Learning to trust could bring them together—keeping secrets could tear them apart

Going undercover to take down murderous gun smugglers is what Duff Watson lives for. Until he tracks the ring to a Missouri farm…and meets paramedic Melanie Fiske. Now the KCPD detective has another critical task: winning over the curvy redhead who tempts him yet whom he can’t let himself trust.

Something about the protective ex-soldier makes Melanie believe he can help her find out the truth about her family. And the desire Duff awakens feels like the real thing. But when Melanie’s life is threatened, can she keep trusting—and loving—a man who lives a life of dangerous deception?

The Precinct: Bachelors in Blue

“You think I need backup?”

“Everybody needs someone watching their back. Especially stubborn redheads who keep poking at mysteries no one wants to talk about.” Duff circled the table. “You’ve officially got me.”

Melanie palmed the center of his chest and kept him at arm’s length. “I suppose you expect me to have your back now, too?”

“I expect you to keep being my friend.” He leaned into her hand, dropping his voice to a drowsy timbre. “But make no mistake, Melanie Fiske—I will be kissing you again.”

Anticipation skittered through her veins. “Friends don’t kiss each other like that.”

“You don’t want me to kiss you again?”

Her blush betrayed her. “You know I can’t hide that I like you. Maybe becauses you’re not one of them. Or maybe because you say what you think.” She snatched away the fingers that were still clinging to the firm muscles of his chest and turned a pleading gaze up to him. “Just don’t lie to me, okay? I want to be able to trust you.”

Necessary Action

Julie Miller

www.millsandboon.co.uk

JULIE MILLER is an award-winning USA TODAY bestselling author of breathtaking romantic suspense—with a National Readers’ Choice Award and a Daphne du Maurier Award, among other prizes. She has also earned an RT Book Reviews Career Achievement Award. For a complete list of her books, monthly newsletter and more, go to www.juliemiller.org.

For Tracey Marie Oberhauser.

Because you make my son happy.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Epilogue

Extract

Copyright

Prologue

“This is some kind of Valentine’s Day curse.” Duff Watson stuck his finger inside the starched white collar of his shirt and tugged, certain the tux the rental shop had given him for today was a size too small.

He wondered what his family would think if he tossed the red bow tie and unbuttoned the collar of this stupid monkey suit. His sister, the bride, would be ticked, and his father would be embarrassed, Grandpa Seamus would laugh, and he’d never hear the end of it from his brothers. So he endured.

Duff—no one had called him by his given name, Tom, for years—was all for celebrating his sister’s happiness. He’d even agreed to stand up as best man for her fiancé. But the only things that felt normal about Liv’s wedding day were the gun holstered at the small of his back and the KCPD detective’s badge stashed in his pocket. And, oh yeah, watching his two younger brothers, Niall and Keir, tagging along behind him as they escorted the bridesmaids down the aisle to join him at the altar.

The three Watson brothers, all third-generation cops following proudly in their father’s and retired grandfather’s footsteps, couldn’t be more different if they tried. Niall was the brain, a medical examiner with the crime lab. He seemed clueless about all the pomp and circumstance surrounding the wedding. He looked as though he was doing some sort of mental calculation about the distance to the altar or how many guests were seated in each pew. Keir was the social one, and he was eating this stuff up. He flirted with his escort and blew a kiss to the older woman in the second pew, Millie Leighter, the family cook and housekeeper who’d helped raise the four of them after their mother’s senseless murder.

Duff was the self-avowed tough guy. He didn’t have the multiple college degrees Niall did, and he’d never win a sweet-talking contest against Keir. But neither could match him for sheer, stubborn cussedness. Duff was the survivor. He’d been old enough when Mary Watson had died that he could see his father’s anger and grief, and had stepped up to help take care of his younger siblings, even after their father had hired Millie, and Grandpa Seamus had moved in to do whatever was necessary to hold the fractured family together. Hell, even now that they were all grown-up, he was still doing whatever was necessary to protect his family—listening to his baby sister when her devil scum of a former partner had seduced and then cheated on her, making sure the man she was marrying today was worthy of her. He’d written a personal recommendation for Keir to one of his academy buddies when the ambitious youngest brother had been up for a promotion to the major crime unit. And there was no end to the coaching Niall required as the shy brainiac negotiated the intricacies of interpersonal relationships.

Duff had the street smarts, the gut instincts that helped him get through numerous undercover assignments for the department. He read people the way Niall read books. Only once had he misjudged someone he’d tried to help, and he’d paid for that mistake with his heart and a beat down that had put him in the hospital for nearly three weeks.

But facing a drug dealer’s wrath hadn’t killed him. Being betrayed by Shayla to her brother had only made Duff stronger and a hell of a lot smarter about falling in love. He’d been played for a fool, and he owned the repercussions of his mistake. Maybe his colossal screwup—when it came to love on this day that was all about love—was the reason he couldn’t get his tuxedo to fit right.

“Natalie is married to Liv’s partner, you know.” Niall, an inch taller than Duff, adjusted his dark glasses and whispered the chiding remark about flirting with the bridesmaid to Keir, who stood a couple of inches shorter.

“Relax, charm-school dropout.” Keir clapped Niall on the shoulder, grinning as he stepped up beside him. “Young or old, married or not—it never hurts to be friendly.”

“Seriously?” Niall turned that same whispered reprimand on Duff, eyeing the middle of his back. “Are you packing today?”

He’d tucked his ankle piece into the back of his itchy wool slacks. At least he wasn’t wearing his shoulder holster and Glock. “Hey. You wear your glasses every day, Poindexter. I wear my gun.”

“I wasn’t aware that you knew what the term ‘Poindexter’ meant.”

“I’m smarter than I look.”

Keir had the gall to laugh. “He’d have to be.”

Duff shifted his stance, peering around Niall. “So help me, baby brother, if you give me any grief today, I will lay you out flat.”

“Zip it. Both of you.” Leave it to Niall to be the cool, calm and collected one. Liv had probably put him in charge of corralling her two rowdier brothers today. The smart guy scowled at Keir. “You, mind your manners.” When Duff went after the collar hugging his neck again, Niall leaned in. “And you, stop fidgeting like a little kid.”

A sharp look from the minister waiting behind them quieted all three brothers for the moment. With everything ready for their sister’s walk down the aisle, the processional music started. Duff scanned the crowd as they rose to their feet. Millie dabbed at her eyes with a lace hanky, making no effort to hide her tears. He knew a hug could make those tears go away, and he would gladly go comfort her, but he was stuck up here at the altar.

Grandpa Seamus was sneaking a handkerchief out of his pocket. The old man was crying, too.

