The Enforcer

by Marliss Melton

“All the way back to John Brown?” His eyes glinted with humor.

  “You know about that?”

  “Morrison,” he said.

  “What about you?” she demanded. Here she was, baring her soul to Tobias while his motives remained murky. “Why’d you really join my militia? I want the truth this time.”

  He looked away, out into the darkness. “The truth?” he asked mildly.

  “Yes.”

  A lengthy silence followed, raising her anxiety.

  At last, he looked back at her. “Well, at first, I just wanted to relive my time in the service.”

  That was exactly what she’d thought.

  “But now I’m here because I want to get to know you better.”

  Her heart flip-flopped and her eyes widened as he twisted in his seat to trace her jaw with a fingertip. Was he seriously coming on to her?

  “You’re an amazing woman, Dylan.” He gazed deep into her eyes. “Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. Not even yourself,” he added.

  She licked her dry lips, wishing he would kiss her. “Okay,” she agreed.

  “You’re going to live a meaningful and fulfilling life, you understand me? I know you miss your boys and you feel guilty that you’re here and they’re not.”

  A painful knot formed in her throat.

  “But you need to put that behind you and start living your life to those guys.”

  As a tribute. Her heart felt suddenly too large for her chest. How noble that sounded. Maybe he was right. She’d been focused on the past for so long now—on her loss, her pain. But the present wasn’t all about the past. It also included the future, where anything—anything—remained a possibility.

  “I’ll think about it,” she agreed. Her eyes stung with tears she couldn’t shed. Why hadn’t anyone said these words to her before? “Thank you.”

  He laid a finger over her lips, silencing further words. “Don’t ever thank me.”

  His abrupt change in tone made Dylan blink.

  “Now—” he removed his arm from around her shoulder. “Put on your seatbelt, sister. Let’s get you home so you can rest. No, no, this seatbelt,” he said, showing her the one in the center of the seat, right next to him.

  Content to be coddled, Dylan snapped herself in as she watched Tobias maneuver them skillfully away from the trees. He drove them through the ditch and back out onto the road. Exhaustion weighted her eyelids as they sped toward home.

  “Close your eyes,” he offered, and she tipped her head gratefully against his shoulder, stifling a yawn.

  He hadn’t kissed her tonight. And yet she felt more at peace with herself and with the future than she had in a long, long time.

  Relying on road signs and his innate sense of direction, Toby made his way toward Dylan’s farm, while replaying her tale of horror in his mind.

  No wonder Terrence Ashby was so devoted to her. What she had done that night—going back to retrieve her boys, honoring them by escorting each man home, was nothing short of heroic. She had survived hell on earth. Little wonder she was stuck with PTSD.

  Given all that she’d endured, it was a miracle she hadn’t lost her mind completely. Maybe she had written those anti-war essays, maybe she hadn’t. How could war be anything but an anathema to her? She had every reason for wanting Secretary Nolan dead, considering his determination to go to war. Except that Dylan would never, ever have blown him up, not after having seen what bombs did to the human body.

  Dylan Connelly was many things, but a murderer she was not. He knew that now, just as surely as he knew his own blood type.

  Then why did three anti-war articles with her name on them exist on an anti-government website? And why had the FBI found a length of pipe on her property matching that of the pipe used to bomb Nolan’s car? A hair-raising possibility lodged itself like a splinter in his mind.

  What if Terrence was only partially right, and it wasn’t the FBI who was trying to frame Dylan but someone else?

  As he coursed Dylan’s driveway, the thought took root and sprouted into an ugly weed. Given her position as leader of a militia and her mental and emotional instability, she made an ideal scapegoat. A protective wave rolled through him.

  To hell with finding evidence to prove Dylan’s guilt. She was innocent. And only a coldhearted bastard would let her pay the cost of another man’s crimes. If it was the last thing Toby did, he would find the coward responsible for the bombing and bring him to justice, clearing Dylan’s name once and for all.

  Considering everything she’d been through, it was the least he could do.

