A Veteran’s Protection (Wild Heart Veterans #1)

Chapter 1

LEXI

The bus jerking to a stop jolts me awake. Peeking through the grimy window as the bus doors creak open, a vibrant blue sign with white text catches my eye. Hope.

“Shit.” Shooting out of my seat, I grab my backpack from the overhead storage. The bedroll catches on the lip of the storage compartment, and I yank it free.

“This is my stop,” I call to the driver.

I must’ve slept for longer than I realized.

It seems like a lifetime ago that I left the bus terminal in Jersey City with its hundreds of coaches. It’s been several changes and many hours since then, and as I shoulder my backpack, I get a whiff of myself. I need a shower, a hot meal, and a soft bed. Pronto.

“You got luggage underneath?” the driver asks as I make my way to the front of the bus.

“No. Just this.”

I step down onto the asphalt, and the door closes behind me with another wheeze and a blast of warm air. As the bus pulls away from the curb, the main street of Hope is revealed; birdsong mingles with the engine of a pickup as it rumbles into town and past the clock tower at the top of the street.

Beyond the tower and stretching into the distance are the green valleys and the majestic peak of Wild Heart Mountain, nestled amongst the mountain range. I stare in awe at the majestic mountain range with white-capped tops.

“Wow.”

Mom never told me how beautiful this place was. I know Hope only as the place where my mom conceived me during a summer of seasonal work.

But seeing the beautiful mountains, so different from the suburban sprawl where I grew up, makes me wonder why she was in such a hurry to leave.

I find the car rental place two blocks back from Main Street. My rental is a small hatchback, and I hold my breath when they take my credit card for the insurance payment.

Thankfully, they hand me the keys, which means it must’ve gone through.

On the other side of town, I find the lawyer’s office, a shabby building with paint peeling off stucco walls. His address appears on the letter that arrived three weeks ago.

The door catches on the maroon-colored carpet as I push it open. The receptionist is on the phone, cupping the receiver in the crook of her shoulder as she peers at me over her wide-rimmed glasses.

“Yes?”

I take a moment to realize she’s speaking to me, not the person on the other end of the call.

“I’m Lexi Gibbs.” My voice is scratchy, and I cough. “We spoke on the phone.”

“I’ll fax the details over to you.”

I blink at her, confused, before realizing she’s speaking to the person on the phone now. And also, do people still use fax machines? I’m not in Jersey City anymore.

The receptionist keeps speaking to the person on the phone as she swivels in her chair and pulls an envelope from a cubbyhole behind her.

“Mr. Larson apologizes that he can’t be here.” She holds the envelope out to me. “He said to drop by the office tomorrow at two, and he can go over the details.”

It takes a beat too long to realize she’s speaking to me again.

I reach for the envelope, but she jerks it back. “I need to see ID.”

I fumble in my purse and pull out my driver’s license.

“Goodbye, then. See you Thursday.”

Thursday? Didn’t she just say tomorrow, which is Tuesday? When I look up, the receptionist is hanging up the phone. She lets out a long sigh and gives me the first smile since I pushed open the door.

“Sorry about that, honey.”

I hand her my ID, and she studies it for a moment before handing it back.

“Here are the keys.” She passes me the envelope. “Not sure why you’re so desperate to get in there that it can’t wait until tomorrow, but here you go.”

I don’t offer an explanation. I just take the envelope and stuff it in my purse, asking, “Is there any paperwork?”

She shakes her head. “It can wait until tomorrow.”

Back in my rental, I open the envelope. There’s a map of the property and a single house key, one of those old-fashioned chunky metal ones for an old-fashioned lock. On a piece of paper is an address.

I punch it into my phone’s GPS and set off.

Twenty minutes later, I’ve come out the other side of town and am on a winding road climbing higher into the mountains.

The destination marker on my GPS is getting close, and I slow down when a cluster of buildings comes into view. A sign says, “Jake’s Retreat,” and I keep on driving. Just past the retreat is my destination. I turn onto a gravel driveway and slow down to avoid the potholes.

Weeds as tall as my car line either side and block my view of the property.

Through the gaps in the weeds, I get a glimpse of a brick house with a slate roof and three chimneys.

