Stalwart Ridge Security #3: Ballard

CHAPTER ONE

– BALLARD –

A grunt rips from me as the axe swings through the air. There’s no sound coming from my throat. Keeping quiet has never been my strongest point, neither is following anyone’s orders flawlessly. Like the ones the doctor gave me right before I was discharged from the hospital.

The wooden log splits and I stand up straight, placing the axe on my shoulder as I glance around me. The one good thing about growing up in these mountains is the fresh, clean, humid air. Something that helps with the healing of my injury, or so I’ve read.

Injury. Fuck. Life-altering change is more like it.

One damn moment I let my guard down, which never happened before.

I made the assumption Seamus and Jaxie were standing on the porch when I heard knocking.

A crucial error, because it was Nolan instead.

I felt a knife slicing my throat before I even saw the fucker.

I barely managed to throw my arm up to let the knife sink into my forearm with the second attack, and then the fight for my life started. Adrenaline kept me going, and I have to admit, some parts are a blur, and I only remember waking up in a hospital bed.

I also blocked out most of the shit the doctor rattled about. Hearing my vocal cords were damaged, probably some nerve damage as well, and the healing could take months wasn’t something I was prepared for. Hell, seeing the scars on my forearms, hands, and neck were enough to know I barely survived.

The doctor didn’t need to say anything about my voice either. I tried to talk and the only thing my ears picked up on was a breathy-sounding puff, lacking a clear sound. The pain was another reminder something I always took for granted and didn’t think twice about using was taken away from me.

That was six weeks ago. All of the stitches have been removed. The wounds are closed, but still healing. They should fade overtime from red to pale. I’ve had a follow-up appointment but have ignored the physical therapy shit. I know what’s best for my body, and right now I want peace and quiet.

I’ve always been a moody bastard, but now I feel it’s a necessity for me to live in my cabin up in the mountains. Far away from people, and much easier to have complete solitude. Except for my friends dropping by.

Apparently, they feel the need to voice their concerns and are worried about my welfare. In return I run them off by ignoring them while they’re around me. Which works because they do leave after they’ve seen me work around the cabin.

Grabbing the firewood, I stomp back to my cabin and put the axe away. Once inside, I throw another log on the fire and head for the shower. Ten minutes later I’m standing in the kitchen to make a fruit smoothie.

Something I’d previously do occasionally, but it’s a necessity after the shit that happened.

I’d rather have a bowl of chili or stew, dammit.

Except, that’s off the damn table because it’s better to avoid spicy, greasy, and other things I normally prefer.

Hell, it’s preferable to avoid coffee to avoid irritation.

Well, it’s safe to say, and completely unavoidable, that I’m now fucking irritated all day, every day without my damn coffee.

I want to scream, “Fuck this shit,” and yet it’s another thing I can’t. Even if I would try to throw out the words? It would come out as a breathy rasp, lacking a clear sound. So, why even try to voice anything when I know I can’t?

Anger is flowing through my veins as I clean the kitchen. When I’m done, I take my smoothie to the table where my laptop is sitting. Not being able to talk means I can’t do my job. Talking is part of working a security assignment. I mean, it’s hard to give orders when things go to shit.

I can still be a sharpshooter, whistle as a warning or give signals, but I’m not the same man I used to be. Not being able to use my voice gives me restrictions and roadblocks to do my job the way I was used to.

It’s why I emailed my resignation the second I got home from the hospital. Fucking Seamus emailed me back with a message that he deleted my email, and instead he put me on paid leave for the time being. If anyone understood my situation, it would be Seamus.

The man had a life-changing injury himself a little over eight months ago.

He retired, and it’s what I did too. Until the fucker denied me.

The whole shitstorm with Dax dying, his daughter Jaxie inheriting his shares, Burk being behind it all, and his son Nolan helping him.

..motherfucker everything is such a damn turmoil.

Both Burk and Nolan are dead, and the suspicion has now shifted to Royce.

Last man standing of the three who founded the company Stalwart Ridge Security.