And then Olivia and their father, Thomas Watson Sr., appeared in the archway at the end of the aisle. A few strands of gray in his dark hair, and the limp from the blown-out knee that had ended his frontline duty with the department far too soon, couldn’t detract from the pride in Thomas’s posture as he walked his daughter down the aisle. Duff’s sinuses burned. Be a man. Do not let your emotions get the better of you. Do not cry.

But Olivia Mary Watson was a stunner in her long beaded gown and their mother’s veil of Irish lace. Who knew that shrimp of a tomboy would grow up into such a fine, strong woman? He took after their father with his green eyes and big, stocky build. But Liv was the spitting image of the mother he remembered—dark hair, blue eyes. Walking beside Thomas Sr., he thought of the wedding picture that still sat on his father’s dresser.

He blinked and had to say something quick to cover up the threat of tears. “Dude,” Duff muttered. He nudged the groom beside him. “Gabe, you are one lucky son of a—”

“Duff.” Niall’s sharp tone reminded him that swearing in church probably wasn’t a good idea.

Gabe sounded a little overcome with emotion, too. “I know.”

“You’d better treat her right.”

Yep. Liv must have put Niall in charge of keeping him in line today. “We’ve already had this conversation, Duff. I’m convinced he loves her.”

Gabe never took his eyes off Olivia as he inclined his head to whisper, “He does.”

Keir, of course, wasn’t about to be left out of the hushed conversation. “Anyway, Liv’s made her choice. You think any one of us could change her mind? I’d be scared to try.”

The minister hushed the lot of them as father and bride approached.

“Ah, hell,” Duff muttered, looking up at the ceiling. So much for guarding his emotions and watching his mouth. He blinked rapidly, pinching his nose. “This is not happening to me.”

“She looks the way I remember Mom,” Keir said in a curiously soft voice.

Duff felt a tap on his elbow. “Do you have a handkerchief?” Niall asked.

So he’d seen the tears running down Duff’s cheeks. “The rings are tied up in it.”

“Here.” Niall slipped his own white handkerchief to Duff, who quickly dabbed at his face. He nodded his thanks before stuffing the cotton square into his pocket and steeling his jaw against the embarrassing flare of sentiment.

When Olivia arrived at the altar, she kissed their father, catching him in a tight hug before smiling at all three brothers. Duff sniffed again, mouthing the word beautiful when their eyes met. Keir gave her a thumbs-up. Niall nodded approvingly. Olivia handed her bouquet off to her matron of honor and took Gabe’s hand to face the minister.

The rest of the ceremony continued until the minister pronounced them husband and wife and announced, “You may now kiss the bride.”

“Love you,” Olivia whispered.

Gabe kissed her again. “Love you more.”

“I now present Mr. and Mrs. Gabriel Knight.”

Duff extended his arm to the matron of honor and followed Liv and Gabe down the aisle. He traded a wink with Grandpa Seamus, silently sharing his commiseration over the public display of emotion. He nodded to his dad and exchanged a smile with Millie before unbuttoning his jacket. The tie was going next.

He was halfway to the foyer and the freedom to unhook the strangling collar when he spied a blur of movement in the balcony at the back of the church. A figure in black emerged from the shadows beside a carved limestone buttress framing a row of organ pipes. The man opened his long duster coat, revealing the rifle and handgun he’d hidden underneath.

Duff was already pushing the matron of honor between the pews and pulling his weapon when Niall shouted, “Gun!”

The organ music stopped on a discordant note and the organist scrambled toward the opposite balcony door. The man’s face was a black mask, his motives unknown. But when the stranger raised his rifle to his shoulder and took aim at the sanctuary below, his intent was crystal clear.

“Everybody down!” Duff ordered, kneeling beside the pew and raising his Beretta between his hands. “Drop it!” But the bullets rained down and he jerked back to safety.

“I’m calling SWAT,” Keir shouted. Duff glanced back to see him throw an arm around Millie and pull the older woman down behind the cover of a church pew with him. Gabe Knight slammed his arms around Liv and pulled her to the marble floor beneath his body. Niall was reaching for their father and grandfather.

He heard panicked footsteps, frightened shouts and terse commands as bullets chipped away marble and splintered wood. Flower petals and eruptions of dust floated in the air. Half the guests at the wedding were cops, active duty or retired, and every man and woman was taking cover, protecting loved ones, ensuring everyone was safe from the rapid barrage of gunfire.

Duff waited for a few beats of silence before swinging out into the aisle again and crouching at the end of the pew. The gunman was on the move. So was he.

“I’ve got no shot,” Duff yelled, pushing to his feet as the shooter dropped his spent rifle and pulled his pistol. He pointed the other officers on the guest list who happened to be armed to each exit and zigzagged down the aisle as the next hail of bullets began. “Get down and stay put!” he ordered to everyone else, and ran out the back of the sanctuary.

“Niall!” Duff heard his father shout to his brother as Duff charged up the main stairs to the second floor. By damn, if that whack job had hurt his brother, he was going down.

Signaling to another officer to cover the opposite entrance, Duff pushed open the balcony door. But he knew as soon as they entered that the balcony was clear. The chaos down below echoed through the rafters, but Duff tuned it out to focus on the staccato of running footsteps. The shooter was gone. He’d taken his weapons with him and fled through the massive church.

Duff returned to the darkened utility hallway, where a wave of cold air blew across his cheek. Outside air. Close by. The clang of metal against metal gave him direction. The perp had gone up to the roof.

His instinct was to turn to his radio and call in his location and ask for backup. But he was wearing a black tuxedo, not his uniform. He’d have to handle this himself. Leaving the other officer to see to the frightened organist, he sprinted down the hallway and climbed a narrow set of access stairs to the roof. If the perp thought he was getting out this way, he’d corner the chump before he reached one of the fire escapes.

Duff paused with his shoulder against the door leading onto the roof, reminding himself he’d be blind to the perp’s position for a few seconds. Nobody shot up his sister’s wedding, put his family in danger, threatened his friends. No matter what screw was loose in that shooter’s head, Duff intended to stop him. Heaving a deep breath, he shoved the door open.

Squinting against the wintry blast of February air, he dove behind the nearest shelter and pressed his back against the cold metal until he could get his bearings. The glimpse of gravel and tar paper through the kicked-up piles of snow were indicators that he wasn’t the first person to come out this way. The AC unit wasn’t running, so he should be able to hear the shooter’s footsteps. Only he didn’t. He heard the biting wind whipping past, the crunch of snow beneath tires as cars sped through the parking lot and the muted shouts of his fellow officers, circling around the outside of the church three stories below. The only labored breathing he could hear was his own, coming out in white, cloudy puffs, giving away his position like a rookie in training.