  Chapter Ten

  The flames of a large bonfire leapt in the back yard, snaring Dylan’s attention as she guided her Suburban into its usual parking spot. The long, grueling work week was over—with Wesley Hendrix none the wiser about what was coming down the pipe for him. The prospect of finally putting him in his place ought to be filling her with satisfaction. Instead, no thanks to Tobias Burke, now all she could think of was Hendrix having a heart attack.

  Speak of the devil. There he was tossing a stick onto the fire, so handsome and vibrant that the pressures of her work and of the impending operation seemed to disappear at the sight of him. Scrambling out of her car, she hurried around the house to gauge what was going on.

  She found her leaders sitting like Indian chiefs around the fire—each in his own folding chair. Sparks floated from the tips of the flames toward a periwinkle sky. Tobias looked up to intercept her wondering gaze. The slow smile he sent her made her skin feel prickly.

  “At-ten-TION!” Terrence called, spying her approach.

  “Stay seated,” she ordered, keeping the men in their seats while she greeted Milly. Rubbing the dog’s ears, she absorbed the preparations made in her absence. The picnic table had been carted off the porch into the grass. June Lee had laid out paper plates, napkins, potato salad, and sauerkraut on it. A pan of polish sausages stood next to long skewers that were obviously meant to go in the fire. “What’s all this?” she asked, consulting her mental calendar.

  “Oktoberfest,” Sergeant Morrison sang out.

  “Wiener roast,” Ackerman chimed in with enthusiasm.

  Dylan waited for Tobias to say something. His crooked little smile told her this was his idea. None of her leaders had ever thought to have fun before he came along. Concealing her pleasure, she moved toward Terrence to assess his health.

  “How are you feeling?” she asked, kneeling next to his chair.

  “Very well.”

  His complexion still struck her as sallow, but the contentment on his face and the fact that he had made his way outdoors consoled her.

  “This was Sergeant Burke’s idea,” Terrence added, confirming her guess.

  “I’m glad he thought of it,” she admitted, glancing at Tobias briefly. Ever since their close call on Wednesday night, his behavior seemed different. There was a softness, a tenderness in his regard that made her heart flutter and made her thoughts harken back to what he’d told her—that he’d returned to her militia to get to know her better. At the same time, he seemed to radiate an implacable determination. What was that about?

  “Figured we could hold our briefing out here just as easily as indoors,” he remarked with a shrug. “Shouldn’t let the mild weather go to waste.” He gestured to the message on his yellow T-shirt: TIME IS PRECIOUS. WASTE IT WISELY.

  Dylan chuckled. “The weather is mild,” she agreed, realizing it was warm enough for them to sit outside without wearing jackets. She herself would never have considered something so spontaneous as to gather and eat outside. The sweet smell of burning wood—of sassafras and cedar—reminded her of hiking trips with her father. The stress that she had toted around all week slipped farther away.

  “Well, then,” she added brightly, “let’s get the briefing over with so we can eat.” Claiming the empty chair between Terrence and Tobias, she looked around at the men’s expectant faces, all glowing in the firelight, and discovered she had no desire wh
atsoever to talk about Hendrix. But Saturday’s CPX was now just forty-eight hours away, leaving her with little choice.

  Diving in, she reviewed the plan in detail, adding that she would hand pick ten volunteers from the militia on Saturday, giving them first right of refusal. That way, each NCO would have three men assisting them in their contribution to the ambush. Sergeant Burke would get the fourth man. After the inspection and the march tomorrow, the NCOs could pull aside and train their volunteers for forty-five minutes each while the remaining soldiers practiced at the firing range, as usual.

  “I’m sure you have questions,” she added, having gone over the details quickly, “but I’ll answer them tomorrow. Right now, I’m famished and I’d like to eat.”

  Whooping with enthusiasm, the men shot to their feet to snatch up skewers and sausages. Dylan called June Lee outside to join them in the feast she had so thoughtfully assembled. They carried their plates to the fire, scooting their chairs close so they could roast their wieners as they started in on the potato salad and sauerkraut.

