20 - Margaret
Margaret stood by the kitchen sink, a cooling mug of tea in her hands, her gaze fixed on the dense tree line outside the window.
For the past hour, the heavy oak door to Warden’s sitting room had been firmly shut.
She knew the men were on a secure call with the rest of their team.
She also knew her husband was the main topic of conversation.
The wait was agonizing. Each passing minute felt like a boulder pressing down on her chest, heavier and more suffocating than any of Charles’s condescending remarks or icy silences.
When the door finally opened, she flinched, turning to see Dog step into the hallway.
The sheer size of the man usually made her feel incredibly safe, a primal comfort she hadn’t realized she craved until she met him.
But right now, looking at the grim set of his jaw and the profound sadness lingering in his dark eyes, her stomach plummeted.
A shiver, not entirely from fear, traced a path down her spine.
He didn’t speak right away. Instead, he walked into the kitchen, his movements economical, deliberate.
His gaze fell on the platter of sandwiches, fruit, and cheeses Margaret had meticulously arranged for the men, a small gesture of care she’d prepared for their eventual emergence from the meeting.
He pulled a small canvas backpack from a hook and began efficiently selecting and packing a portion of everything into it, along with two bottles of water.
As he broke off a small piece of cheese and popped it into his mouth, she noted the quiet focus in his actions.
He didn’t rush, didn’t demand, just moved with a quiet purpose that let her breathe.
As she watched Dog, she appreciated the contrast. Charles would have barked orders, impatient for her to keep up with his thoughts, his urgency. Dog simply gave her time.
“Dog?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper. “What happened? Are the kids…”
He stopped, turning to face her. His expression softened instantly, and he reached out, resting a warm hand on her shoulder.
The contact was gentle but firm, a stark contrast to the casual, often possessive, touches she was used to from Charles.
A surprising warmth spread through her, distracting her for a split second from her terror.
“The kids are okay, Margaret. I promise you, they are okay.”
She let out a breath she felt like she’d been holding for days, her knees going weak. It was Dog’s tone, calm and unwavering, that finally convinced her.
“But we have a lot to talk about,” Dog continued gently, his thumb rubbing a soothing circle against her shoulder.
The small, thoughtful gesture felt impossibly intimate in their stressful reality.
“And the walls in this cabin are a little too thin and a little too close right now. Warden said there’s a meadow just through the woods.
I thought maybe we could take a walk, have a picnic, and I’ll tell you everything. Just you and me. How does that sound?”
He gave her space, let the question hang, allowing her to consider, to choose. Charles would have presented it as a decision already made, another item on his schedule.
Margaret swallowed hard, looking at the backpack and then back up at him. “Okay. Let’s go.”
As she giggled softly, she added, “Since you packed the food…”
The air outside was crisp, carrying the sharp, clean scent of pine and damp earth.
Dog set an easy pace, adjusting his long strides to ensure she could comfortably keep up.
He walked slightly ahead of her on the narrow trail, his eyes constantly scanning the tree line, a silent reminder that they were still hunted.
Yet, even with his tactical awareness on high alert, he reached back to hold her hand, anchoring her.
His palm was calloused and rough, yet his grip was unexpectedly tender, a shield and a comfort all at once.
She found herself subconsciously tightening her fingers around his.
Margaret’s mind raced with terrible possibilities, but she forced herself to focus on the crunch of the autumn leaves beneath her boots and the steady, reassuring warmth of Dog’s grip.
He didn’t demand conversation, didn’t fill the silence with his own anxieties.
He simply allowed her to exist, to process, to feel.
It was a profound gift, this quiet understanding, one she hadn’t realized she desperately needed until he offered it.
After a few minutes of hiking in silence, the dense forest suddenly opened up. Margaret gasped softly.
It was breathtaking. A wide, sun-drenched meadow stretched out before them, wild grasses swaying in the gentle breeze.
In the very center sat a beautifully weathered wooden gazebo, surrounded by a sea of late-blooming wildflowers.
The gentle babble of a nearby creek provided a peaceful soundtrack that felt completely detached from the nightmare her life had become.