I hold my breath as the weeds thin. This is the answer to all my problems. The unexpected bounty that dropped into my lap three weeks ago.

The thing that’s going to pay off my late rent and Mom’s debts and allow me to finish my studies and get out of poverty for good.

The unexpected inheritance from a father I’ve never met.

As the driveway opens up, I pass through a gap between two crumbling brick walls and get a good look at the house for the first time.

If you can still call it a house. The paintwork is crumbling, tiles have fallen off the roof, and there’s a broken window.

To the side of the house is a collection of small wooden outbuildings and a tin shed with a door hanging off.

The weeds on the front lawn are like a scraggly sea of green that form a moat all the way to the front door, only leaving a dented circle for a fire pit.

My heart sinks. I’m not sure what I was expecting from the father I’ve never met, but it wasn’t this.

The property sits on a flat piece of land, and I exit the car to scan my surroundings. Six acres is what the letter from the lawyer said.

Turning slowly, I take in my surroundings.

Behind the house, the yard looks even wilder with thistles and wildflowers encroaching on the land, and beyond the wild fields, tall oak trees sway in the breeze.

One tree has fallen down, and the rotting branches poke out of the sea of grass like the hull of a shipwreck.

The road makes up one edge of the property, and to the back of the house and left, it must end somewhere in the woods.

To the right, the overgrown fields end at an unseen fence line.

There are neater fields beyond and the buildings I passed on the way up the mountain.

The boundary line of Jake’s Retreat must bump up against mine.

Mine.

I still can’t quite believe I own property. When you grow up on the rough side of Jersey City, you don’t expect to be able to afford to own your own place at all, let alone when you’re twenty-three.

I feel a tinge of regret that I have to sell it.

But then I look around at the crumbling brick wall I just passed through, the broken window, and the potholes holding rain from two days ago, and I let out a long sigh.

As nice as Hope is, selling is the only option.

Though by the looks of this place, I may not get what I was hoping for it. I may not even be able to find a buyer.

I know nothing about property apart from what I read online since receiving the letter that informed me I was now its owner three weeks ago.

The trees whisper as the wind touches them, and a bird of prey calls into the afternoon.

The breeze tickles the back of my neck, making my hair stand on end.

I spin to face the majestic mountain and let out a long sigh.

No wonder Mom let a man seduce her here.

There’s something about this place that makes my heart churn with longing.

The land seems to whisper to me, and I close my eyes to listen.

My father lived here. I never met him, but what a place to live. So different from the city. If only there were someone to share it with.

But I don’t have someone to share it with. I have rent and debts and a mounting student loan. No point in dreaming about something I’ll never have.

I open my eyes with new determination. I’m here to sell, and I need to stay focused on that.

I retrieve my bag from the passenger seat of the car. Rundown or not, it’s where I’ll be staying tonight. I used all my money on the bus fare and rental car, so a hotel isn’t an option.

I just hope the inside is in better shape than the outside.

The key turns, and the door squeaks as I push it open. The place smells musty and of animals, and I shudder thinking about the critters that might’ve moved in here.

I go through the entryway and find a living room to the left.

The curtains are closed, and I flick the light switch. Nothing happens; the electricity must’ve been cut off long ago.

The floorboards creak with every step across the faded carpet.

I pull back the curtains and cough as dust gets stuck in my throat.

When the dust clears, I scan the room. The furniture is all dark wood, and a bookcase and side table sit next to an armchair with wooden arms and a faded green cushion, the middle indented from use. Was this my father’s favorite chair?

I run my finger over the arm of the chair, leaving a streak in the dust. Under the dust are tiny holes, and I lean down for a closer look. The holes run over the wood and down the chair leg. Termites. It’s worse than I thought.

I don’t know why I thought I could waltz in and stay here just because I own it.

The place needs a thorough scrub, urgent repairs, and pest eradication, which all seems expensive and way beyond what I’m capable of doing on my own in the few days I’ve taken off work to sort this out.

I let out a long sigh. I have a bedroll and a sleeping bag. I came prepared to sleep on the floor of an old house, though I didn’t expect it to be in such disrepair.

But I’m here now, and I need to make the best of it.

Outside, I find a scythe in the shed, and I clear a wide circle around the fire pit. Inside might not be fit for living but outside might work.