The Hero I Need: A Small Town Romance

by Snow, Nicole

  We rush over to where two squad cars are parked.

  They’ve been expecting us for the past hour, and thank hell Faulk took the gamble on these guys keeping their cool when he called them. Guess small-town Wyoming cops aren’t so different from small-town North Dakota ones.

  “We’ve talked to the owner twice,” one of the officers says, tucking his thumbs in his belt loops. “He swears the lady you’re looking for hasn’t shown up yet.”

  “They’re here,” I say. “I’m absolutely sure of it.”

  “Could be. This place is awfully big. They’ve got something like over fifty huge cats,” Officer Two says, a sheriff’s badge shining on his chest. “They’ve got the works: lions, tigers—”

  “And fucking bears!” I shout, so frustrated I’m about to flip my shit. “Look, guys, I don’t give a damn what kind of animals are here. Willow’s trapped in there with my nephew, Weston, and that’s all that matters.”

  “Easy, pal,” the first cop says. “We’ve talked to the owner, Jacob Cook. He’s a good, law-abiding citizen in these parts. He swears he’s the only one here today—”

  “Have you looked?” I ask. “Looked inside the buildings or barns or whatever the hell they have? Don’t tell me,” I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. “You boys need a proper warrant?”

  “Grady!”

  I turn. Faulk’s holding a warning hand up and gabbing into his phone.

  Yeah, I know when to rein it in.

  Barely.

  The last thing I’m here to do is wind up arrested, though.

  The sheriff’s gaze snaps to my rifle. “Awful big yule log to bring to a fire. Sure hope you’re not thinking about taking anything into your own hands. We’ve got this covered.”

  “Yeah, maybe, but your SWAT unit must be running late.” I pause, rolling up my sleeve, exposing the snake and arrow inked on my arm from half a lifetime ago. “I came for backup because it looks like you boys need it.”

  “Dang!” the other cop whistles. “Sharpshooter, huh? You dudes saved my butt five times in Kandahar when I did my time.”

  “Iraq for me,” I tell him, and we spend a few minutes making small talk about the brushfire wars that snapped up our generation after 9/11.

  It’s a welcome distraction, though I’m keenly aware every second matters, and they’re slipping by with every word of idle chatter.

  Finally, Faulk walks over, phone in hand. “I have the FBI on the phone, gents. Peter Macklin just reported the kidnapping of his daughter.”

  Snarling, I throw my hands in the air, and motion at the officers.

  “Fuck, we’re wasting time!” Anger boils my veins, churning through me like a hot current.

  It can’t end like this.

  It can’t.

  “This is the last place she was reported,” Faulk tells them, far more cool and collected than I could be right now. “I suggest you call in every officer you have right now.”

  To hell with more waiting.

  I’m not standing by for anyone as the two officers share a concerned look and slowly nod, reaching for their radios.

  “Told you,” I grunt at the cops.

  I sprint past them, while they’re busy, breaking into a full ground-eating run.

  “Hey, mister! Get back here!” the sheriff yells.

  “Grady! Hold up.” Faulk’s footsteps pound the pavement, catching up with me roughly thirty seconds later in a few big strides. “Hold up, man, we should wait for backup!”

  “Bull. Shit. If that was Tory in there, would you wait around with your dick hanging out?” I flash him a scalding look that drives home how riled I am.

  “Point taken,” he snaps after a minute. “Let’s get her out of there and get these assholes licked!”

  For the shortest second, I raise an eyebrow, amused by the crap that comes out of his mouth through an Oklahoma filter sometimes.

  We’ll laugh about it later, I hope.

  Right now, we both shift into high gear, charging the entrance gate. Tall pine trees line the road, and thinking alike, we stop behind their massive trunks. They’re easy cover as we dart forward from tree to tree, only pausing to scope out any obvious dangers.

  At a Y in the road, we pause.

  A sign one way says Office, the other says Enclosures – Private.

  Faulk looks at me.

  “Enclosures,” I growl, running on pure instinct.

