It's In His Arms (A Red River Valley Novel Book 4)

by Shelly Alexander

  “Come on, boy.” Completely ignoring the command, Malarkey sniffed his way under the bottom of the risers, and all except his butt disappeared. “Obviously, we haven’t mastered the come command yet.”

  Lorenda’s face went up in flames.

  Well, hell. He hadn’t meant it like that. But that blush was sweet.

  Malarkey’s butt disappeared under the risers. “Malarkey, come.” He glanced at Lorenda’s hot-pink glow and fought off a smile. “Come here,” he added. The dog ignored him. “Hold on.” He squeezed between the wall and the risers.

  “Mitchell, you’re . . . um, kind of a big guy to fit into such a small space,” Lorenda said. “Want me to try?”

  “Nope,” he grunted out, and then went down on his knees, disappearing behind the risers. “I’ll get him.” He called to Malarkey again, and a flattened snout appeared with a lunch-size bag of Fire Hot chips clamped between his teeth. Oh wow. Spicy human food probably wouldn’t sit well with his delicate . . . uh, constitution. The training treats were already doing a number on him, and Mitchell wasn’t sure the mistress of the house could handle the odor.

  “Come on, Malarkey.” Mitchell clicked his tongue. The dog gave a little puppy whine— without dropping the chip bag, of course—and tried to obey, but his leash snagged on a corner of the risers. Mitchell snaked his way through the small space and unhooked the leash.

  As he started to back out, leading Malarkey with him, the gymnasium doors slammed open. The sound of very unhappy boys grumbled through the quiet gym. Jaycee and Trevor.

  “Mom!” Jaycee said.

  “Ouch!” Trevor cried out. “He’s hurting my arm!”

  Mitchell tensed all the way from the hair prickling on the back of his neck to the toes of his leather combat boots.

  “Stop with the theatrics, Trevor.” Mitchell didn’t recognize the male voice. “I was giving his arm an encouraging squeeze when he wrenched away. No harm done,” the man tried to explain to Lorenda.

  “What’s going on, Principal Wilkinson?” Lorenda’s voice pitched high.

  Bart. Mitchell’s dad had called Bart “Principal Wilkinson” in the park. It hadn’t registered in Mitchell’s brain at the time, but now Mitchell pieced it together. Bart had grown up, gone to college, and become a teacher.

  The thud of feet came to a stop somewhere in Lorenda’s vicinity. “Nothing to worry about, but they were disrupting the Scouts meeting.” That voice raked over Mitchell’s patience. “It wasn’t fair to the other boys.”

  “We didn’t do anything,” Jaycee groused.

  Slow and quiet so he could hear, Mitchell backed toward the opening.

  The man gave a condescending chuckle. “I’m sure they don’t think they did anything wrong, Lorenda. They don’t have a lot of fatherly guidance. And I’ve told you to call me Bart.”

  “They have their grandfathers.” Lorenda’s voice was polite.

  Mitchell kept easing backward, Malarkey following him nose to nose, still holding the bag of chips in his mouth. And Christ, Malarkey’s silent-but-deadly gas picked a bad time to make an appearance. Mitchell fought off a gag and waved a hand in front of his nose while trying to eavesdrop on the guy who was obviously making Jaycee and Trevor unhappy.

  “Grandparents have a way of spoiling kids. They mean well, I’m sure.” The insinuation grated on Mitchell’s nerves. Jaycee and Trevor were a little rambunctious and curious, but wasn’t that normal for kids? They didn’t seem spoiled to Mitchell.

  Malarkey’s collar snagged on a nut and bolt. Mitchell reached down to free it.

  “You should reconsider my offer.” On the last word, Bart’s voice dropped low. “After the incident in the park, having a man around more would be good for them. And good for you.”

  Every protective instinct in Mitchell’s body dialed up to imminent-threat level.

  With brute force, he pushed the riser forward, shot to his feet, and stepped out into the open. Malarkey dropped the chips and strained toward the boys with a whine. Mitchell gripped the leash so tight his knuckles hurt.

  Trevor and Jaycee didn’t run to their mother. They ran to Mitchell.