He was going to have to do this by sight. Clamping his mouth shut, he gripped his gun between his chilling hands and darted from one cover to the next. Instead of footprints, there was a wide trail of cleared snow, as if the man had been dragging his long coat behind him. But the trail was clear, and Duff followed it to the short side wall of the roof. He peered over the edge, expecting to find a fire escape. Instead, he found a ladder anchored to the bricks that descended to the roof of the second floor below him. But he spotted the same odd path transforming into a clear set of boot prints, leading across the roof to the wall that dropped down to the parking lot.

“Got you now.” Duff tucked his gun into his pocket and slid down the ladder.

He rearmed himself as he raced across the roof. He could make out sirens in the distance, speeding closer. Backup from Kansas City’s finest. Ambulances, too. That meant somebody was hurt. That meant a lot of somebodies in that sanctuary could be hurt. This guy was going to pay.

Duff swung his gun over the edge of the roof and froze. “Where the hell...?”

The only thing below him was a pile of snow littered with green needles at the base of a pine tree, and another officer looking up at him, shrugging his shoulders and shaking his head.

The perp had vanished. Poof. Disappeared. Houdini must have shimmied down that evergreen tree and had a driver waiting. Either that or he was a winged monkey. How could he have gotten away?

“Son of a...” Duff rubbed his finger around the trigger guard of his Beretta before stashing it back in its holster. He was retracing his steps up the ladder, fuming under his breath, when his phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled out his cell, saw Keir’s name and answered. “He got away. The guy’s a freakin’ magician.”

“Grandpa’s been shot.”

“What?” The winter chill seeped through every pore of his skin and he broke into a run. Seamus Watson, eighty-year-old patriarch, retired cop who walked with a cane, followed Chiefs football and teared up at family weddings the same way Duff did was a casualty of this mess? No. Not allowed. “How bad?”

“Bad. Niall’s trying to stop the bleeding. Get down here. Now.”

Duff had no one left to chase. The shooter’s trail had gone as cold as the snowflakes clinging to the black wool of his tuxedo.

“On my way.”

Chapter One

July

“Who cleans up a scuttled boat?”

Frowning at the smell of bleach filling her nose, Melanie Fiske waded barefoot into the ankle-deep water that filled the wreck of her late father’s fishing boat each time it rained and opened the second aft live well, or rear storage compartment where fish and bait had once been stored. She expected to find water, rust, algae or even some sort of wildlife that had taken up residence over the past fourteen years, like the nest of slithering black water moccasins she’d found hidden inside three years ago.

Poisonous snakes had been reason enough to stop her weekly sojourn to the last place her father had been alive. But too many things had happened over the past few months in this idyllic acreage where she’d grown up—the rolling Ozark hills southeast of Kansas City—for her not to explore every available opportunity to find out what had happened to her father that night he’d allegedly drowned in the depths of Lake Hanover and was never seen again.

Now she was back, risking snakes, sunburn and the wrath of the uncle who’d raised her, to investigate the wreck, tipped over on the shoreline of Lake Hanover next to the old boat ramp that hadn’t been used since the boat had been towed ashore to rot.

All these years, she’d accepted the story of a tragic accident. She’d been so young then, motherless since birth, and then fatherless, as well, that she’d never thought to question the account of that late-night fishing expedition. After an explosion in the engine, he’d fallen overboard, and the eddies near the dammed-up Wheat River power plant had dragged him down to the bottom. It had been a horrible, unfathomable tragedy.

But she’d caught her aunt and uncle in too many lies lately. She’d seen things she couldn’t explain—arguments that hushed when she entered a room, trucks that arrived in the middle of the night to take handcrafts or baked goods to Kansas City, fishing excursions where no one caught a thing from the well-stocked lake. And maybe most importantly, her uncle’s control was tightening like a noose around her life. There were rules for living on the farm now that hadn’t been there when she’d been a teenager, and consequences for breaking them that bordered on abuse.

Yes, there were bound to be flaring tempers as they transitioned from a simple working farm to a stopping place for tourists from the city seeking outdoor fun at the lake’s recreational area or a simple taste of country life without driving farther south to Branson and Table Rock Lake. There were reasons to celebrate, too. The farm had grown from a few family members running a mom-and-pop business to a small community with enough people living on the 500-acre property to be listed as an unincorporated township. But Uncle Henry still ran it as though they were all part of the same family. Their homes and small businesses were grouped like a suburban neighborhood nestled among the trees and hills. Instead of any warm, fuzzy sense of security, though, Melanie felt trapped. There were secrets lurking behind the hardworking facades of the family and friends who lived on the Fiske Family Farm.

Secrets could hurt her. Secrets could be dangerous.

When she’d hiked out to the cove to look for fourteen-year-old bloodstains or evidence of a heroic struggle to stay afloat after the engine had blown a softball-sized hole in the hull of the boat, Melanie hadn’t expected to find new waterproof seals beneath the tattered seat cushions that closed off the storage wells. The first fiberglass live well she’d checked had been wiped clean. Blessedly free of snakes, this second storage compartment also smelled like bleach.

Only this one wasn’t completely empty.

Curiosity had always been a trait of hers. Her father had encouraged her to read and explore and ask questions. But her uncle didn’t seem to share the same reverence for learning. The last time she’d been caught poking around for answers up in her uncle’s attic, she’d been accused of stirring up painful memories of a lost brother, and not being grateful for the sacrifices her aunt Abby and uncle Henry had made, taking in an eleven-year-old orphan and raising her alongside their own daughter. Melanie had moved out of the main house that very night and things had been strained between them ever since. And though she wasn’t sure how much was her imagination and how much was real, Melanie got the sense that she had more eyes on her now than any bookish, plain-Jane country girl like her ever had.

Squinting into the thick forest of pines and pin oaks and out to the glare of the waves that glistened like sequins on the surface of the wind-tossed lake, Melanie ensured she was alone before she twisted her long auburn hair into a tail and stuffed it inside the back of her shirt. Then she knelt beside the opening and stuck her arm inside the tilted boat’s storage well. The water soaking into the knees of her blue jeans was warm as she stretched to retrieve the round metal object. Her fingers touched cold steel and she slipped one tip inside the ring to hook it onto her finger and pull it out.

But seeing the black ring out in the sunlight didn’t solve the mystery for her. Melanie closed the live well and sat on the broken-down cushion to study the object on her index finger. About the circumference of a quarter and shaped like a thick washer with a tiny protrusion off one edge, the round piece of steel had some surprising weight to it. Unravaged by nature and the passage of time, the ring couldn’t be part of the original shipwreck. But what was it and how had it gotten there?