Dog led her up the wooden steps of the gazebo and brushed off one of the built-in benches before gesturing for her to sit.
He dropped the backpack on the floorboards, but didn’t open it.
Instead, he sat down directly facing her, taking both of her hands in his, his thumbs tracing slow patterns on her knuckles.
He wasn’t rushing, wasn’t glossing over.
He was preparing her, giving her time to brace herself.
“Before I tell you about Charles,” Dog said, his voice a low, steady rumble that somehow calmed the frantic beat of her heart, “I need to give you the most important update. Moose and his wife Elena are licensed foster parents. Hank got a federal emergency placement order pushed through.”
Margaret stared at him, her heart hammering against her ribs. “What does that mean?”
Dog squeezed her hands, his eyes kind, yet firm, holding her gaze.
“It means the FBI is raiding the Richmond Heights estate today. And the second they secure the property, Emily and Charles Jr. are being pulled out and taken directly to Mountain View Farm to stay with Moose and Elena, until it’s safe for you to go back and be with them.
Charles won’t be able to use them as pawns anymore, Margaret. Your babies will be safe.”
A broken sob tore from Margaret’s throat.
She crumpled forward, burying her face against Dog’s chest as the months of terrifying, suffocating fear finally broke over her like a tidal wave.
She felt his arms wrap securely around her, pulling her close, holding her tight as she wept into his shirt.
The scent of pine and something uniquely Dog, warm, solid, and protective, filled her senses.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured into her hair. “They’ll be safe.” He didn’t try to stop her tears or tell her to be strong. He just held her, a steady, unwavering anchor in her storm.
Slowly, the torrent of emotion subsided, leaving her drained but strangely lighter. She pulled back, embarrassed by her display, but Dog’s eyes held only understanding, not judgment.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “I just,” she wiped her damp cheeks with the back of her hand. “I haven’t been able to cry like that in so long.”
He gently squeezed her hands. “Don’t apologize for feeling, Margaret. You’ve earned every tear.” He reached into the backpack and pulled out one of the water bottles, opening it and offering it to her. She took a long, grateful drink.
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward, but a comfortable, companionable quiet, allowing her to gather herself.
He hadn’t pressed for details of her marriage, hadn’t asked about her fears or her loneliness.
He had simply held her, and then given her space.
Charles would have seized on her vulnerability, either to lecture her on composure or to dissect her emotions for his own amusement. Dog just was there.
“You know,” Margaret said, breaking the quiet, “I feel like I’ve just dumped all of me on you. All my fears, my history with Charles, my children, but I know so little about you. Your life. Your family.” She hesitated, then met his gaze. “Everyone calls you Dog. What should I call you?”
A small, almost shy smile touched Dog’s lips. He took a bite of sandwich, chewing thoughtfully before answering. “Barks is my family nickname. My brother, Will, started it when we were kids. My full name is Barkley Emerson Berkshire the Fourth.”
“Barkley,” she repeated softly, tasting the name. It felt warm, solid, like him. Then her voice fell to a tender murmur, barely more than a whisper. Emery.
He looked up, his eyes catching hers, and for a moment he paused as if turning the name over carefully in his mind. A slow smile spread across his lips, warm and genuine.
“That I like,” he said thoughtfully. “It sounds special. Something only for you to use.”
Her cheeks flushed deeper, and she smiled back, feeling a connection that went beyond words.
He reached out, his fingers brushing gently against hers before leaning in to place a soft kiss on her knuckles. “Dog is the callsign, but Emery is just yours.”
He smiled softly and cleared his throat, chuckling quietly. “You were asking about me, weren’t you?”
Dog’s gaze drifted to the distant tree line, a hint of melancholy in his eyes, but also a profound affection.
“My mom passed away when I was six. Will was four. She had a rare genetic defect that caused rapid cirrhosis of the liver. It was fast, and brutal. After that, it was just Dad, Will, and me for a long time.”
Margaret listened intently, picturing the small, shattered family. She, an only child, had always been surrounded by nannies, tutors, and the cold opulence of her parents’ home. A quiet sense of yearning for that closeness she’d never experienced welled within her.