  Staying close to the trees, we make our way to an area that has several tall sprawling cement structures crowded in with a few service buildings.

  I catch movement outside a large metal shed.

  A man, carrying an open laptop. Faulk sees him, too.

  With a stiff nod, I let him know I’m darting left, around an adjacent wooden building.

  Faulk stays near the trees, working his way toward the metal shed from the right. There are definitely pens and roaming areas for animals, far too many to count.

  Lions, tigers, cougars, panthers, and other exotic cats all stare at me in silent interest when I finally stop on the backside of the wooden building adjacent to the one the tall man’s pacing around.

  He’s cursing, muttering about “being in a hot fucking jam.”

  I inch along the building’s outskirts and peer around the edge.

  The goon’s back is turned to me, but I have no way of knowing if there’s anyone else around. He’s definitely not some run-of-the-mill groundskeeper, dressed in all black, a sidearm bulging in his waistband outlined under his shirt.

  I crouch down, lifting my rifle, using the scope.

  No imminent danger.

  Just dozens of goddamn hiding spots, tight corners, nooks and crannies in the compound where alert guards could be lurking. If the Fosses were smart, then they brought backup for a hostile takeover—assuming this Cook guy wasn’t compromised all along.

  Yeah, I could pick off my mark in one shot from here, but I don’t want to use lethal force unless absolutely necessary. Plus, there’s some risk of him keeling over and alerting others I haven’t seen.

  Fuck it.

  Only one way to find out.

  Pushing off the wall, I flash Faulkner a thumbs-up. Then I hoist my rifle to my shoulder and charge straight at the man before he sees me coming.

  Maybe it’s instinct, or the scuffing sound of my feet hitting the ground.

  Either way, the prick turns half a second before I’m on him.

  Too late, friend.

  Arms crossed, elbows out, teeth bared, I plow into him like a six-foot-plus battering ram of solid muscle.

  I hear a snap like something breaking—maybe a rib or two on impact—and twig boy goes down hard. Hopefully he’s still conscious.

  His laptop flies one way, his crooked body the other, hitting the ground so hard he’s stunned.

  Eyes wide, staring up at me through broken glasses, and mouth open, he coughs, as if he’s trying to breathe.

  I so don’t have time for this shit.

  Growling, I grab his shirt with one hand and pull back a fist. “Where is she? Hurry the fuck up.”

  He coughs again, barely moving an arm to point at the metal shed.

  Before I’m even up, there’s a splintering crash from inside the building.

  A deafening roar unlike anything I’ve ever heard erupts.

  No, scratch that.

  I remember exactly where I’ve heard that sound before, too much like Zeus on a drunken bender tearing open the whole damn sky and coming to take names.

  The barn, that day Willow screamed.

  Bruce.

  And behind all that noise, a second bloodcurdling scream rips through the air.

  My blood becomes a lava flow because I know that scream, too.

  I don’t recognize the louder, more masculine one. It’s definitely not Willow, but it’s enough to get me moving, my legs spinning like a windmill as I race toward the sound.

  I notice the walk-in door just in time and fling my hand out, grabbing at the handle. />
  Just as I start to pull, the side of the building rumbles like a small earthquake.

  Something hits it hard, from the inside.

  I throw open the door, leap in, and come skidding to a halt.

  I’m frozen with my gun raised, trying to process what the fuck I’m seeing.

  Bruce is loose, very much not in the trailer anymore.

  He’s standing on his hind legs, front paws on the wall, so pissed he looks like he could maul a small army in no time.

  And someone’s under him, pinned against his chest, having their life crushed out—if they’re not missing their head already.

  All I can see is a high heel kicked out under the tiger on one side, a leg twitching, curled, almost like a certain wicked witch crushed by a falling house.

  But that’s good news.

  Willow wouldn’t wear heels to this party, thank fuck.

  I spin around and spot Weston’s truck and the trailer.

  The back door hangs open like a busted jaw.

  Glancing back at Bruce, making sure he doesn’t move, I jog over to look around the side of the trailer.

  Weston and I make eye contact, even as he’s doubled over, barely standing. His face only makes me angrier, a network of harsh bruises, knots, and swollen red pain.