With a frustrated sigh, she shoved the black steel ring into her jeans. Her fingers brushed against a softer piece of metal inside her pocket and she smiled. Melanie jumped down onto the hard-packed ground that had once been a sandy beach and tugged the second object from her pocket as she retrieved her boots and socks.

It was her father’s gold pocket watch. She traced her finger around the cursive E and L that had been engraved into the casing. A gift from her mother, Edwina, to her father, Leroy Fiske had never been without it. From the time she was a toddler, Melanie could remember seeing the shiny gold chain hooked to a belt loop on his jeans, and the prized watch he’d take out in the evenings to share with his daughter.

But the happy memory quickly clouded with suspicion. The workings of the watch had rusted with time, and the small photograph of her mother inside had been reduced to a smudge of ink. Melanie closed the watch inside her fist and fumed. If her father’s body had never been found, and he always had the watch with him, then how had it shown up, hidden away in a box of Christmas ornaments in her uncle’s attic?

Had this watch been recovered from the boat that fateful night? Why wouldn’t Leroy Fiske have been wearing it? Had it gone into the lake with him? Who would save the watch, but not the man?

The whine of several small engines dragged Melanie from her thoughts.

Company. She dropped down behind the boat to hide. Someone had borrowed two or three of the farm’s all-terrain vehicles and was winding along the main gravel road through the trees around the lake. Maybe it was one of the resident fishing guides, leading a group of tourists to the big aluminum fishing dock past the next bend of the lake, about a mile from her location. It could be her cousin Deanna, taking advantage of her position as the resident princess by stealing away from her job at the farm’s bakery and going out joyriding with one of the young farmhands working on the property this summer.

“Mel?” A man’s voice boomed over the roar of the engines. “You out here? Mel Fiske, you hear me?”

“Great,” she muttered. It was option C. The riders were out looking for her. As the farm’s resident EMT-paramedic, she knew there could be a legitimate medical reason for the men to be searching for her. Minor accidents were fairly common with farm work. And some folks neglected their water intake and tried to do too much, easily overheating in Missouri’s summer heat. But she really didn’t want to be discovered. Not here at her father’s boat. Not when her aunt had asked her to leave the past alone, since stirring up memories of Henry’s brother’s drowning upset her uncle when he needed to be focusing on important business matters. Finding her here would certainly upset someone.

Like a swarm of bees buzzing toward a fragrant bed of flowers, the ATVs were making their way down through the trees, coming closer. Melanie glanced up at the crystal blue sky and realized the sun had shifted to the west. She’d been gone for more than two hours. No wonder Henry had sent his number-one guard dog to search for her.

It wasn’t as if she could outrun a motorized four-wheeler. She glanced around at the dirt and rocks leading down to the shoulder-high reeds and grasses growing along the shoreline. She couldn’t outswim the men searching for her, either. Her gaze landed on the sun-bleached wood dock jutting into the water several feet beyond the reeds. Or could she?

Melanie unzipped her jeans and crawled out of them. After tucking the watch safely inside the pocket with the mysterious steel ring, she stripped down to her white cotton panties and support bra and sprang to her feet. With a little bit of acting and a whole lot of bravado, she raced onto the listing dock and dove into the lake.

The surface water was warm with the summer’s blistering heat, but she purposely swam down to the murky haze of deeper water to cool her skin and soak her hair so that it would seem she’d been out in the water for some time, oblivious to ATVs, shouting voices and family who wanted her to account for all her time.

She didn’t have to outswim anybody. She just had to make up a good cover story to explain why she’d gone for a dip in her underwear instead of her sensible one-piece suit. Melanie was several yards out by the time she kicked to the surface.

As she’d suspected, she saw two men idling their ATVs on the shore near the footing of the dock. The bigger man, the farm’s foreman and security chief, who thought shaving his head hid his receding hairline, glared at her with dark eyes. He waved aside the other man, telling him to move on. “Radio in that she’s okay. Then get on over to the fishing dock to make sure it’s ready for that group from Chicago tomorrow.”

The other man nodded. He pulled the walkie-talkie from his belt and called into the main house to report, “We found her, boss,” before revving the engine and riding away. Meanwhile, Melanie pushed her heavy wet hair off her face and began a leisurely breast stroke to the end of the dock.

Silas Danvers watched her approach. “What are you doing out here?”

It wasn’t a friendly question. As usual, Silas was on edge about something or someone. But, then, when wasn’t the short-tempered brute ticked off about something?

Melanie opted for a bimbo-esque response he seemed to find so attractive in her cousin. She treaded water at the edge of the dock, even though she could probably stretch up on her tiptoes and stand with her head above the water. “It’s a hundred degrees out here. What do you think I’m doing?”

She was getting good at lying. Maybe it was a family trait she’d inherited from her uncle.

“Why can’t you just take a bath like a normal woman? Get your ass out of the water,” he ordered. “You’re out of cell range here.”

Melanie stopped moving and curled her toes into the mud beneath her, feeling a twinge of guilt. “Is there an emergency?”

“No, but Daryl’s been trying to get a hold of you. He’s got a question about those medical supplies you asked him to pick up in town. No sense him making two trips just because you decided to go skinny-dipping.”

Melanie nodded and paddled to the tarnished copper ladder at the edge of the dock. “Okay. I’ll get out as soon as you leave.”

“You got nothin’ I ain’t seen before.” Well, he hadn’t seen hers, and she wasn’t about to show him. Still, she had a feeling that Silas’s reluctance to turn the ATV around and ride away had less to do with her being nearly naked and more to do with his egoistic need to make sure his orders were followed. “Don’t keep Daryl waiting.”

Melanie held on to the ladder until he had gunned the engine and disappeared through the line of trees at the top of the hill. Victory. Albeit a small one. Once his shiny bald head had vanished over the rise, Melanie wasted no time climbing out of the water and hurrying back to her pile of clothes and newly acquired treasure. She was dressed from T-shirt to toes and wringing out her hair in a matter of minutes. Despite the humidity, the air was hot enough that her clothes would dry off soon enough, although her hair would kink up into the kind of snarling mess that only Raggedy Ann fans could appreciate. Funny how she’d grown up without being noticed—she’d always been a little too plump, a little too freckled, a little too into her books to turn heads. Now she was counting on that same anonymity to allow her to return to the farm without drawing any more attention to herself.

Pulling her phone from her lace-up work boot, she verified that she was, indeed, far enough out in the hills, away from the cell tower on the farm, that she had no service. So Silas hadn’t lied about his reason for tracking her down. She’d give Daryl a call as soon as she was in range, and then, even though an internet connection was spottier than cell reception in this part of the state, she’d try to get online and research some images to see if she could identify the object she’d found inside her father’s boat.