All arrows are aimed at this fucker who has been flying under the radar all this time.

We don’t have any damn evidence, yet we know he’s guilty as hell.

All the details have been flowing through my head for all the weeks I haven’t been able to do shit. The only relevant things are the facts that in my eyes Royce and Burk’s daughter Jolene need to be hung out to dry. Those two are both guilty as fuck.

We can’t prove shit, and I haven’t been able to find any evidence, but there are too many red flags surrounding them. When Burk’s bones were found it was Royce who came by Sheriff Orson, waving a Last Will and Testament. Impossible, and forged. Why? Burk was already dead the day it was signed.

Something only me, Seamus, Murray, Jaxie, and Elodie knew because Elodie was the one who shot Burk when he and Nolan came to finish it. Or so they thought. Because Elodie killed Burk to save Murray. Nolan witnessed his father getting killed and fled the scene.

Weeks later he came back for revenge. Weeks.

One moment caught off guard and it landed my ass to where I am now.

A mute with scars littering my neck and arms. At least Nolan is dead.

Royce’s daughter, Helena, killed him, and saved me.

Helena. The new deputy sheriff. Her half-sister, Jolene was seen by Murray as she fled the scene.

Oh, yeah. The level of insanity and soap opera drama is high when it comes to solving this shit.

The sound of gravel crunching under tires draws my attention to the headlights of a truck coming to a stop in front of my cabin.

I release a string of curses inside my head and close the laptop.

Getting to my feet, I wander over to the window to catch a glimpse of the vehicle in the moonlight to see who the hell is stupid enough to come to my home.

Seamus and Jaxie, who are now married, know better than to swing by at this time of day. Murray and Elodie, just as stupidly in love, tried to get over the threshold this morning. Unsuccessfully. So, I know they wouldn’t swing by either.

I start to shake my head when I catch a glimpse of the woman jumping out of her truck. Helena. Why the hell would she come here? I completely ignored her at the hospital when I woke up, and the days after that as well.

A dick move since she killed Nolan, tended to my wounds, and turned into my savior. All while it’s her father who might just be the mastermind behind all the havoc. I’m blaming her too, just for her DNA link to that motherfucker.

She walks her lush ass in the direction of my cabin. Her eyes are locked on mine and I know for damn sure she can see me shake my head. Her tits slightly bounce as she takes the few steps to get onto the porch, and fucking knocks.

I should ignore her. I damn well want to.

On the other hand, the woman is easy on the eyes and I’ve had a hard on for her since the moment I started digging into her life.

Even my anger about the whole situation and putting the blame of her father on her doesn’t diminish the lust she invokes inside me.

Shit. I have to get laid. Motherfucker, I can’t even swing by a bar to pick up a woman because I can’t use words to talk a woman’s panties off.

My mood takes an epic nosedive and I stomp toward the door and swing it open.

“Fuck off,” is what I want to snarl at her head.

Instead, all I’m capable of is giving her a death glare while I block the entrance to my cabin.

“We need to talk,” she states and winces. “Well, I’m going to talk and you need to listen. Hopefully nod if you want to help.”

My silence is not by choice while my glare stays in place.

She huffs out a frustrated breath and mutters, “At least you’re not slamming the door in my face.”

I’m about to do just that when she says, “Sitting around on our asses and digging through information isn’t helping to get them behind bars. They’ve been way too smart covering their tracks. I want to nail them. Royce and Jolene both, but I can only do it with your help.”

Her dark brown eyes stare at me expectantly. The first photograph I saw of this woman was from a few months ago. A photographer took it right after she was rescued. Long hair drenched in blood from being kidnapped and held for three days by a damn serial killer.

It’s the reason she moved back here to this small town in a different state. It had nothing to do with her father. Instead of long hair, she now has her dark blonde hair cut in a short bob, right above her shoulders.

I lift one of my eyebrows, silently asking her to say more because I’m still unimpressed, and definitely not interested.

That is until she states, “You’re going to play my boyfriend while I’m going to make that asshole think I want to reconcile.”