“Then Dad died,” Dog continued, his voice softer now. “Massive heart attack, right at his desk at work. I was on a mission in Venezuela at the time. Will was twenty-two, in his last year of college. Just like that, it was just the two of us.” He swallowed, his eyes distant for a moment.
“Will, he always wanted to be like Dad,” Dog went on with a nostalgic smile returning.
“A financial wizard, running the family business. When Dad passed, Will took over the massive conglomeration of businesses called Berkshire Enterprises and he has expanded them tenfold. He loved the numbers, the challenge.” He shook his head slightly and gave a one-shoulder shrug.
“Me, I never cared for any of that. The money, the status. I just wanted my life to mean something. To count for something beyond the balance sheet.”
He nodded slowly, eyes distant for a moment. “Dad understood that. He never pushed me towards the family business. He just wanted me to be happy, to find my own purpose. He helped me find it, actually.”
“He helped you find the military?” Margaret asked, curious.
Dog nodded. “Straight out of high school. I enlisted in the Navy first. I did all my college studies online from Harvard, mostly while deployed or during down cycles. After Special Forces training, I kept taking every medic course the Navy offered. I’m not a certified medical doctor, but I’ve had more field medicine training than most GPs.
” He paused and a slight smile touched his lips.
“And just before the mission in Syria, I even managed to finish my PhD in biochemistry. So, yeah. It has been quite a journey.”
He spoke without a trace of bravado, simply stating facts about a life lived with fierce intention.
Charles would have inflated every accomplishment, glossed over any perceived weakness, and certainly never admitted to not caring about money.
Emery, instead, had laid out his motivations bare, his values clear.
Margaret leaned forward slightly. “Your dad sounds like an amazing man. And your brother too, building an empire like that. But you’re extraordinary, Emery.” The words slipped out before she could catch them, a genuine admiration shining in her eyes.
“They both are,” Dog confirmed, a deep warmth in his eyes. “Dad taught me that real wealth isn’t in what you own, but in what you do, and who you do it for. Will’s doing it for the family legacy, for our dad. We just found different ways to honor him.”
He looked back at her, his expression serious but kind. “So now you know. The good, the bad, and the very average Barkley Berkshire.” He offered a soft, reassuring smile. “Your turn.”
Margaret felt a familiar knot of apprehension. How could she articulate the emptiness of her gilded cage? The meticulously curated perfection that had been her life, devoid of real meaning?
“My turn,” she echoed, looking out at the swaying grass of the meadow.
“Well, I was an only child. Raised to be,” she shrugs, “decorative, I suppose. To host dinner parties, select the right charities, and eventually, marry well. To be a trophy.” She paused, picking at a loose thread on her sweater.
“It sounds shallow, because it was. And I don’t really want to talk about it. ”
Dog didn’t press. He just waited, his presence a calm, steady force. That patient, unwavering gaze was enough. She took a deep breath. “But I will tell you this, Emery. I think I’m finally ready to stop being decorative. I think I’m ready to find out what I’m actually good for.”
Dog’s steady gaze softened, a quiet respect in his eyes. He gave her hand a reassuring squeeze, silently affirming his belief in her.
Margaret stood, stretching her aching limbs as she glanced around the meadow one last time. The golden light filtered through the trees, casting long, gentle shadows across the wildflowers.
As they began gathering their things, the empty wrappers, the scattered napkins, Dog paused and glanced toward the edge of the meadow. A faint flush touched his cheeks. “Give me a second,” he said quietly, a sheepish smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “I’ll be right behind that tree.”
Margaret nodded, watching as he slipped quietly out of sight, carefully choosing a spot shielded by thick underbrush. The moment felt strangely ordinary, a small respite amidst their relentless flight.
Then a harsh, metallic clank ripped through the quiet. It was immediately followed by a furious barrage of curse words, sharp, raw, and heavy with pain. The intensity of his voice made Margaret’s breath catch in her throat.
Her heart pounded as her mind raced. Did someone find us? Have they been caught?
“Dog? Emery?” she called out softly, fear prickling along her skin. But the only answer was the fading echoes of his angry curses carried off by the wind.
For a moment, she stood frozen. The peaceful meadow suddenly felt far less safe.