  “Uncle Grady?” He almost collapses with relief, catching himself at the last second. “Holy crap, am I glad it’s you.”

  “Same, my boy. Can you walk? Where’s Willow?” I ask, throwing an arm around him for support.

  He leans into me.

  “She...” Weston pauses, pointing at the door he was about to open. “She told me to get in the truck.”

  I’m about to ask him if he can stand when an angel’s voice rings out a few feet away.

  “Grady?” she whispers in a soft rush.

  “Willow!” I round the back of the trailer, pulling Weston along with me, and see her standing there inside.

  Smudged with dirt, dried blood on her forehead, hair looking like more of a chestnut mess than ever, but hell.

  She’s alive, she’s gorgeous, and she’s mine.

  Running as fast as those long legs can carry her, she uses the open trailer door as a springboard and lands in my arms. “Grady! I thought I was seeing things when you ran through the—”

  I stop whatever she was about to say with a world ending kiss that could shock Robert Oppenheimer.

  I know we’re not out of the woods yet.

  I know common sense should rule.

  I know I should be very fucking concerned about the fact that there’s a raging tiger less than twenty feet away.

  But I also know a man can’t stop a star from going supernova, and right now that star is my heart.

  You’d better believe I throw myself at her, press her to my chest, kissing and hugging and hellbent on never letting her out of my sight.

  “Um, Grady, I hate to interrupt, but...” she trails off with a fading smile.

  I break the kiss and set her down, my rifle swinging back up.

  “Hey, Unc, uh...you really might want to let her go,” Weston’s voice penetrates the blood roaring in my ears as he staggers to the cab of the truck.

  I look over Willow’s head to see why.

  Bruce, head swinging with fury and eyes flashing like an entire jungle at war, slowly approaches. Behind him, near the wall, is the crumpled body of a woman on the floor. Not moving.

  Shit.

  I keep my rifle up, looking for blood on Bruce’s face, hating like hell that I might have to put this beast down if he’s got a taste for human flesh now.

  “Hey, Grady, go easy. He’s just upset,” Willow whispers, looking at me oddly. “He won’t—”

  “Yeah. I know.” I nod over her head, hoping to everything holy she’s right.

  I want like hell to believe her, but the bloodlust shine in that cat’s dark eyes right now would make any grown man piss himself.

  “Stay back, guy,” I mutter, my hands frozen on the gun, the trigger scalding my finger.

  She twists, forcing a smile, and releases me to turn all the way around. “It’s okay, Bruce. You know Grady. He’s a friend.”

  But the monster cat doesn’t look the least bit friendly.

  Bruce stiffens in this weird way that reminds me of a barn cat getting ready to chase down a mouse. Christ, if he jumps, he’ll knock us both flat before we even have a second to realize it.

  Worse, he’s growling. This low, ominous thunder oozing out of him.

  My lungs turn to concrete.

  I don’t want to shoot him.

  Not at all.

  I damn sure don’t want to put him down in front of Willow, but if he doesn’t back his big orange-and-black furry ass up right the fuck now—

  Another roar comes exploding out of him that shakes my bones. Even Willow gasps.

  Only, it’s not aimed at us, not with the way he’s got his fierce head twisted...he’s looking past us, looking up.

  I whirl, throwing Willow to the ground, just in time to crouch down and see a tall man on the metal walkway overhead firing off a shot.

  A hot bullet soars through the air where our heads were a second ago, and ricochets off the side of the trailer with a booming clatter.

  Scope up, focused, eyes like knives, I catch his sneaky arm in my sights and pull the trigger.

  The high-pitched, girlish shriek and the dull thud of his gun hitting the metal walkway under him tells me I nailed my target.

  The man staggers back and slumps against the wall, clutching his arm, dark red rapidly pouring through his starched white sleeve.

  “Keep Bruce distracted,” I tell Willow. “If there’s any way to get up there, he’ll find it as soon as he smells that bastard’s blood.”