  As much as that made his chest swell, the look of hurt and worry on Lorenda’s face confirmed that Mitchell’s decision to get on his motorcycle and gun it out of town was the right thing to do. She didn’t need him disrupting the family life she’d built any more than he already had.

  Malarkey pawed at the boys’ legs, whining for a scratch. Jaycee picked him up.

  Bart made sure to stand closer to Lorenda than Mitchell. “Lawson.” He kept his tone friendly, but his eyes frosted over.

  “Bart,” Mitchell said.

  Something about Bart chewed at Mitchell’s gut. Like a rat gnawing at a piece of cheese.

  “How long will you be here?” Even though Bart spoke to Mitchell, his gaze slid back to Lorenda.

  “I’ll be here as long as my family needs me.” Mitchell put a hand on Jaycee’s and Trevor’s shoulders and guided them a few steps to his right to close the space between them and Lorenda.

  Something in Bart’s eyes flared.

  “Pets aren’t allowed in the gym.” Bart widened his smile.

  “I hate him. He’s mean,” Trevor whispered.

  Bart narrowed his eyes at the kids, but his smile didn’t waiver.

  “Trevor!” Lorenda corrected him, and Trevor folded both arms over his chest with a pout. “You apologize this instant.”

  Trevor stayed quiet and burrowed into Mitchell’s leg.

  “I got the same treatment in the Scouts meeting while I was trying to demonstrate how to tie a proper knot,” Bart said. “That’s why I pulled them out.”

  “He was tying it wrong. Uncle Mitch showed us how yesterday.” Jaycee held up his wrist where a black nylon rope was twined into a bracelet. “He said a piece of rope and a good knot could save our lives someday like it did his in Afghanistan. So he made us these survivalist bracelets out of rope.”

  “Oh.” Her expression blanked, and her blue eyes locked onto Mitchell. “That’s so . . . scout-ish.”

  Mitchell wanted to smile. Who could argue with that? Or compete with it?

  Bart’s face turned red, but he kept that thin smile planted on his pasty lips. “Lorenda, I’m sorry to say their behavior is becoming an issue both in the classroom and in the Wilderness Scouts. Trevor’s teacher has already had to send him to my office, and the school year just started.”

  He put a hand on Lorenda’s elbow, and Mitchell wanted to hold Bart the Fart in a headlock until he learned his lesson about putting his hands on a woman.

  Mitchell’s woman.

  And that thought almost made his head explode.

  “I want them to stay in the Scouts,” Bart said. “The structured environment will help keep them in line.”

  Mitchell had heard that before. The day his dad gave him the choice between juvie and the military. It didn’t sit well with Mitchell that the same words were already being used on his nephews.

  “You should consider my offer and try to get them to follow my leadership.” Bart’s smile was encouraging, like he had the answers to all of her problems.

  Mitchell’s special-forces training had taught him to read body language, voice tones, and even the subtle twitches of facial muscles. He already liked this SOB about as much as he liked having a root canal. Without anesthetic. And he trusted him even less.

  “I apologize for my son’s rudeness.” Lorenda shot a scolding look at Trevor, who turned his face into Mitchell’s leg. “And for any problems they’re causing. The music program will only be here in the gym until next spring.” She gave Bart a patient smile. Shifted her weight so that she pulled away from Bart’s touch and closed the small space between her and Mitchell. Their arms brushed, and he could swear she shivered. “Then we’ll be out of your way.”

  Something flashed in Bart’s eyes that made the hair on the back of Mitchell’s neck rise again. But the little rat bastard kept smiling at her
, like he was her best friend.

  “A program with so many kids might be more successful if it stayed here at the school. Some of the teachers could help.” His voice practically dripped with honeyed helpfulness. “It could be a community effort with you in charge. I can probably find money in the budget for the program, but the school board will only approve it if it stays on the school grounds.”

  Lorenda’s smile widened. Oh good God, gag me. Did she not see he was a weasel? A weasel who was playing her as well as she’d just played the flute.

  Bart’s smile broadened too, like he thought he’d hit all the right notes.

  Mitchell’s fist clenched.

