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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 (#u730608af-c96e-51b1-83db-681c5cca6368)
“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?”
