unless you’re a candy-ass, you should be fine by now.”

  “Yeah but… never mind. How many people are we taking out today?”

  “Eleven,” he replied. “There’s a family of three and four couples, all in their mid-to-late thirties, all ‘Gourmet Package’ customers.”

  “You take the family of three and one other couple,” I said.

  “Not on your life,” he fired back. “I met the family of three when they got in yesterday. The old man’s a real piece of work. You know the type—has money; big boss guy; center of the universe; yada yada. The family of three is all yours.”

  “No way,” I objected. “May I remind you how I got these bruised ribs in the first place? It’s your turn to…”

  “May I remind you who is the field supervisor?” he interrupted. “And also remind you who got you this gig in the first place? You take the family. I think you’ll like the daughter, anyway. She’s a hottie—late twenties, chestnut hair, freckles, a nice round…”

  “I get it,” I interrupted. “I have a girlfriend, remember?”

  “Julie? She’s not your girlfriend. She’s your flavor of the month.”

  “Why would you say that?”

  “You haven’t called her in three or four days, have you?”

  “I don’t remember,” I lied. I knew where he was headed with this conversation. It had been over a week since I’d called her.

  “See what I mean?” Toe said. “You’ve barely even seen her.”

  “Actually, I’ve been with her five times. You’ve seen her,” I shot back. “This could be a long-term thing.”

  “Not likely. You go through women like hot water goes through this filter, Mr. hot and sexy Navy SEAL,” he said.

  Touché. He was not wrong. I did do just that… most of the time. It was getting old, however. Over the past few months I’d been evaluating my life. I was sick of the one-night stands. Julie was beautiful and awesome but Toe was right, she was not the right one for me. I planned to tell her before now but I kept putting it off.

  “Julie is unique,” I said, deciding to keep up the charade for the time being.

  “You say that all the time,” Toe responded. “They’re all unique when you first meet them. We’ll see how you feel in another two weeks.”

  He knew me well; so well it sometimes pissed me off at times.

  “I like her,” was all I said.

  “Well, I got dibs on her when you decide you don’t,” he said.

  “Hey, that’s not right, man,” I told him. “What about the guy code?”

  “Julie doesn’t count in the guy code,” he said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I saw her first and I like her, too. I’d take her in a second.”

  I rolled my eyes, “Nice friend.”

  “Thank you.”

  “That was not a compliment.”

  I pictured ToeJam lurking around like a vulture waiting for me to dump Julie. I shook the thought off.

  “You need a new coffee pot,” Toe added. “The bottom of this damn thing is like a Petri dish. Don’t you ever wash your dishes?”

  “Do you want coffee or not?” I snapped back.

  He held up the pot and looked at the green and white moldy stuff growing on the bottom.

  “Yeah, but not from this pot,” he replied. “C’mon, get your ass in gear. We have to get the raft ready. We’ll pick up coffee at the Quick-Stop on the way. That way you can say bye to Julie before we head out.”

  “Bad idea. I don’t think so,” I said. “Let’s get to work.”

  “I’m stopping for coffee, Jolly,” he said. “If you want to hide in the back seat, I won’t stop you.”

  I grabbed my shotgun, slipped it in my waterproof case, and followed Toe to his truck. I always take my shotgun on excursions but hide it from the passengers. It’s strictly against MEC regulations to bring a gun but I have seen bears and mountain lions near our campsites in the past. I’ve never had to use it, but I’d rather have it and not need than need it and not have it. The shotgun’s barrel was short. It had no range to speak of and wouldn’t kill a bear, but the buckshot would burn like hell and send a bear scurrying away.

  True to his word, Toe stopped at the mini-mart, killed the engine and hopped out, “I’m going around back to hit the head,” he said.

  “I’ll get the coffee,” I told him.

  “Ah, so you’re going to man up and talk to her?”

  I shrugged, “Yeah, sure, why not? No big deal, right?”

  He chuckled, “Right. Get me a large coffee with…”

  “Lots of sugar, I know,” I finished, heading inside, wondering if Julie was working this morning and hoping she wasn’t.

  “Well, if it isn’t Roger Jolly come calling,” she said right on cue. She was standing behind the counter reading a trashy celebrity magazine. “I was wondering when you’d show up again.”

  Her tone had a touch of sass, which I expected given my lack of recent contact. Julie and I had last seen each over a week ago. The evening started in a dive bar. She was sitting on my lap playing beer pong and getting working me into a frenzy with her tongue inside my mouth. We went back to my tiny cabin and made love to each other throughout the night. When I woke, she was gone, but left a note asking… more like demanding, that I call her soon.

  I hadn’t seen her or talked to her since. I’m not much on texting and she stopped trying after two or three texts I didn’t respond to. She probably thought I was ghosting her, but I wasn’t. I planned to call her right before I got hurt… but didn’t. All things considered, her saying anything to me at
all after I gave her the silent treatment was a good sign.

  “Hey baby,” I said with a stupid grin on my face, failing badly at being nonchalant, “it’s good to see you.”

  “Uh huh,” she said dismissively. “I thought you were going to call me. You promised we’d go to that new seafood joint in town last weekend.”

  I’d forgotten that.

  “I planned to, Julie, really,” I lied, with a touch of desperation in my voice, “but I got hurt.”

  Julie rolled her eyes, her big round beautiful brown eyes. She was a light-skinned black woman in her late twenties, tall and slender, with gorgeous thick jheri-curls hanging past her shoulders. Her full lips were luscious and when she smiled, she displayed a perfect set of white teeth. She was smart, too smart for this town, but she also had… issues. She drank too much, smoked too much marijuana and had strange friends.

  “You were… hurt?” she repeated, flashing me a questioning look. “That’s what you’re going with… really?”

  She wasn’t buying it. Time to break out the big guns.

  “That’s right,” I insisted. I pulled up my shirt and showed her the purplish bruising around my ribs. She raised her eyebrows.

  “What happened?” she asked. She looked genuinely concerned.

  Mission control, we have contact. She asked a question in a sincere tone; the first step toward forgiveness.

  “Some jerk stood up in the raft in the middle of a class three,” I told her. “I had to go in after him—banged myself up pretty good. I went to the hospital, you know.”

  “No, I didn’t. Why didn’t you call me?”

  “I asked ToeJam to call you,” I lied again. “He must have forgotten.”