  “That’s a generous offer”—she hesitated like she was torn—“Bart.”

  Hell. Lorenda was sharp as the knife he carried in his boot. How were Bart’s tactics not registering on her bullshit radar?

  “If their behavior doesn’t improve, then maybe I should pull them from the scouts. They can stay in the gym while I work with the music kids.” Her hand closed around Trevor’s shoulder and overlapped Mitchell’s hand. His pulsed revved, and she drew in a sharp breath. Shot him a bewildered look and pulled her hand away.

  “But we want to go on the Scouts camping trip!” Trevor protested. “All of our friends are going.”

  Bart just kept on smiling at Lorenda, which was really pissing Mitchell off. “Then you boys need to show respect for leadership so your mom will let you stay in the Wilderness Scouts.”

  Mitchell was guessing the leadership would be Bart, of course.

  Lorenda looked from the kids to Bart and back to the kids. “If their behavior is such a problem, I don’t want them to ruin it for the other ki—”

  “You could go, Lorenda,” Bart said, his eyes dilating. “Mothers sometimes volunteer as chaperones when the dads can’t be there.”

  Oh, hell no. The thought of Lorenda and the boys on a camping trip in the middle of nowhere with this joker made Mitchell’s skin crawl, even if other kids and parents would be there.

  “Please, Mom, please?” Trevor begged. “I’ll be good, I promise.”

  “Well . . .” Her tone and the guilt in her expression told Mitchell she was about to cave.

  He needed to keep his mouth shut. Any number of grown men could go on that camping trip. Mitchell’s dad; Lorenda’s dad; her brother, Langston—anybody but Mitchell. He needed to stick to the plan, get on his motorcycle, and get out of town. Get on with his no-attachments life and go back overseas where he could make some real money for a change. It was a good, solid plan.

  A plan was everything going into battle. Until the battle actually started—then the plan usually turned to shit.

  “I don’t know much about camping,” Lorenda said.

  “No problem. I’ll take care of everything for you and the boys.” The triumphant gleam in Bart’s eyes made Mitchell’s fist clench again, and that sealed the deal.

  He let out a heavy breath. “I’ll go on the camping trip. I’ve got practical experience.” He already regretted what he was about to say. “And I’ve got the time.” He doubted the private security company waiting for him to report for duty would agree.

  The boys cheered.

  Bart’s eyes flared again.

  Lorenda turned beautiful blue eyes on Mitchell that said she was grateful for the support. He shifted closer so that his arm brushed hers, and this time he was sure a shiver raced over her. He had to dig deep to find self-control because he wanted to put his arm around her slender shoulders so she’d know he had her back.

  One side of Lorenda’s full mouth quirked up into a shaky smile, and whatever he’d seen in her baby blues a few moments ago turned to something he’d seen many times in mud-hut villages.

  The unmistakable glint of fear.

  Her stare darted to the kids, and Mitchell understood. The boys were already getting attached. The admiration in their expressions grew with every hour Mitchell had spent with them the past few days.

  He knew exactly how Lorenda felt. His life was all about protecting and defending, but he usually did it without personal attachments. Attachments meant emotions, and emotions were dangerous in his line of work.

  If he let himself care about someone too much, it meant getting hurt when he lost them.

  But what choice did he have? Cam had abandoned his post. Left his wife and kids exposed. Mitchell had felt crummy about Cameron’s decision to keep fighting a war but not keep fighting for his family. His brother’s family needed him now, and maybe Mitchell could be the next best thing. At least for a while.

  Chapter Seven

  After hauling all of the music equipment to the parking lot, Lorenda meticulously arranged and rearranged the instrument cases in the trunk of her SUV. Jaycee and Trevor played with Malarkey over on the empty playground, and she tried to shake off the tingle that rushed up her arm every time Mitchell handed her another case and their fingers brushed.

  Busy.

  She needed to keep busy. Busy was her friend when something was seriously wrong, and the thing that was seriously wrong was helping her load the car. Had just invited himself on the boys’ campout, even insinuating that she and the boys were his family. Well, technically they were family, but she and the boys weren’t the family Mitchell was really here for.

