13 - Dog
Three days. Three days of Margaret being an unexpected, meticulously organized whirlwind in Dog’s chaos.
Link, Swede, and Will were deep in the digital labyrinth of Charles Winslow’s finances, their reports trickling in like slow-motion data bombs.
Hank’s men were already on the ground in Richmond, a silent, invisible perimeter forming around Winslow.
The intel was grim, confirming every suspicion: shell companies, offshore accounts, political maneuvering so deep it made the swamp look like a kiddie pool. Winslow was a monster, a Hydra, powerful and connected, with many heads tangled in every corner of the system.
But in the city of Monterey, Virginia, life had taken on an almost absurd normalcy.
Margaret had transformed Dog’s clinic office from an archaeological dig into a functional workspace, with a quiet efficiency that both impressed and irritated him.
She’d even managed to unearth his actual, non-broken coffee maker and, with a few discreet questions to Flora, seemed to have mastered its operation.
The scent of freshly brewed coffee now mingled with pine and sawdust.
The apartment upstairs was next. Margaret took the Platinum VISA that Dog had given her, telling her to furnish it “functionally.” He expected a few sensible pieces, perhaps a comfortable sofa.
He did not expect her to approach it with the zeal of an interior designer on a mission, drawing up schematics and discussing “flow” and “tactile comfort” for a man whose idea of comfort was a sleeping bag on sand or rocky ground.
Yet, despite himself, he found himself listening, even considering her suggestions.
Her determination, even with something as seemingly trivial as a throw pillow, was compelling.
Today, he’d pulled her away from the measuring tape and fabric swatches. “We need to clear your head,” he’d said, trying to sound gruff and practical. “And you need to see the Lodge. You’ll be helping me furnish it and hopefully, if you’re interested, manage it eventually.”
He hadn’t been entirely honest. He just needed to get her out. Needed to see her breathe outside the confines of a building, away from the hum of the servers, away from the ghost of Charles.
They went back to the Farm and thanks to Flora’s help, gathered picnic supplies and saddled two horses; it was time to let Margaret see the land he loved so much.
They rode, taking the scenic route to the Lodge, Dog on one of Bear’s sturdy quarter horses, Margaret on a docile mare named Daisy.
The horses were rescues, but they’d been well-trained by Lukas, the property’s previous owner now employed by Bear to keep the Farm running, and they moved with a quiet competence.
The crisp mountain air was clean, the only sounds the rustle of leaves and the gentle rhythmic thud of hooves on the winding trail up to the Lodge.
Margaret, dressed in borrowed jeans and a thick flannel shirt that dwarfed her, settled into the saddle with an almost unconscious familiarity.
Riding had been one of the few acceptable “physical pursuits” in her childhood, a skill honed over years of lessons at exclusive country clubs, then long forgotten in the gilded cage of her marriage.
Her posture was still elegant, but the stiff formality had begun to melt away, replaced by an easy grace in the saddle as muscle memory took over.
Margaret sat tall yet relaxed in the saddle, the horse’s steady breathing beneath her calming the flutter in her chest. She leaned slightly forward, eyes wide and glistening as they drank in the vast expanse of the Blue Ridge Mountains before her.
A faint, awed smile softened her features while her fingers loosened their grip on the reins, resting gently against the horse’s neck.
The crisp mountain air brushed her cheeks, carrying the scent of pine and earth, mingling with the rhythmic clip-clop of hooves on the trail behind them.
“This is,” she whispered, her voice more relaxed than he’d heard it in days, “breathtaking.” Her gaze traced the endless tapestry of greens and grays rolling beneath the vast, open sky.
“It’s so different from, oh, from everything.
" She shifted slightly in the saddle, as if trying to take in every ounce of the moment, letting the peaceful stillness settle deep within her.
Dog nodded, letting his horse graze. “That’s the point.
Out here, the world gets quiet. The noise, the static, it fades.
” He glanced at her. Her hair, usually held in a severe chignon, was now pulled back in a simple ponytail, a few strands escaping in the gentle breeze.
He caught himself staring at the soft curve of her neck, the way the sunlight caught the faint dusting of freckles on her nose. Focus, Dog.
“My husband, Charles. He never understood quiet,” Margaret said, her gaze fixed on the horizon, but her eyes held a distant, haunted look.
“He thrived on noise. On chaos, on control. If things were too peaceful, he’d find a way to stir them up.
Just to remind you who was in charge.” She picked at a loose thread on her sleeve.
“Even silence felt like a weapon with him. Like he was waiting for you to make a mistake.”
Dog saw a flash of the terror that had been in her eyes that first day. “He won’t find you here, Margaret. We won’t let him.”
She turned to him, a fragile, hopeful light in her eyes. “I know,” she whispered, and for the first time, she sounded convinced. “It feels different here. Safe.”
He wanted to reach out, to reassure her, but pulled back. It was too soon. Too much. The professional distance, as thin as it was becoming, was all that kept him from blurring lines he couldn’t afford to cross. She’s a mission, Berkshire. A rescue operation. And for God’s sake, she’s married!
To break the tension, Dog steered them toward a sun-dappled clearing bordered by a babbling mountain creek. “Time to eat,” he announced, swinging down from the saddle.
He unrolled a thick, wool blanket over the damp, sweet-smelling grass while Margaret unpacked the saddlebags.
Flora had outdone herself. There was cold roasted chicken, wedges of sharp cheddar, thick slices of crusty sourdough, and crisp local apples.
They ate in a companionable, easy silence.
There was no fine china or crystal, just the rough texture of the wool beneath them and the cold, bracing water of the creek.
Margaret ate with a genuine appetite, licking a stray crumb from her thumb.
