Chapter 1
“Damn,” Drake Morgan muttered, checked his speedometer and repeated the expletive.
He hadn’t realized he’d been going over the sixty-miles-an-hour speed limit until blue lights flashed in his rearview mirror. Lifting his foot off the accelerator, he slowed and eased to the side of the road, just a few miles from his destination.
A county sheriff’s SUV pulled to a stop behind him, and a deputy dropped down from the driver’s seat.
The tan, short-sleeved uniform shirt stretched taut over full breasts, the shirt-tails tucked into the waistband of dark brown trousers, cinched around a narrow waist with a thick black belt.
Definitely female. Too petite and pretty to be out patrolling the wild roads of rural Montana.
He lowered the window of his Ford F250 pickup, reached into his glove box for the vehicle registration and insurance information she’d surely request and straightened.
“Sir, place your hands on the window frame,” she said.
He raised his hands, one of which held the documents.
The other he carefully placed on the window frame of his door, staring out the open window into the barrel of a pistol.
He raised his gaze to the deputy’s and cocked an eyebrow.
“I have a concealed carry license,” he warned.
“My weapon is in the glove compartment. I’m unarmed at this moment. ”
“Just keep your hands where I can see them,” she said, her tone curt, her eyes narrowed as she held the pistol pointed at his head.
“Can I ask why I was pulled over?” he asked in a calm, even tone, knowing the answer.
“You were exceeding the speed limit,” she said. “If that’s your title and registration, I’ll take those. But no funny business.”
“Trust me,” he said with a crooked smile. “I’ve never been accused of being funny.”
Her eyebrows pulled together to form a V over her nose as she took the papers he held out for her.
She studied the documents then glanced up. “You’re not from around here,” she said.
“No, I’m not,” he said.
“Do you know how fast you were going?” she asked, all business, no smile.
Drake almost grinned at the seriousness of the young woman’s expression and the way she stiffly held herself. “Over the speed limit?”
She snorted. “By at least fifteen miles an hour. In a hurry to get somewhere?”
“I was.”
She shook her head, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “And how’s that working out for you?”
“You tell me,” he quipped.
She was pretty in a girl-next-door kind of way with light brown hair pulled back in an efficient ponytail.
Drake stared up into her eyes, trying to decide if they were brown, gold or green, finally settling on hazel. To cap it all, she sported a dusting of freckles on her bare face. “You have my information, but let me introduce myself.” He stuck out his hand. “Drake Morgan.”
Her brow furrowed as she contemplated his extended hand. “I’m Deputy Douglas.” She gave a brief nod, ignored his hand and stared past him into the vehicle. “Since you have a gun in the vehicle with you, you’ll need to step out of the truck while I run your data.”
Already late for the meeting with his team, their new boss, and this his first day on the job, he sighed, pushed open the door and stepped out with his hands held high.
“Turn around, place your hands on the hood of your vehicle and spread your legs,” she said in a tone that brooked no argument.
He cocked an eyebrow. “I’m not a convicted felon. I owned up to the gun in my glove box. I’m unarmed and at your mercy.”
Having stated her demand once, she held the gun pointed at his chest, unbending, waiting for him to follow through.
Rather than give her a reason to pull the trigger, he turned and complied with her command.
The shuffle of gravel indicated she’d moved closer. A small, capable hand skimmed over his shoulders, down his sides, around to his abs and lower. Bypassing his private parts, her hand traveled the length of his legs, patting both all the way to his ankles.
Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as she balanced her service weapon with her right hand as she frisked him with her left.
Finally, she straightened and stepped back. “Please stand at the rear of your vehicle while I run your plates and license.”
He turned and gave her a twisted grin. “Told you I was unarmed.”
She backed toward her vehicle then slipped into the driver’s seat. Her fingers danced across a computer keyboard as she entered his license and registration data and waited.
Moments later, she got out of her work vehicle, weapon back in the holster on her belt, and strode toward him while writing on an official-looking pad.
When she reached him, she ripped off the top sheet and handed it to him.
“I’m only giving you a warning this time.
Next time, I’ll cite you. Slow it down out there.
