The Hero I Need: A Small Town Romance

by Snow, Nicole

  “So you normally work at the bar every day?” I ask, taking a slurp off my cup. “I wish this time off was actually relaxing for you.”

  He gives me a wry smile.

  “Nah, I try to duck out on weekends unless there’s a big event going on or something. I try to leave by ten most nights, too, just so Aunt Faye can get home before it’s too late.” He smiles thoughtfully. “Lucky for me, my latest batch of hires is holding up pretty well. Takes the load off my shoulders, and it might also have something to do with folks thinking the Bobcat’s where all the big adventures begin. The young folks want to be there at ground zero for the excitement.”

  “Adventures?” I blink.

  “For sure. A lot of the ruckus we’ve had in Dallas the last couple years started at my bar. First with Ridge and his now-wife, Grace. She came blowing in one night with her sick father and these scumbags in hot pursuit. Then there was Faulk, who crossed a real nasty group of folks when he was in the FBI. They came sniffing around after him, and I was careful to tip him off. Even old man Reed used to step in for a drink and a little schemin’ with Drake, back when my buddy was just his bodyguard instead of a cop.” Grady kicks back in his chair, slurping his coffee, his eyes somewhere else. “Guess it’s my turn to get mixed up in the thick of it, seeing how Faulk wound up settled down with his ballerina.”

  I’m about to ask him more about the crazy happenings he’s seen when little feet come plowing into the room.

  The girls are at his side in seconds, greeting him with a big group hug.

  “Dad! We got a text from Aunt Faye. She’s asking about our cool new nanny. What should we tell her?” Avery grins, a couple cute little gaps in her mouth from missing baby teeth.

  We talk it over briefly.

  Grady reminds them not to mention Bruce in any way, shape, or form.

  I happily agree to a selfie with the duo, so they can send it back to her, and listen to the long list of things Faye wanted to pass along about the house, and most importantly, the freezer full of meals and casseroles that just need to be thawed and heated.

  Hey, if it makes my job easier...

  After checking out the freezer, with their help, we sit down at the table and eat cereal with Grady. The girls are full of suggestions for the day ahead—which all include Bruce.

  Grady lays down the law and tells them they can make two visits per day, and only with both of us present, if they’ll stop pestering him right now.

  “Okay, okay!” they grudgingly agree.

  Later, Faulk drops by to see the footage from last night. He disappears downstairs with Grady while I try not to think about it.

  He says it’ll be a while before he hears back from his people on how or what we’re going to do.

  Not cool.

  It’s disappointing, sure, but I get that we can’t just rush in guns blazing. I’d already made a snap decision the night I took off with Bruce, and if it wasn’t for Grady, who knows what would’ve happened to us.

  That afternoon, I can sense him getting restless, like he’s spent just too much time cooped up at home and out of his element.

  “Go on to the bar,” I tell him, sliding my fingers lightly over his hairy, inked forearm before I even realize it. “I’ll stay here and keep an eye on them. Absolutely no Bruce time without you. Pinky swear?”

  He snorts as I hold up my little finger and then grasps it with his.

  By the time we’re done giving it a good shake, we’re both laughing.

  I’m sure he sees I’m redder than a radioactive cranberry when I snatch my hand back, too.

  He leaves us with the house to ourselves and an easy dinner hours later.

  The girls decide they want a lasagna their great aunt left behind, so yay for Grady not worrying about me poisoning his girls while he’s gone.

  This little routine, easy and strangely natural, sets the pattern for the next week or so.

  The girls and I find plenty of projects to stay busy—and marvelously Bruce-free—while Grady spends afternoons and early evenings at the bar.

  He’s always home in time to put them to bed, and he keeps me updated on the latest news from Faulk.

  It’s a quiet, peaceful break in the storm.

  And I’d be a fool to trust it one freaking bit.

  Every day that passes leaves me wound up, wondering and waiting for the next shoe to drop like a karate kick to my head.

  10

  Tiger Lilies (Grady)

  The rest of the guys are already at Weston’s garage when I pull in.