Putting off her amateur sleuthing for the time being, Melanie cut across to one of the many paths she and her father had explored when he’d been alive. She followed a dry creek bed around the base of the next hill and climbed toward the county road that bordered the north edge of the property.

As she’d hoped, she was able to get cell reception there, and she contacted her friend Daryl to go over the list of items she needed to restock her medical supplies. But it was taking so long to connect to the internet that she reached the main homestead and had to slip her phone into her hip pocket so that no one would see her trying to contact the outside world.

As the trees gave way to land cleared for farming, buildings, gravel roads and a parking lot, Melanie headed to the two-bedroom cottage she called home. But, instead of finding everyone going about their work for the day, she saw that a crowd had gathered near the front porch of her uncle’s two-story white house. She could hear the tones of an argument, although she couldn’t make out the words. Suddenly the crowd oohed and gasped as if cheering a hit in a softball game, and Melanie stopped. “What the heck?”

She changed course and headed to the main house, looking for a gap where she could get a clear view of whatever they were watching.

She spotted Silas near the bottom of the porch steps, slowly circling to his left, eyeing his unlucky target. What a surprise, discovering him in the vicinity of angry words. It was a fight, another stupid fight because somebody had ticked off Silas. More than likely, her cousin had turned him down for another date, and his opponent was merely the outlet for his wrath. Typically, her uncle didn’t allow the tourists visiting the bakery and craft shop to see any kind of dissension in the ranks of the people who lived and worked on the farm. But the hot day made it easy for tempers to rile, so maybe Henry was letting one of the hands or Silas himself blow off a little steam.

Shaking her head at the testosterone simmering in the air, Melanie turned to leave behind what was sure to be a short brawl. If it even came to fists. The men around here were smart enough to end any argument with Silas with words and walk away before it escalated into something they’d regret. If these folks had gathered for some kind of boxing match, they were going to be disappointed.

Melanie halted in her tracks when Silas’s opponent shifted into view.

He was new.

Her stomach tied itself into a knot of apprehension as she took in the unfortunate soul who’d been foolish enough to stand up to the farm foreman. Only it was pretty hard to think of the narrow-eyed stranger mirroring Silas’s movements step for step as any kind of unfortunate.

The stranger was almost as tall as Silas. The faded army logo T-shirt he wore fit like a second skin over shoulders and biceps that were well muscled and broadly built. With military-short hair and beard stubble the color of tree bark shading his square jaw, he certainly looked tough enough to take on the resident bully, and she felt herself wanting to cheer for him. She caught a glimpse of a navy blue bandanna in his back jeans pocket, and her gaze lingered there long enough to realize she was gawking like a hungry woman eyeing a new batch of cupcakes in the bakery window.

Feeling suddenly warmer than the summer weather could account for, she forced herself to move away from the circle. She didn’t want to watch a fight and she didn’t want to be interested in any man who’d shown up here, especially since her goal was to find out about her father and then get away from this pastoral prison.

“This is how you welcome somebody to your place, Fiske?”

Melanie stopped at the stranger’s deep, growly voice. Welcome? The apprehension left her stomach and siphoned into her veins. But she wasn’t feeling pity over a pending beat down—this trepidation was all about her. If Henry had hired this guy to work on the farm, then he’d be one more Silas-sized obstacle she’d have to outmaneuver in order to keep digging for answers about her father.

Chapter Two

Duff spit the blood from his mouth where the bruiser with the shaved head had punched him in the jaw, scraping the inside of his cheek across his teeth. He eyed the older man who’d invited him here for this so-called interview standing up on the porch watching the scuffle in the grass with a look of indifference. “Forget it. I don’t need a job that badly.”

He wanted to get hired on at the Fiske Family Farm. If this undercover op was going to be a success, he needed to get hired here. But he couldn’t seem too eager, too willing to kowtow to the owner’s authority or to the bruiser with the iron fist’s intimidation tactics. Otherwise, nobody here in the crowd of farmhands, shopkeepers and tourists—along with a man in a khaki uniform shirt sipping coffee and noshing on a Danish—would buy his big-badass-mercenary-for-hire persona. He’d spent the past few weeks cultivating his world-weary Duff Maynard identity in the nearby town of Falls City. Portraying a messed-up former soldier looking for a job off the grid, he’d even slept several nights in his truck, solidifying his lone-drifter status so that he could infiltrate the suspected illegal arms business being run behind the bucolic tranquility of this tree-lined farming and tourist commune. Playing his part convincingly was vital to any undercover op.

So he scooped up the army-issue duffel bag that had been taken from him and strode over to the porch, where Baldy had retreated to stand in front of his boss, Henry Fiske. Duff nodded toward the keys, wallet, gun and sheathed hunting knife lying on the gray planks, where the man with the shaved head sat in front of the railing, panting through his smug grin. Removing the weapons from his bag and identification from his pockets when the big man had patted him down and gone through his things had given Duff reason to start the fight in the first place, solidifying his tough-guy character in front of a lot of witnesses. “I’ll be taking those.”

Baldy rose to his feet, looking ready, willing and eager to go another round with him. “I don’t think so, Sergeant Loser,” he taunted.

He heard a few worried whispers moving through the onlookers as he and Baldy faced off. But the man on the porch, Henry Fiske, raised his hand and quieted them. “Not to worry, folks. We’re just gettin’ acquainted. Had a bit of a misunderstanding that we’ll work out.” He gestured to the uniformed man standing near the end of the porch. “Besides, we’ve got Sheriff Cobb here. So nothing bad’s gonna happen. Go back to your cars or get to shoppin’.” He tipped his nose and sniffed the air. “I smell fresh baked goods y’all aren’t going to want to miss.”

With murmurs of approval and relief, most of the touristy types separated from the crowd and headed toward the shops on the property. But others—the men and women who lived and worked on the vast complex, perhaps—merely tightened their circle around Duff and the front of the house. Why weren’t they dispersing as ordered? What did they know that Duff didn’t?

“You’ve got everything under control, Henry?” the sheriff asked.

“I do.”

“Then I’ll be headin’ back into town.” He gently elbowed the sturdy, fiftysomething blonde woman beside him. “I just drove out to get some of Phyllis’s tasty cooking. My wife doesn’t fix anything like this for dessert.”

The woman waved off the compliment and turned to follow the tourists. “Come on, Sterling. I’ll pack a box of goodies to take with you.”

That’s why the Hanover County sheriff hadn’t been included in the task force working this case. Either Sterling Cobb was being paid to overlook any transgressions here, or the portly man who’d refused to step in and break up a fight was afraid, incompetent or both.

“Ain’t nobody here to back you up, Sergeant Loser,” Baldy taunted as soon as the sheriff was out of earshot. “You still want to give me trouble?”

