Chapter 2
Reluctant Protector
Austin
The succulent on my desk is thriving, which is more than I can say for most of my clients’ budgets.
It sits in a white ceramic pot, the soil dampened forty-eight hours ago, angled toward the window at exactly twenty degrees to maximize morning sunlight. It is balanced and predictable, like everything else in my office.
My desk is squared to the window and the door: pens are parallel to the edge of the desk, and the papers are aligned with the calculator.
Everything at ninety degrees. The Denver skyline stretches beyond the glass wall—steel and glass stacked in orderly lines.
Even the traffic below hums in a pattern I’ve learned to expect.
Order is what makes the world function. I used to think strength did, back when my uniform was camouflage instead of charcoal gray, and my weapon of choice wasn’t a calculator, but a precisely calibrated MKA1.
But numbers… numbers don’t lie. They don’t bleed; they don’t break; their lives aren’t hanging in my hands. They balance or they don’t.
And in this office, they balance. Accounting isn’t life or death, but everyone seems to spend it like they won’t see tomorrow, until tomorrow comes.
A calendar alert dings from my phone. Nine o’clock sharp. Client: Browne.
I frown. I don’t have a client named Browne. I would remember. I never forget a meeting. The last time I missed one, I was crawling out of the Hindu Kush with a busted radio and a few missing men.
I check again. Browne. Nine a.m. My screen doesn’t lie, but the entry isn’t mine.
Which leaves two possibilities: either my system has been compromised—unlikely—or this Browne fellow is about to walk through my door.
I glance at the clock. Eight fifty-nine.
Right on cue, there’s a knock at the door of my office.
I sit back in my chair, spine straight, eyes narrowing. The succulent, oblivious to my dilemma, leans peacefully toward the sun.
The knock comes at exactly nine. I can appreciate Browne’s punctuality.
I slide the folder I was reviewing into a neat stack and straighten in my chair. “Come in.”
The door opens, and a man steps inside like he owns the place—or at least like he’s owned several rooms exactly like it. Mid-sixties, sharp suit, battered leather satchel slung across his shoulder. His silver hair gleams under the overhead light, his eyes carry seasoned, amused patience.
“Mr. Adams,” he says warmly, his voice carrying that old-world resonance. “You haven’t changed. If only the world were half as organized as your desk.”
I rise and take his offered hand. His grip is firm and confident.
“Mr. Browne?” I ask. “You’re not on my client list.”
“Not yet,” he replies, his eyes twinkling.
He gestures toward the chair opposite my desk, waits for my nod, and settles in as if he has all the time in the world.
He unslings his satchel, sets it gently on the chair beside him, and pulls out a thick manila envelope stamped with Browne, Browne, and Associates. Montana Estate Law.
Something prickles at the base of my neck. A memory I vaguely remember.
“You knew Penny Thomas,” he says. It wasn’t a question.
I hesitate. “Yes. I’ve run into her a handful of times. Social events here in Denver. She had… a flair.”
That’s putting it mildly. The woman once served purple deviled eggs at a benefit dinner and made me hold a papier-maché parrot while she told a story about nearly adopting a circus troupe. Half the guests thought she was joking. I wasn’t so sure.
Mr. Browne slides the envelope across my desk. “She remembered you.”
I study it but don’t reach for it yet. “I’m a forensic accountant. I don’t do estate law.”
“No. But your talents go beyond accounting, and you do order. Penny was very fond of order, in her own… creative way.”
Something softens in my chest. Fond. That was the word. I hadn’t known her well, but she had this uncanny ability to pull you into her orbit and make you feel like your strengths weren’t quirks but superpowers.
I clear my throat, breaking the moment. “What’s this about?”
He leans forward, fingers laced over his knee.
“Penny left very specific instructions in her will. Her niece Milly is to inherit the ranch in Everwood, Montana, provided she lives there for one calendar year. But Penny named you, Mr. Adams, as co-executor. Or, in her words”—he smiles faintly—“the Numbers Man. Also known as her secret weapon.” Mr. Browne smirks.
“Before you say no, your boss has already agreed to your extended leave of absence. It’s not just a suggestion,” he added, like he’d read the question before I’d asked it.
“The will requires residency and oversight. You’re there to document compliance, keep the estate clean, and make sure no one…
helps themselves while she’s settling in. ”
Secret weapon, prearranged leave, residency? My first thought was logistical. My second was inconveniently human: living that close to Milly Thomas, if she was anything like her aunt, sounded like putting a match in a paper bag and calling it ‘contained.’