  Tobias nudged Dylan’s foot with his boot. “You slept in this morning,” he commented with a teasing light in his dark eyes.

  She had missed morning PT for the first time ever. Dylan pointed at Milly, whom Tobias had let into her room at midnight. Who’d have guessed that eighty pounds of Labrador in the bed could chase off her recurring nightmares? “It was Milly’s fault,” she insisted, spooning up her potato salad. “I couldn’t hear the bugle over her snoring.”

  He sent her a slow smile. “You’re welcome.”

  Chagrined by her lack of graciousness, Dylan added quickly, “I was going to thank you.”

  One dark eyebrow arched over the other. “Waiting for the proper place and time?” he asked quietly.

  The implication that he’d like to be thanked with a kiss flustered her into breaking eye contact. Desire cascaded through her veins to pool in her belly. As she grilled her dinner, she reconsidered her circumstances. If Toby had returned to get to know her better, then keeping him at arm’s length might be all it took for him to leave again. Yielding to their attraction, on the other hand, might just get him to stay.

  Her insecurities protested. Deepening her reliance on Tobias while Terrence was succumbing to his illness would surely be a foolish measure. If Tobias left her when Terrence finally passed, how would she cope?

  And yet, to rebuff Tobias meant depriving herself of his company when she craved it above all else. She should invite him to her bed. A slow-moving heat blazed through her at the enticing thought.

  “There’s only one thing missing with this food.”

  Sergeant Morrison’s muttered comment dragged Dylan’s attention from her inner tug-of-war to the conversation taking place on the other side of the fire pit.

  “Beer?” Sergeant Lee guessed with a guilty glance at Dylan.

  Morrison nodded dolefully. “I’d give my right arm for a can of Miller Light right about now.”

  “Or a bottle of Yards pale ale,” Tobias suggested.

  “Amstel’s better than all of ‘em,” Sergeant Ackerman insisted.

  “What’s wrong with hard apple cider?” Dylan interjected, becoming the object of five pairs of eyes.

  “You got some?” asked Sergeant Morrison hopefully.

  “Possibly, if it’s still any good. It’s been fermenting for three years now.”

  “Let’s try it,” Ackerman enthused.

  “I’ll be right back.” Excusing herself, Dylan slipped into the house through the back door. In the kitchen, she dug around in the cavernous pantry before finding what she was looking for: a case of the hard cider her parents used to bottle and sell, most likely still good, thanks to its original potency. Blowing the dust off two bottles, she carried them outside, poured the cider into plastic cups and distributed them.

  “To the leaders of this militia,” Tobias called out as he accepted his cup. “To Captain Connelly and Lieutenant Ashby.”

  “Hear, hear!” chorused the other NCOs.

  Dylan caught Terrence’s dark gaze and lifted her glass to him. A rush of gratitude to Tobias for making her XO feel honored had her blinking tears back as she tipped the cup against her lips. Cider, sweet and heady, filled her mouth and warmed a path down her throat. “Not bad,” she murmured, pleased that it had kept its quality for so long.

  “Not bad?” Morrison smacked his lips. “It’s the best I’ve tasted.”

  “I’d drink this over beer any day, ma’am,” Sergeant Lee concurred.

  Dylan glanced at Tobias for his reaction. He had taken a sip and was frowning at the amber liquid in his glass. “Your parents bottled this?”

  “Yes.”

  “Here at this orchard?”

  “Of course.”

  He lifted a quizzical gaze and asked, “Why don’t you harvest the apples anymore?”

  Dylan searched herself. “It’s a lot of work for one person.”

  His eyes trekked over the others. “You’re not exactly alone,” he pointed out.

  Taking a second sip, she considered his point. “I’d have to start all over,” she demurred. “The machinery was broken down and hauled away when my father died. My mother couldn’t handle the harvest on her own.”

  Terrence shrugged his broad shoulders. “So you invest in new machinery,” he said in his deep and certain voice. “It’s bound to be more efficient and cost-effective than the old stuff, anyway.”