In real life, Duff had been an officer, not a noncom, and he bristled at the dig. But he was playing a part here on behalf of KCPD and the joint task force he was working for. His fake dossier said he’d enlisted out of high school and had seen heavy action in the Middle East, which had left him disillusioned, antisocial and a perfect fit for the homegrown mafia allegedly running arms into Kansas City.

Like the guns that had been used to shoot up his sister’s wedding and put his grandfather in the hospital.

Duff had to play this just right. Because he was not leaving until he had not only the job, but the trust—or at least the respect—of the people here so that he could work his way into Fiske’s inner circle. He’d need that freedom of movement around the place to gather the intel that could put Fiske and the operation he was running out of business.

Although his mission briefing for this joint task force undercover op between KCPD, the Missouri Bureau of Investigation and the ATF hadn’t mentioned any welcome-to-the-family beat down, Duff had worked undercover enough that he knew how to think on his feet. He’d originally thought this assignment had more to do with his familiarity with the terrain of the Ozark Mountains, where he’d spent several summers camping, hunting and fishing. But he also knew how to handle himself in a fight. And if that’s what the job called for, he’d milk his tough-guy act for all it was worth.

He stepped into Baldy’s personal space and picked up the Glock 9mm in its shoulder holster, stuffing both it and the knife inside his duffel bag. He kept his gaze focused on Baldy’s dark eyes as he retrieved the ring of keys and wallet with his false IDs and meager cash. Interesting. Baldy’s jaw twitched as though he wanted to resume the fight, but the man standing above them on the porch seemed to have his enforcer on a short leash.

“In town you told me I had a job here at the farm if I wanted it.” He shifted his stance as Baldy spit at that promise and pushed to his feet. There had to be somebody here he could make friends with to get the inside scoop. Clearly, it wasn’t going to be Baldy. “Tell him to back off. You said you needed a man who knew something about security. I didn’t realize you offered blood sport as one of your tourist attractions.”

“I believe you were the one to throw the first punch, Mr. Maynard.” Fiske gestured to the people waiting for the outcome of this confrontation. “We all saw it. Silas was defending himself.”

Henry Fiske might have looked unremarkable in any other setting. He was somewhere in his fifties, with silvering sideburns growing down to his jaw and into his temples. He wore overalls and a wide-brimmed straw hat that marked him as a man who worked the land. The guy even had an indulgent smile for the platinum blonde leaning against the post beside him. The aging rodeo queen would be his wife, Abby. Despite Fiske’s friendly drawl, Duff had seen the cold expectation that his authority would not be challenged in eyes like Fiske’s before.

So, naturally, Duff challenged it. He swung his duffel bag onto his shoulder. “I’m out of here.”

“Don’t let the muck on my boots fool you, Mr. Maynard. I’m a businessman.” Duff kept walking. “A lot of money and traffic pass through here in the summertime, making us a target for thieves and vandals. Hanover is a big county for the sheriff to patrol, and since we’re a remote location, we’re often forced to be self-sufficient. It’s my responsibility to see the property and people here stay safe.” A mother pulled a curious toddler out of the way and the crowd parted to let him pass toward the gravel parking lot in front of the metal buildings where he’d parked his truck. “I needed to see if your skills are as good as you claim. You don’t exactly come with reputable references.”

“The US Army isn’t a good enough reference for you?” Duff halted and turned, reminding Fiske of the forged document that was part of the identification packet the task force had put together for him to establish his undercover identity—Sergeant Thomas “Duff” Maynard. His army service was real, but the medical discharge and resulting mental issues that made him a bad fit for “normal” society had been beefed up as part of his undercover profile.

“I trust what I see with my own eyes. Silas?” Henry Fiske called the big man back into action and gave a sharp nod in a different direction.

The crowd shifted again as a second man approached from the right. This twentysomething guy was as lanky as Silas was overbuilt. But the scar on his sunburned cheek indicated he knew his way around a brawl. So this was what the crowd had been waiting for—a two-on-one grudge match. This wasn’t any different than a gang initiation in the city. If Fiske wanted Duff to prove he had hand-to-hand combat skills, then prove it he would.

Duff pulled the duffel bag from his shoulder and swung it hard as Skinny Guy charged him. The heavy bag caught the younger man square in the gut and doubled him over. He swung again, smashing the kid in the face before dropping the bag and bracing for Baldy’s attack. The big man named Silas grabbed Duff from behind, pinning his arms to his sides. He hoped Baldy had a good grip on him because he used him as a backboard to brace himself and kick out when Skinny Guy rushed him a second time. His boot connected with the other man’s chin and snapped his head back, knocking him on his butt. Utilizing his downward momentum, Duff planted his feet and twisted, throwing Baldy off his back.

But the big guy wasn’t without skills. He hooked his boots around Duff’s legs and rolled, pulling him off balance. The grass softened the jolt to Duff’s body, but the position left him vulnerable to the kick to his flank that knocked him over.

Baldy was on him in a second and they rolled into the wood steps at the base of the porch, striking the same spot on his ribs. Duff grimaced at the pain radiating through his middle, giving his attacker the chance to pop him in the cheek and make his eyes water. Okay. Now he was mad. Time to get real.

He slammed his fist into Baldy’s jaw and reversed their positions. Duff pinned his forearm against the big man’s throat, cutting off his air supply until his struggles eased, and he slapped the bottom step as if the gesture was his version of saying Uncle.

Silas might be done with the fight, but by the time Duff had staggered to his feet, Skinny Guy had, too.

“Stay down!” Duff warned. But when he swung at him, anyway, Duff dropped his shoulder and rammed the other man’s midsection, knocking the younger guy’s breath from his lungs and laying him flat on the ground.

Duff was a little winded himself, and damn, he was going to be sore tomorrow. But as far as he could tell from the cheering hoots from a couple of teenage boys, he’d passed this part of the job interview with flying colors. He was brushing bits of grass and dirt from the thighs of his jeans and checking the dribble of blood at the corner of his mouth when the cheers abruptly stopped.

He heard a grunt of pure, mindless fury behind him and spun around. He saw the glint of silver in Baldy’s hand a split second before a slash of pain burned through the meat of his shoulder. Duff dodged the backswing of the knife, and jumped back another step when the blade was shoved toward his belly.

He was poised to grab Baldy’s wrist on the next jab when a blur of warm auburn hair and faded blue jeans darted into the space between them. “Stop! Silas, stop!”

Instinctively, Duff snaked his uninjured arm around the woman’s waist and pulled her away from the thrusting knife. “Are you crazy?”

Baldy, too, seemed shocked by the interloper. He grabbed the redhead by the wrist and jerked her from Duff’s one-armed grasp before pushing her to the side. “Damn it, girl. You get out of my way.”

