“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