“I’m not a bodyguard anymore,” I say flatly. “I track expenses. I close books.”
“Exactly why she named you,” Browne says, a smile tugging faintly at his mouth. “Milly has heart. She has vision. She is wildly uncontained, much like Penny. What she lacks is your kind of balance.” I raise my eyebrows, as if he’d heard my thoughts.
I turn the envelope in my hands, my thumb resting on the seal. Thick paper and a wax seal. My world—until now—has always been numbers I can balance, problems with clean solutions. This feels different. Like if I accept the job, my life is about to get a whole lot messier.
Browne leans back, giving me space but watching closely. “She left you a letter,” he says. “I thought it best you read it yourself.”
He slides a folded page across the desk. The handwriting is instantly familiar, looping in dramatic flourishes, purple ink nonetheless. Penny never used black or blue when she could make a point in technicolor.
Austin, it begins.
Keep Milly safe. And make sure she doesn’t run into trouble. You’re my secret weapon—keep her steady when her world goes sideways. She’s going to need you more than she wants to admit, and more than you think. Trust me on this one. I’ve had adventures you don’t read in history books.
My mouth quirks despite myself. Even from the grave, Penny has flair. It’s ridiculous. It’s totally Penny.
You may think you’re done protecting people. You may think numbers are safer. But people need both. Milly will need both.
I stare at the words a little longer, as if some part of her voice might echo through the page.
I fold the letter carefully, press the crease flat, and set it down with deliberate precision. “She asked too much.”
Browne doesn’t flinch. “Maybe. Or maybe she knew you’d say that—and that you’d do it anyway.”
Duty whispers in my mind and heart. Duty isn’t something you just throw away because you weren’t wearing camouflage.
I survived Navy SEAL training, yes. I’ve lived through worse things than Denver traffic and tax season, yes.
But I can’t shake the outcome of my last mission.
The one that changed my life forever. The mission that still gives me nightmares and left me with the guilt of the haunting souls that didn’t make it.
My commander and boss still insist there was no other outcome, but the math never added up for me.
Numbers I can live with. Consequences for myself, fine. But someone else’s life? Not again.
“I don’t do protection anymore,” I say quietly. “Not the kind that costs someone their life if I miss a detail. Spreadsheets don’t bleed, Mr. Browne.”
Browne lets the silence stretch before he speaks. “That’s exactly why she named you,” he says finally, the faintest smile tugging at his mouth. “Milly has only ever relied on one person, and now that her mother passed, she has no one. She’s going to need a friend.”
I rub a hand across my jaw, already feeling the grit of sand I haven’t touched in years, the weight of expectations I thought I’d put down. My desk, my office, the succulent leaning toward the sun—it all looks suddenly fragile.
“What happens if I refuse?”
Browne doesn’t hesitate. “Then the estate passes to Harold Thomas.”
He produces a photograph and a folder. A man stares out, hair slicked, smile practiced but brittle at the edges.
His eyes are shifty, his mouth smug. He’s a man who never gets caught with his hand in the cookie jar but always seems to have crumbs on his lips.
I’ve known men like him before. Never good.
I glance again at the envelope. Harold Thomas inheriting Penny’s land doesn’t sit right. It doesn’t balance.
Finally, I nod. “I’ll go. But I’m conducting a full risk analysis first.”
Browne chuckles, slipping the letter and photo back into his satchel. “Of course you will.”
When he leaves, the office feels off balance. I look at the succulent, still living in its perfect pot, and realize there’s a good chance it’ll probably outlive me.
My apartment looks like my office—everything squared, everything in its place. The black sofa lined up with the television, shelves ordered by height and color, a kitchen counter without a single crumb. Not sterile, exactly; it was minimal.
Until tonight.
I’ve spread my packing checklist across the dining table: color-coded, alphabetized, laminated. Each item gets a precise checkmark as it slides into the duffel on the chair beside me.
Five button-downs, two pairs of jeans, boots polished. Emergency first aid kit. Flashlight. Compass. Topographical maps of western Montana, folded with military precision.
I pause over the column labeled contingencies: survival rations, water purifier, spare batteries. A voice in my head mutters it’s overkill for a year in rural Montana. Another voice, older and sharper, snaps back: There’s no such thing as over-prepared.
That one wins every time.