  Willow stayed home with the girls and thinks I’m just checking on her truck. No denying she’s the best make-believe nanny a man could hope for.

  Truthfully, I’m after an update on her ride, but I’m also ready for a strategy jam with every major badass who calls this town home.

  Faulk with his emerald-green eyes flashing and focused. He’s only slightly smaller than me and bowed up like an angry porcupine in a flannel shirt, leaning against one of Weston’s half-constructed cars for the next demo derby. My friend is busy shooting the shit with another man I recognize like the back of my hand.

  Ridge Barnet isn’t far behind him, a tough-as-nails heart behind his movie-star perfect face and otherworldly blue eyes. I think the nod we always greet each other with means something more now that he’s a daddy, one more thing we have in common.

  Drake Larkin straggles in with me, parking his police cruiser off to the side. He’s a country boy to the bone with his dirty blond hair and rogue blue eyes, and probably a shoe-in to be sheriff whenever old Rodney Wallace decides to hang it up. Nobody better I’d rather have at this church session.

  Then there’s my nephew. Weston McKnight looks a lot like I did when I was over ten years younger, except with lighter hair and a set of dark-blue eyes set in his head like storm clouds. He’s damn near dripping grease and oil from black streaks across his arms.

  Sometimes I wonder about him, coming back from overseas just a few years ago. He enlisted young and saw some shit, barely made it home in one piece.

  And even if he still greets me every time with that shit-eating family grin, I think there’s a few shadows behind his face.

  A boy like him should be dating, hitting the range or hiking the trails, not playing workaholic. But all he really does is hang out in his garage like a loner when he’s not picking up part-time shifts at my bar, taking every local repair job and broken-down outsider he can tow to his place.

  Sure, he’s building himself a good living, but what the hell happened to a young dude having fun?

  No time for that today, though.

  Not with a mess of trouble caused by fuckwits who like to make their coin off butchering beautiful, rare animals.

  I’m just hoping Faulkner—who always winds up being the mastermind in these situations—lays down a plan we can get moving on ASAP.

  If there’s anything I hate with stakes this high, it’s waiting.

  I’ve never been caught up in something like this before, but dammit, I’m at my limit.

  If he’s still up in his head, telling us it’ll be another week or two, then I’ll come up with my own fix.

  I can’t leave Willow high and dry for another week, or those poor critters suffering at that outpost of hell in Minot.

  Seeing that baby lion treated like a slab of fucking meat shanked me in the guts. Same with knowing beyond all doubt there’s a goddamn dirty conservation officer enabling it all.

  The world is an ugly-ass place.

  I’ve known it for years, but I still can’t fathom what kind of debased turd wants to make money off dragging animals around to be slaughtered.

  There’s evil, and then there’s total devilry.

  I saved the video footage on a jump drive and regretfully jacked it into the computer in Weston’s office, where we all gather so the rest of the guys can have a look.

  Having already seen enough of that shit for this lifetime, Faulk and I stand back while the others take
it in.

  A few shoulders tighten. Hands reach up, scratching at their heads. Then our friends turn their eyes on us.

  “What the shit?” Weston says, his blue gaze looking a shade paler as he meets my eyes. “Uncle Grady...was that a baby lion?”

  “Yes,” Faulk answers for me. “A very endangered one, and proof of everything I suspected, I reckon. This is a pretty sophisticated black-market animal ring. They steal their products from all across the U.S.A. Zoos, shady sanctuaries, and distressed rescue centers are being shut down all the time and can’t keep their exotics any longer. They step in with quick cash, get the critters for free, and usually don’t spend more than a few months on upkeep before flipping ’em for a fat profit to sicko buyers.”

  “What the fuck?” Drake snarls, stepping forward. “You guys should’ve come straight to the sheriff’s office, we could—”

  “Yeah, there’s a problem with that. They’ve got insiders helping them, like I said,” I tell him calmly. “If that was an option, you know I would’ve jumped on it.”