  Thankfully, the hero of the hour releases another booming growl, paces a few steps back, and then sits down on his haunches and lets out a gaping yawn.

  Willow turns back to me as I help her up. “How did you get here? We haven’t been here that long, have we?”

  My rage renews itself as I get a good look at her eye. It’s swollen, and there’s an ugly gash on the side of her temple marring her beautiful face. The whole side of her face is swollen like she fell face-first into fire ants.

  “Who did this?” I growl.

  “Niles! Niles Foss. He’s...up there. I think you got him.” She looks up just as the man lets out another loud groan above, but I catch her arm. “He’s trying to transfer the money they stole from my dad. We have to stop him.”

  “We will. Faulk’s outside,” I say. “Just give me a minute to find—”

  “Right behind you,” Faulk says, sticking his head in the door. “And I ain’t moving till that pussycat gets penned up again. The cops are on their way. I heard a couple gunshots—got it under control?” He nods at the body by the wall with her loose heels curled out in front of her. “Shit. Who’s that?”

  “Priscilla Foss,” Willow says, spitting her name like a curse.

  “Is she dead?” Faulk asks, taking a tentative step inside.

  “Not unless she died from a heart attack,” Willow says. “Bruce didn’t hurt her. He just pinned her against the wall. I think. More importantly, Grady shot her husband right before he put a hole through my head. We’ve got to find some way to get him down.” Pointing, she gives me a quick kiss, and then turns to the tiger. “Come on, Bruce. Everything’s wrapped up now. Time for a nap.”

  The cat stands and plods toward the trailer. I’m not sure if I should move or not with the way he’s staring at me. Though his look seems more disinterested than before, the kind of oh, you again? looks he’d give me in my barn.

  “He knows you’re a good guy,” Willow tells me.

  “Yeah, well...” I trail off, listening to the beat of Faulk’s footsteps pounding up the metal stairs to the catwalk.

  Less than a minute later, he’s got Niles Foss in custody, totally disarmed, and moaning like the pitiful bitch he is as Faulk frogmarches him down to the
ground level.

  The tiger lets out what sounds like a satisfied grunt as he stomps up the metal door into the trailer.

  All in a day’s work, he says with the swish of his tail.

  Fuck it. I grin like the madman this insanity is turning me into.

  As soon as we’ve got the ramp door closed up and locked, with half a dozen deputies pouring into the building, I grab Willow and give her another, long, thorough, earth-moving kiss.

  It doesn’t last as long as I’d like when Jacob Cook joins the fray.

  The refuge owner explains how the Foss duo called him shortly after Willow did, pretending they had a tiger needing a home. He’d explained that he already had a new one coming in and couldn’t take any more.

  Then Niles and Priscilla showed up this morning with guns and tied up his wife. Took her hostage. Said they’d feed her to the lions one piece at a time if he didn’t go along with their scheme.

  “Still, that’s a poor excuse for my behavior. I’m terribly sorry, Miss Macklin, quite mortified beyond belief that I put you in this position with that brute and his banshee,” Cook tells Willow, adjusting his spectacles with a sad glint in his eye. “The other man who was with them, the one who beat up your driver...he kept a gun trained on my poor wife practically all day. And when it wasn’t him, it was the other sick puppy with the baseball bat.”

  “He’s Priscilla’s brother, Wilco,” Faulk says, pointing to the man I ran down outside the compound, now in the back of a squad car. Priscilla and Niles were already hauled away in custody for medical attention.

  “Do you recognize him?” I ask Willow.

  “He worked at Exotic Plains and was always waiting on the Queen Bee hand and foot. He deserves what’s coming.” Shaking her head, she purses her lips. “I have to call my father...”

  I pull out my phone and hand it to her. “Here. Use mine.”

  She punches a series of numbers into the phone and steps away from where the police are still clustered, asking questions and taking statements from everyone on the scene. I find my nephew in the tumult and lay a hand on his shoulder—gently because he looks like he’s been through a shredder.

  “Weston? You should let the medics take you in once they show up,” I tell him. “You sure you don’t want me to drive you to the ER?”