She stumbled a few feet. But as soon as she found her footing, the redhead jumped right back into the fray. She shoved at Silas’s chest and wedged herself between the two men. “I said to stop!”

Duff’s arm went around her again, snugging her round bottom against his hip as he spun her away from the danger and pulled her to a safer distance. “Listen, sweetheart, I appreciate the effort, but you’re going to get yourself killed. And I can’t have that on my con—”

“Melanie!” Henry Fiske shouted from the porch, warning the woman to stand down instead of telling Baldy to lower the knife that was now pointed at both of them. “You forget yourself, girl. You get out of there now. This doesn’t concern you.”

Silas’s dark gaze bored into hers and Duff retreated another step, dragging his foolhardy savior farther from that blood-tipped blade. Silas snapped his gaze up to Duff’s, over the top of her head, before he flicked the knife down into the ground and walked over to the edge of the porch. Cursing Duff and the woman under his breath, Baldy dipped his hands into a bucket of water and splashed it over the top of his dirty, sweaty head.

A damp wisp of wavy auburn hair lifted in the hot summer breeze and stuck to the sweat on Duff’s neck as his chest heaved against the exertion of the fight. The woman’s breath was coming hard, too, but she kept her eyes fixed on Silas, making sure he wasn’t going to try another sneak attack. She sagged against Duff’s chest, and he realized the front of his khaki T-shirt was soaking up moisture from the long cords of hair caught between them. As quickly as he sensed the woman’s relief, he realized he was still holding on to her with a death grip. He released her and she turned to inspect the torn, bloodied cotton of his sleeve. Well, hell. She might be a lot of tough talk, but she was gutting her way through this brave little rebellion against his violent welcome.

“I’m forgetting nothing, Uncle Henry. The new guy put Silas down fair and square. He proved what you wanted him to.” Despite her succinct words, there was a soft drawl to her ng’s and vowel sounds, indicating her Ozark upbringing. “You put me in charge of the infirmary and I’m doing my job. I know you sent Daryl on a supply run, but until we restock, I don’t have the supplies to treat more injuries like this.”

She reminded him of a long-haired Irish setter after a bath, with the dripping ends of her long hair making dark spots on the front of her gray T-shirt. She was of average height and definitely on the full-figured side of things. Her face was nothing remarkable to look at. Ordinary brown eyes. Simple nose and apple-shaped cheeks dusted with freckles. Pale pink lips.

But her fingers worked with beautiful precision. She ripped the sleeve away and pulled the material down off the end of his arm before wadding it up and pressing it against the slice across the outside of his shoulder. She didn’t even hesitate at his grunt of pain. The woman certainly knew how to make a field dressing. “As it is, I may not have enough sutures to seal this cut. And I’m completely out of antibiotics. We should take him to the hospital in Falls City.”

“Is he dying?” Fiske asked.

The redhead’s mouth squeezed into a frown. “No.”

“Then you’re not going anywhere. You’re a resourceful girl. Figure it out.” Fiske’s tone made that sound more like an annoyance than the compliment it should have been. And there was nothing girlish about the curves straining the damp T-shirt she wore. “Have you been in the lake again, Mel?”

“I took a dip to cool off.” That explained the wet hair.

“Melanie?” Fiske chided, apparently requiring a different sort of answer.

She dropped one hand from the makeshift dressing over Duff’s shoulder and lowered her head to a more deferential posture. “I’ll find a way to take care of him without going to town.”

Without the pressure of her grip, the cut throbbed and blood trickled down his arm again. Thinking she’d given up on defying her uncle to help him, Duff snagged the wadded cotton from her grip and reached over to cover the wound with his own hand. But she surprised him by stretching around him and palming his backside. Her heavy breasts squished against his chest as she patted one cheek and then the other. The grope was unexpected but far more pleasurable than Silas’s fist had been. Duff turned to keep her eyes in sight, gauging her intent. “Not that I don’t appreciate a good butt-grab, sweetheart, but I don’t even know your last name.”

“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 tended 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—

“I don’t have an X-ray machine to check for internal injuries.”

Now he was the one swallowing hard to regain his equilibrium. “I know what a cracked rib feels like. I’m breathing fine. This is just a bruise.”

She pulled a tray of ice from the minifridge and wrapped the ice in a thin towel, placing it gently against his aching side. “You’ve been in a lot of fights?”

“A few.”

“I’m sorry.” She took his hand and placed it over the ice pack to hold it in place so that she could set up a tray with sutures. “That you’ve been hurt, I mean. I’m not sorry that somebody was able to put Silas in his place for once.” She tilted her eyes up to his. “Does that make me a bad person? That I feel like I should thank you?”

Maybe the woman was more bluff than any real experience with men. Since she wasn’t attached to anyone here, he could take advantage of her apparent interest in him. She seemed to be at odds with Henry Fiske, but she was part of his family. And, clearly, she had some kind of history with Danvers. She’d know everyone here and have access to most, if not all, of the facilities. And this conversation was giving him the feeling that he could get close to her, after all.

For a split second, Shayla Ortiz’s face superimposed itself over Melanie’s. He’d used her, too, to get close to her drug-dealing brother. And that had turned into the worst sort of disaster an undercover cop could face. He’d lost his focus on the case when he’d fallen in love. Shayla had betrayed him and blown his cover to protect herself, and he hadn’t seen it coming until it was too late.

But Duff was a decade older and wiser now. He didn’t have to trust Melanie Fiske—he just had to make her think he did. He had to make her believe he cared about her. He didn’t have the suave charm of his youngest brother to draw on, but how sophisticated could a woman who’d grown up in the boonies of Missouri be? She just needed somebody to be nicer to her than Danvers had been, and that wouldn’t be much of a challenge. If he paid attention to a few details, he could figure out what was important to her and pretend those things were important to him, too.

Melanie tucked a damp tendril behind her ear and held it there as her freckled cheeks colored with a rosy blush. “I guess that makes me a hypocrite—trying to stop the violence, yet wishing I could have done it myself.”

Duff realized he’d been staring long enough to make her uncomfortable—just the opposite of what he needed to be doing if he was going to woo her into becoming an ally. He ignored the stab of guilt that tried to warn him away from involving her in his investigation. “Has Danvers given you trouble before? Do you know how to fight?”

“So far I’ve relied on outwitting him. It isn’t that hard.”

Duff wanted to grin at her sarcasm, but the fact that the man who’d cut his arm open had threatened her, as well, didn’t sit well with him. “I could give you a few pointers on defending yourself.”

“You’d teach me to fight.” Now that was a skeptical look. “Like you were doing out there with Silas?”