The life you endanger might not be your own. ”
With that parting comment, she spun on her booted heels and marched back to her vehicle.
“Deputy Douglas,” he called out.
As she opened her SUV, she turned to face him, “Yes, Mr. Morgan?”
“You’re the first person I’ve met here. Nice to meet you.” He waved the warning ticket. “And thank you.”
Her brow furrowed, and she shook her head as she climbed into the vehicle. Moments later, she passed his truck and continued toward the little town of Eagle Rock ahead of him.
Drake slipped into the driver’s seat and followed at a more sedate pace.
Hell, he was already late. What were a few more minutes?
And it wasn’t worth getting a full-fledged ticket.
He was lucky she’d only issued a warning.
She could’ve hit him hard with a speeding ticket, with the lasting effect of jacking up his insurance rates.
He owed her a coffee or a beer. Since she was the only person from Eagle Rock he knew besides Hank Patterson, he’d kind of like to get to know her better. It paid to have the law on your side in these backwater towns.
Following the GPS map on his dash, he drove through town and out the other end, turning on the road leading to his destination.
Soon, he saw her, perched on the side of a mountain, her broad porches intact, her late eighteen-hundred charm shining through, despite the need for a good paint job and dry-rot repair.
The Lucky Lady Lodge clung to the side of the mountain, welcoming travelers in search of a quiet getaway in the Crazy Mountains of Montana.
From what Hank had told him, this lodge had been a place for the gold rush miners of the late eighteen hundreds to spend their hard-earned gold on booze and women.
After the gold had dried up, the Lucky Lady had become a speakeasy during the prohibition, with secret passages into the old mine where they’d made moonshine and stored the contraband in the mountain.
Drake had done some research on the old lodge. He’d found stories telling of days when mafia kingpins had come to conduct business while hunting in the hills or fishing in the mountain streams.
Fires had consumed hundreds of acres surrounding the lodge, missing it on more than one occasion by less than a mile.
Throughout the years, the lodge stood as she had from the beginning, a little worn around the edges.
Recently, she’d been damaged by an explosion in the mine.
That’s where Drake and his team would come in.
He looked forward to rolling up his sleeves and putting his carpentry skills to work restoring the old girl.
He hoped that, like riding a bike, it would all come back to him despite the sixteen years it had been since he’d last lifted a hammer to build or repair anything more than a deck on the house of a friend.
The summers he’d spent working on new home construction while in high school gave him skills he wouldn’t have known otherwise and the confidence to try new things he’d never done.
Having joined the Marines straight out of high school, he hadn’t had much need for carpentry skills. He’d focused all his attention on being the best military guy he could be. That had meant working his ass off and applying for the elite Marine Force Recons.
Marine Force Recon training had been the most difficult training he’d ever survived.
Once he’d made it through, he’d been deployed on a regular basis to all corners of the world, fighting wars he thought were to help people who couldn’t help themselves or protect his own country from the tyranny of others.
Drake snorted. He’d learned all too soon that war wasn’t always for just causes. When he’d tired of putting his life on the line for the benefit of big business, he’d said goodbye to what had been the only career he’d ever wanted.
From there, he’d worked with Stone Jacobs as a mercenary in Afghanistan, leaving just in time before the US pulled out and left Stone and the last five members of his team stranded.
Rumor had it that former SEAL, Hank Patterson, had sent a rescue team to get Jacobs and his people out.
Since Afghanistan, Drake had refused to be another hired mercenary. He’d been drifting from one low-paying job to another. Nothing seemed to fit.
When Hank Patterson had called him out of the blue, he’d been working at a small diner in the backwoods of East Texas, dissatisfied with life, unable to fit into the civilian world and ready for any change that would take him away from the diner, the small-minded residents of the town and the meddling mamas bent on matching their single daughters to the only bachelor in town with all of his original teeth.
No, thank you.
Drake had been ready to leave East Texas.
When Hank’s call had come, he’d been willing to listen and even come to Montana for a one-on-one chat with his old friend and brother-in-arms.
Hank had offered Drake a job as a Brotherhood Protector, a kind of security firm providing protection, extraction and whatever else was warranted for people who needed the expertise of someone skilled in special operations.