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