  I expected the shot to the heart, seeing Drake upset, but I still don’t like it. He’s a hardcore animal lover thanks to his wife, Bella. Owning Edison the horse, the biggest celebrity this town’s ever likely to have—Ridge included—does something special to a man.

  “Faulk?” I gesture for him to continue.

  “Right. So, like I was saying, these damn illegal wranglers keep some rare animals for show, some for history, and some for steady funding. The donations and grants filtering in from conservation groups help pad their real moneymaking operation. That’s where the others go, sad to say. Lions, tigers, leopards, monkeys of every kind, even elephants and giraffes get shipped off to be killed or treated like toys. Every so often some rich fuck in a place where it’s legal to own big cats as pets will keep them alive, but most of ’em aren’t so lucky. Soon as there’s a buyer, the critters are off to meet their fate, and she’s usually a real bitch to them.”

  Faulk sighs, his breath like raw sandpaper.

  Doesn’t that say it all?

  Slowly, I glance around the room, taking in the tense, dark faces of men who are just starting to feel it.

  The same mental torture I’ve experienced for weeks, wishing like hell I could charge in and end this, but having to check my own courage—or would-be stupidity.

  “Faulk, how do you make something alive that weighs hundreds of pounds just up and disappear?” Ridge practically spits his words. “I saw the plane, but hell. A model that small has to make regular stops for fuel if it’s heading across country. How do they keep it under wraps?”

  Faulk shifts his weight, sliding his hands together and cracking his knuckles.

  “That’s where it gets interesting. I ran the numbers off the side of that plane days ago, and it’s out of Canada. Registered to a guy who lives somewhere on Vancouver Island. Didn’t have an American flight plan that night.”

  “Canada?” Drake echoes. “That makes this crap international.”

  “Sure does,” Faulk answers. “From what I’ve gathered, their cargo heads up to Canada, and then they put them on ships or long-haul flights to Asia. Big cat trade and more is legal in lots of places, sad to say. Exotic carcasses turn up all the time missing body parts. Won’t say more because I don’t want you guys puking.”

  A few tired curses fly around the room.

  I make a mental note to ask Willow about what she’s seen with poachers in Africa, but only for a moment.

  Talk about a stupid move.

  She had her heart ripped in half the night that cub vanished into the ether. Unless there’s critical intel involved, I’m not keen on squeezing her feelings out again.

  I just hate this whole shitshow, this shit circus, this feeling of having my hands tied.

  “How the hell do they cut them up?” Weston asks, his question a dry rattle. “Do they even shoot them first?”

  “They poison them,” I tell him. “Easy enough when they’re barely being fed in these bastards’ hands. They’ll eat anything. They use shit that isn’t deadly to humans, depending on what they’re after. The bone trade alone is huge. A lion’s skull, intake, fur...that’s worth thousands per cat.”

  My gut feels like it’s ready to tear.

  I never want to do this kind of fucked up research again.

  “Jesus. Tell me it ends there,” Weston growls again.

  “Nope. Everything from making mounts to jewelry to crank cures brings in big money,” Faulk answers. “The lion products are often used as substitutes for the tiger bone trade, which gets even more lucrative. That’s where the real princely money is.”

  “Holy shit. So we’re thinking this buyer on camera was disappointed to get a lion cub instead of a full-grown tiger?” I ask, the pieces snapping into place in my head.

  “Downright pissed would be my guess,” Faulk says. “A cub like that ain’t gonna be good for much more than a mount. Or maybe they can pass it off to some spoiled rich brat in Dubai who wants to show off his exotic pets on Instagram. Those boneheads have their fun and usually wind up flipping the animals when they’re older and they can’t carry them around their yachts like stuffed toys anymore. Then the poor things go to their last buyers, who’ll make damn sure to wring every penny they can out of the bones, along with the hide.”

  Silence again.

  I trade slow, angry looks with the guys.

  Nobody standing here is a newcomer to danger and assholes with bad intentions visiting Dallas. It’s become an exhausting and almost regular occurrence, ever since Drake had his trouble with those Jupiter Oil folks.