  “Heck, if you could bottle cider like this, you’d be pulling in a profit in no time,” Morrison predicted. “I’d like to be a part of that venture.”

  “So would I,” said Ackerman.

  “You can count me in,” Chet Lee agreed.

  Clearly, the alcohol was going straight to their heads. “Farming is a tough business,” she insisted, recalling all the hours in her childhood that she’d devoted to working in the orchard.

  “Something to keep in mind, though, down the road,” Terrence insisted.

  Dylan tucked the possibility away for future consideration. Who knew what she would do with herself after…after Terrence died?

  Tobias leaned toward Dylan’s ear, preventing her emotions from taking a dive. “I think I saw an old guitar up in the attic. Mind if I go get it?” he inquired.

  She turned her head to assess his seriousness. The guitar he referred to had been her father’s “I don’t know if the strings are any good.”

  “I think they are,” he said, with confidence that implied that he’d already ascertained as much.

  She shrugged her compliance. “Go ahead and fetch it.” She knew he could sing. How well could he play?

  A few minutes later, firelight gleamed on the lacquered surface of the acoustic guitar as Tobias strummed it softly. He’d taken the time to dust it off. The sky became a star-spangled dome, and Tobias Burke was strumming tunes that her father used to play on the car radio when he took her on his house calls to neighboring farms. His velvety baritone stirred her admiration and drew compliments from the others as he started singing classic rock songs.

  He paused to appeal to the others. “Come on, you guys. Sing it with me.”

  In one raucous voice, they joined him in the chorus.

  Dylan added her own voice, surprised to find the words still remarkably intact in some dusty corner of her mind.

  They came to the refrain, belting out lyrics about what it meant to be American, drinking whiskey like today might be your last.

  The chilling reminder of death blew Dylan’s thoughts briefly back in time. Her boys used to sing like this in the MACP—only they sang country music, not rock. The past started to bleed into the present, but the sound of her father’s guitar brought back the happy years of her youth, keeping her PTSD at bay.

  “Here’s another classic,” Tobias announced, in the mesmerizing voice of a performer. The chords of a Beatles song rippled off the six-string.

  With every passing minute, Dylan relaxed deeper into her chair, content to listen. The lyric
s about a deep, cold winter being thawed by the spring’s sun, resonated somewhere deep inside her. The worst was now behind her; hope and happiness lay before.

  When that song ended, he announced a song by Bruce Springsteen, brought the volume to an intense thrum, and stared into the fire as he crooned out the tale of a young man desperate to posses the girl next door. The message of simmering lust made Dylan’s heart beat faster.

  By the song’s end, she had made up her mind. Tobias Burke might not hang around forever. At any time, he could pack up and leave taking his warmth and smile with him, and there was nothing she could do about it. But if she just took a chance, then she would have a memory of them together that she could keep forever.

  Tonight, she would give herself to him.

  ***

  Toby had just laid his head on his pillow when the door at the bottom of the attic stairs opened and closed quietly. He’d been the last one to shower, the last soul in the house still awake at quarter to eleven. But someone was creeping up the attic steps and, given the daintiness of the ascending footfalls, he could guess who it was.

  Blood rushed straight to his groin, propelled by a rush of anticipation that overruled his conscience. Knowing Dylan was innocent, there wasn’t any need to seduce her, other than his own throbbing desire to claim her for himself.

  His mouth turned dry as her burnished head crested the floorboards. Wearing her silky night robe, her hair loose and tumbling over her shoulders, she looked nothing like the tense militia leader he had met on Columbus Day nearly two weeks ago. He sat up slowly.

  “I hope I didn’t wake you,” she whispered.

  “Not at all.”

  “Milly was hogging the bed, so I thought I’d try sleeping here, with you.”

  Sure, right. They were going to sleep.

  Reaching out, he deliberately tugged the sash at her waist causing the two halves of the robe to part. The exposed swathe of creamy beneath let him know she wasn’t wearing anything else. To his delight, she shrugged her shoulders and the robe skimmed down her body to pool at her feet, taking all of the air from his lungs with it.