Dog felt a low groan rise within him but turned away to start packing up their lunch, forcing himself to steady his pulse.
It was a simple moment that brought them back to the present, away from their individual thoughts—the chill in the air perfectly balanced by the warmth of the afternoon sun on their shoulders.
As he packed the remains of their lunch, they rode the final mile. The trail narrowed, then suddenly opened up, revealing the Lodge.
It was a sprawling, majestic structure still in its skeletal phase, perched proudly against a backdrop of jagged cliffs.
As they approached, the intense, sharp scent of freshly sawn cedar and sticky pine pitch filled the air, rich and earthy.
The wind whistled a low, hollow tune through the exposed framing, creating a natural melody.
Margaret slid from Daisy’s back and closed her eyes, breathing deeply.
The raw, unfiltered smell of sawdust and overturned soil was intoxicating.
Beneath their boots, the crunch of gravel and wood chips echoed loudly, and the afternoon sun poured through the unfinished roof, casting warm, honey-colored geometric shadows across what would soon be a sweeping, wraparound porch.
They spent another hour at the Lodge, Margaret asking questions about the layout, the intended therapies, the logistics of feeding a dozen recovering warriors.
She saw the vision, even if her language was still peppered with “guest experiences” and “bespoke solutions.” She wasn’t just organizing his paperwork; she was starting to organize his dream.
They were heading back down the winding trail, the afternoon sun casting long shadows, when his secure phone buzzed.
On the other end, Bear’s voice, usually calm, was clipped and tight. “Dog. Clinic. We have a situation. Fire.”
Dog’s blood ran cold. The tranquil mountain air suddenly felt suffocating. “How bad?”
“Molotov cocktail through one of the ground floor windows. Link spotted it on exterior cams. Responders are en route, but the damage is already done. He’s leaving a message.”
Margaret had reined in Daisy, her face paling again. She’d heard. She always heard.
“Damn it,” Dog growled, urging his horse into a canter. “We need to get you back to the Farm. Now.”
The ride back to Mountain View Farms was a blur of pounding hooves and rising dread. The several miles felt like an eternity, the rhythmic thud of the horses’ hooves a counterpoint to the wail of sirens that were now faintly audible from the distant town of Monterey.
As they burst into the Farm’s main yard, Flora and Elena were already there, their faces etched with concern. “Bear called, we are locking down.” Flora announced without waiting for Dog, rushing forward to take Daisy’s reins.
“Thanks Flora,” Dog said, his voice tense as he dismounted.
“I need her inside. Lock down the house, double perimeter.” He turned to Margaret, who was already sliding off her horse, her face ashen.
“Margaret, you’re staying here. With Flora and Elena.
You are not leaving this property. This wasn’t an accident. ”
She nodded, too pale to argue, her eyes wide with fresh terror. “I understand.”
Bear’s SUV was already idling, Bear driving and Moose in the passenger seat. Dog swung himself into the back seat, taking his comm unit from Bear as he settled in for a rough ride down the mountain. “Let’s go. We need to see this.”
The drive down the mountain to Monterey was tense and silent, broken only by the crackle of Dog’s comm unit reporting perimeter checks.
When they pulled up to the clinic, it was a scene of chaos.
Local fire trucks were still hosing down the building, steam rising into the darkening sky.
The smell of burnt plastic and acrid chemicals hung heavy in the air.
Sheriff Brody, a burly, no-nonsense man who had seen his share of small-town mischief but rarely this kind of malice, stood talking to a grim-faced fire marshal. They both looked up as Dog, Moose, and Bear approached.
“Dr. Berkshire, gentlemen,” Brody said, his gaze hard, but with a familiar, weary understanding. “Looks like someone didn’t want your fancy new clinic to open.” He gestured to the fire marshal. “Confirmed arson. Molotov cocktail. We’re dusting for prints, but I wouldn’t hold my breath.”
“It wasn’t random, Sheriff,” Dog stated, cutting straight to the point. “Molotov through a window, Link saw it on camera. Precision strike. Someone wants a message sent to Margaret.”
Brody frowned, his eyes narrowing. “So it’s Winslow, then.
Figured as much. Your guest, I gather, is related to the initial incident last week?
” He looked at Dog and Bear, a silent question passing between them.
“Look, boys, I know what you do up on that mountain. And I know the kind of trouble that follows some of the folks you help. I don’t have the manpower or the resources for something this big, not when you’re talking about folks with that kind of reach.
” He paused, rubbing his chin. “But this is my town, and this clinic is important to these folks. I’m willing to work with you.
You keep me in the loop, you don’t break any laws I can’t look the other way on, and we’ll get this son of a bitch. ”
“Agreed,” Bear said, a hint of respect in his voice. “We’ll keep you informed, Sheriff. And we appreciate your trust.”
Dog walked to the shattered window, looking into the charred remains of the room.
A consultation room. Designed for quiet conversations, for rebuilding lives.
Now, a burnt-out shell. This was Charles.
This was his rage. This was his message: I can still hurt you. I can still take things you care about.
“We have reason to believe he’s connected to some very dangerous people,” Bear added. “The fire is a warning. It won’t be the last.”
Brody sighed, running a hand over his face. “Alright. My uniform boys will handle the forensics here. You boys go do what you do best. Just remember our arrangement.”
“We will,” Dog promised, his gaze sweeping over the smoldering ruins of his clinic. “But for now, I need a full investigation. And I need to know no one else gets hurt.”
He looked back at the mountain, at the distant lights of the Farm, his mind a cold, hard knot of determination.
Charles Winslow had just made this personal.
And Barkley “Dog” Berkshire, a man who had built a life patching up broken things, was about to rebuild the clinic stronger than ever.
But first, he was going to dismantle Charles Winslow, piece by painful piece.