Realistically, he doubted she could take Silas down the same way he had. But there were ways. “You just have to be smarter than your opponent, do the unexpected and be fierce about committing to the attack. I could show you escape maneuvers—and you probably already know some of the key targets if you want to incapacitate a man.”

Her gaze dropped down to the zipper of his jeans and up to the column of his throat.

“I see you already know a couple of vulnerable spots.” He really should feel guilty about saying things that triggered that graphic response on her skin. Instead, he was wondering what else he could say or do to make her skin color like that.

She quickly averted her face. “I’d appreciate that. If you have the time.”

Her hip brushed against his thigh as she inserted the first stitch. Duff turned his nose to the crown of her hair, inhaling the scents of baby shampoo and damp summer heat. “I’ll make the time for you.”

“You don’t even know your work schedule...” Before she made the next stitch, she tipped her face to his. Her breath caught with an audible startle at how close he was to her, but Duff made no effort to retreat.

Her eyes weren’t ordinary at all. Their cool brown color, spiked with flecks of amber, reminded him of the fine Irish whiskey he and his brothers liked to sip on special occasions. With her sweet scent and eyes like that, he wouldn’t have to pretend that this woman had some pretty about her, after all.

“When I say I’m going to do a thing, I do it.”

He lowered his gaze to the quiver of her lips and felt a twist of hunger low in his belly. He could kiss her right now if he wanted to. Maybe the bold move would shock her into kissing him back. Or she might just slap his face for doing without asking.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.” Her hands were suddenly very busy with the cut on his shoulder.

“I don’t.”

Yep. Busy, busy. She didn’t know what to do about her interest in him. She didn’t know how to hide it, either. As long as he didn’t spook her, he could give her a few lessons about how to indulge that awareness she was feeling. And, damn it, he was going to take advantage of that attraction. Because the mission required it.

But that meant ignoring his conscience and his errant libido, and taking it slow so he wouldn’t frighten her off before he had the chance to solidify a connection between them. So he dialed back his own curiosity about what her lips might taste like and thought about the vanishing man who’d shot his grandfather and the reason he was here in the first place. Duff set the ice pack on the bed beside him and captured a strand of Melanie’s auburn hair, pulling it away from the damp spot on her left breast. The kinky tendril was thick and soft as he rubbed it between his thumb and fingers, stirring up the scents he’d noticed earlier. She must use baby products for all her personal toiletries. If he needed any further testament to her innocence...

Melanie pulled away at the same moment he forgot that touching her was supposed to be an act.

“Give me a sec.” She exited the room for a minute or so, and came back in, sans the blush, tying a rubber band around the long braid that hung over her shoulder. Without another word, she pulled on a new pair of sterile gloves and prepped the needle for the next stitch. Her tough-chick armor was back in place.

But Duff wasn’t about to surrender the opportunity to get closer to her. “That’s a shame, winding up all that wild hair like that.” He reached out and twisted the heavy braid between his fingers, using it to tug her into the vee of his legs. “I liked it better down.”

Chapter Four

“You liked...?” Melanie caught her breath when the back of Tom Maynard’s knuckles brushed across her breast as he played with the braid of her hair. The caress tingled over her skin, tightening the tip into a tender pearl. Was that an accident? Or had that touch been intentional? She cringed at the sound of denim rasping against denim. She was nestled between his thighs and she wasn’t making any effort to move away from the warmth surrounding her.

“Are you hitting on me?” With an awkward push and a nearly stifling amount of embarrassed heat creeping up to her cheeks, she stepped around his knee. A half-sewn suture linking her hands to his shoulder kept her from bolting across the room. “You’ll make me mess up this stitch.”

She’d been stripped down to wet undies that were transparent to the skin an hour or so ago and hadn’t felt as exposed as she did fully dressed with Tom Maynard. Of course, no one had touched her, accidentally or otherwise, when she’d been swimming in her skivvies. And this man seemed to keep finding reasons to touch her. Where was that sharp tongue she’d used to tell off Silas and her uncle? Was she really so starved for some tender attention from a man that she’d forget her vow to steer clear of any entanglements on the farm?

She stopped herself from reaching inside her pocket again to touch her father’s watch. It was a superstitious habit, really, thinking that holding on to the busted watch could bring back either of her parents. The scratched-up piece of gold couldn’t really channel her father’s spirit and give her clarity and reassurance when she needed it. She had to be smart enough to remember all the life lessons her widowed father had taught her right up until the night he’d died.

Except that she’d been a girl of eleven when Leroy Fiske had drowned. And, somehow, the lessons she’d learned as a little girl never included how she was supposed to react to a man who stirred things inside her. Even when he didn’t mean to. Or did he? She’d been secretly cheering for Tom Maynard when he’d stood up to Henry and Silas’s authority. They’d had to gang up on Tom and pull a weapon to turn the tide of power back in their favor. For a few moments, she thought she’d found her hero—the perfect ally—a way out of the nightmare unfolding around her these past few months. No wonder she’d been so eager to defy her uncle’s authority and step into the middle of a fight.

Then she realized he was going to be like the other men here—overlooking her uncle’s lies and accepting his questionable dictates in exchange for a share of the farm’s profits—or whatever a man like Tom needed.

But the promise of a hero must have lingered inside her because she’d been ogling Tom’s imposing chest and the T-shaped dusting of brown hair that tapered into a line that disappeared beneath his belt buckle, imagining being held close to all that muscle and heat again. Did her reaction to his touch mean she liked Tom? Had catching her admiring the muscular landscape sent her patient the message that she wanted to be touched? If so, how did she change that message? Because it really wasn’t in her plans right now to...to what? Make a friend? Have an affair? Completely embarrass herself by revealing that she’d reached the age of twenty-five with more experience fishing than kissing?

“Hey, Doc, you okay?” His voice rumbled in a drowsy timbre. “You got quiet on me.”

She hated how her skin telegraphed every emotion, putting her at a disadvantage when she couldn’t read whatever Tom was thinking or feeling. “I did?” She cleared her throat to mask the embarrassingly breathless quality of her own voice. “I’m sorry. What were we talking about?”

“Why you tamed all that hair into a braid like this. You’ve sure got a lot of it.” Was that supposed to be a compliment? Or a remark about how the Missouri humidity could wreak havoc on too much naturally curly hair? And, goodness, was he still twirling the tail end of her braid between his fingers?

She couldn’t summon her father’s spirit to guide her, but she could muster up a little common sense. Melanie pulled the braid from his fingers and swung it behind her back. “It’s not practical to have it flying all over the place when I have to do work like this. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been tempted to cut it all off.”

“Now that would be a shame. It’s like earthy fire.”

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