  Healing his relationship with his dad for his mother’s sake was Mitchell’s priority, not Lorenda and her boys.

  She moved a trumpet over to squeeze a flute into the small space. He handed her a trombone next, and she placed it toward the back of the trunk.

  What was even more seriously wrong was that she’d liked it when he’d sent the silent territorial vibes that she and the boys belonged to him. At least that’s how it had felt at the time. Couldn’t have been her imagination, because Bart’s eyes had widened with surprise for a fleeting moment.

  And her kids had run to Mitchell instead of her, like he was their father.

  Seriously. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

  “Hand me the French horn.” She pointed to a large case, and Mitchell picked it from the pile of instruments. “Thanks.” She didn’t look at him when she took it, but her hand brushed his, and she fought off a shiver.

  The same shiver that had lanced through her when he’d acted all alpha protective in the gym. Gah! She didn’t need alpha! And she didn’t need her boys becoming devoted to Mitchell as their father figure. They were already halfway to calling him Dad . . . or Zeus . . . or Jesus . . . if their looks of hero worship were any indication.

  She shuffled the cases around some more and finally yanked one out. “I need to unload them all and start over.” Yes, busy, busy, busy.

  Mitchell’s hand closed around her arm, and he turned her to face him. “I came to give you the news about the mugger. He got out of the county jail.” Mitchell’s thumb caressed her arm, and he gave his head a small shake. “Still hasn’t talked.” Now all five fingers moved against the bare flesh of her arm, making it pebble. “I’ll be here until this is solved one way or another.”

  Him being here was precisely the problem. She and the boys already liked him being here way too much. But the look of bona fide concern in his eyes, like he’d stand in front of a speeding truck for her and the kids, made her mouth go dry and her resistance go soft.

  She was such a cream puff.

  So she tried to suck it up and stay strong. “Look, Mitchell. Maybe you should stay with your parents.”

  Several creases appeared between his eyes.

  “I mean, I really like having you around.” Something flashed in his eyes, and she wished she’d left off the “really” part. “The kids love it, actually, but you see, we’re not your responsibility, you know, and, well, um. Yeah.”

  He took a small step and closed the gap between them. His breath smoothed across her cheeks, and she stared up into his mocha-latté eyes. Some coffee chain should really name a drink mocha hotté with a picture of his eyes on the cup, because women would stampede the doors first thing every morn
ing. It would be just like Black Friday every single day. Sweet baby Jesus, the color was so smooth and delicious that she wanted to drink him in . . . and then kiss the hell out of him to get a taste.

  He reached for her hair and pulled free a tiny piece of lint that must’ve come from a cleaning cloth she’d used on the instruments. He flicked it away and then went back for more, his fingers lingering against her skin.

  “Bart seems interested in you. He was kind of a strange guy in high school.” His hand floated at her ear for another moment like he didn’t want to move it.

  She chewed her lip. “I’ve always felt kind of sorry for him. Kids weren’t very nice to him when we were growing up, and he was so henpecked by his controlling mother.”

  “Want to tell me about the offer he mentioned?” Absently, like her mouth mesmerized him, Mitchell gently swiped away something from her cheek. His calloused fingers, rough against her ear, sent a shock wave of desire rippling from her earlobe all the way to her toes. Which curled against the flat, bejeweled sandals.

  “He’s been asking me out for a while. His wife left him.”

  “Really,” Mitchell deadpanned. “Someone married him?”

  “She’s Russian . . . or Ukrainian . . . or something.” Lorenda shook her head.

  “Did he order her online?”

  Lorenda arched a brow. “Now you’re not being very nice.”

  “Unfortunately, I’m serious.” He let his hand fall away, but not without letting his fingers brush against the length of her hair.

  She wanted to grab it and put it right back against the sensitive flesh beside her ear . . . or maybe against her cheek . . . or maybe thread his fingers through her hair before guiding it down to her—

  “Lorenda.”

  She jumped at the intimate way her name rolled off his tongue. Deep and husky like he could read her mind. Her lips parted, but nothing came out except a small gasp when his head dipped and his handsome face hovered so close to hers, his gaze flowing over every inch of her face before their eyes locked.