  Still, this is different, eerie, and dangerous as hell in a way that’s new and unfamiliar to all of us.

  Fuck.

  “Faulk, just tell us what to do,” I demand darkly, my throat so raw it feels like splinters.

  “I have other folks digging, active-duty agents and my old pal James Nobel with Enguard Security out west. Got a few more calls to make, then we’ll put a plan in place.” Faulk looks at me. “One thing I’m guessing I don’t have to repeat is how big a disaster it’d be if Willow and her cat got discovered.”

  “Cat?” Weston asks, rubbing his temples like his head might blow up. “What cat?”

  My nephew still doesn’t know about Bruce.

  “I’ll explain everything in a minute,” I tell him.

  “Guys, we’d better watch our asses and tread lightly. That dirty conservation rat being involved says this goes deep, and if we’ve got bad actors from the state up our butts...” He looks at Drake after turning everything over in his head. “We’ll have to get the law and the Feds involved, once we have proof that they can act on.”

  “Trouble is, right now with such flimsy evidence, they’d take Willow into custody for stealing a tiger and that would just alert the real crooks behind this. They’d probably have more than enough time to flee the country,” I tell them. “That video proves how ruthless these people are.”

  “Tiger? You gotta be fucking joking,” Weston whispers, looking totally lost.

  “I wish I were,” I growl back.

  “I agree,” Drake says. “That airstrip is out of my jurisdiction, so until we can nail them clean, count me in, any way you need.”

  “Same for me and Doc Walton,” Ridge says with a heavy nod. “He told me he’s dealt with this kind of trouble before, but he has to keep it on the down-low to protect his family. Same for us all.”

  Everyone agrees, and we talk for a while longer before breaking up to head back to our busy lives.

  After the guys leave, I fill Weston in on everything and tell him Willow’s truck can’t be seen.

  Not by anyone.

  He gets it, and he also agrees to continue covering more of my shifts at the bar, adding he can use the extra money.

  I’d gone to the Bobcat to catch up the past few days, mainly so no one starts questioning my unusual absence.

  After our meeting today, though, I think it’d b
e a lot safer for me to be at the house than at the bar. Especially after sundown.

  Leaving the garage, I head to Filmore’s grocery store, our one-stop shop for everything.

  Aunt Faye made sure the cupboards and freezer were packed to the brim before she left, but we need fresh milk and produce.

  Maybe it’s Bruce’s diet rubbing off on me, but I’m suddenly hungry for a huge package of steaks to grill for supper. Willow proved her cooking won’t send us to the ER, but I’ve enjoyed teasing her sweet ass off about it.

  I’ve also got a bigger problem than bantering back and forth.

  I’ve enjoyed coming home to her at the house each night. It’s different from anything I’ve known, this weird, wholesome feeling I’ve missed since...

  Yeah.

  Shit.

  Don’t fucking say it.

  Because the second I do, I’ve got a much bigger personal problem than keeping a tiger thief and her boy safe from a pack of criminals.

  I’d have to admit that I’m worried about my own safety and what the hell happens if I can’t maintain the laser-armed-alligator moat around my heart.

  Then I’d have to admit this crush on the tiger thief is getting way too serious for comfort.

  Still, there’s no denying her positive effect at home. The girls are happier than I’ve seen them in a long time.

  Their texts even convinced Aunt Faye that all’s well while she cares for her friend.

  The dense, throbbing summer heatwave whacks me in the face as I climb out of the truck after parking at the store. Visible heat lines fill the air, bouncing off the blacktop, a frying pan of a day that reminds me how miserable North Dakota can get in humid ninety-degree weather.

  An image of Willow flashes in my mind, totally the wisp of soft, womanly curves and blue-balling smiles that’s given me that sappy nickname for her.

  She was in the barn like usual this morning when I came downstairs. I’d been pouring coffee when she’d walked in through the sliding glass door in the kitchen, the morning heat already baking my farm to a crisp.