Page 3 of Working for the Enemy

We don’t get many newcomers in our small mountain town, so of course, everyone noticed her. It took Mrs. Kincaid all of twelve hours to get her name and spread it around town. The second Marlowe stepped out of that rusted, clunking sedan of hers, every alarm inside my chest went off. The town sees a bright, cheerful girl with dimples and a laugh that carries down the block. They see sunshine.

I see the posture.

I see the way her light green eyes check the exits every time a door opens. I see how her smiles freeze around the edges when someone gets too close. I see the skittish, innocent girl hiding under those bright clothes, practically trembling with a fear she’s trying like hell to mask. She’s running. She’s terrified.

And someone, somewhere, put that look in her eyes.

A dark, lethal heat surges through my blood, making my vision edge in red. My hands curl into fists at my sides. I couldn't save my men in that hellhole overseas. The intel failed, and I carried the bodies out. I couldn't protect them.

But Marlowe?

No one is touching her. Over my dead fucking body.

I make a stop at Whitfield & Sons Hardware, run by a tiny gray-haired older woman. Doris took over the shop after her husband passed and their sons moved away to start their own families. She’s as blunt as the day is long, though her unsolicited advice is usually spot on.

I pick up a box of industrial rivets and confirm the delivery schedule for the steel beams coming into the yard tomorrow. Doris eyes me up, and I know I’m about to get an earful.

“You’re more agitated than usual,” she says. It’s not a question. Nothing with her ever is. I grunt and slide over the rivets for her to scan. “My point exactly.”

Doris tuts at me as she rings up the sale and takes my money. She may be stubborn, but I’m the master of uncomfortable silence.

I have one foot out the door when Doris calls out, “One day, you’ll realize healing doesn’t happen in isolation.”

Her words make me pause momentarily. Straight to the heart of things, like always. It doesn’t matter, though. I don't have time for the life lesson she wants me to learn.

My mind is spinning. I need Marlowe where I can see her. I need her under my roof, inside my line of sight, twenty-four-seven.

As I walk out onto the street, heading toward my heavy-duty truck parked near the edge of town, I catch a flash of white-blonde hair near the local market. I stop instantly, stepping behind the shadow of an awning.

Marlowe dashes out of the grocery store side entrance. She isn't walking briskly; she’s running. Her head is down, her shoulders hunched. She looks around frantically, checking both sides of the alley, before her hand darts to her jacket pocket.

She shoves a small, rectangular package deep inside, pulling her jacket tight over it.

My brows pull together. She just stole something. A box of crackers or maybe some protein bars.

She isn't a thief. Everything about her screams honesty, light, and sweetness. If she's stealing food, she’s completely, utterly desperate. She has no money.

A knot tightens in my gut, hot and suffocating.

I stand there in the shadows, watching her hurry toward the far end of town where the cheap, long-term parking lot sits. My jaw flexes. I can't just hand her cash. Her pride is fierce; I saw the spark of defiance in her eyes when she talked back to me on the sidewalk. If I try to hand her a wad of hundred-dollar bills, she’ll throw them in my face and run right out of Forge Creek.

I need a tactical solution. A job.

I run the logistics of Forge Creek Municipal Contractors solo for the most part, which means the paperwork in my office is a chaotic disaster. I need someone to manage the desk. I need an assistant.

She needs a paycheck, and I need her where I can guard her.

I get into my truck, cranking the engine. As I drive out of town toward my cabin up on the ridge, my mind refuses to settle. A job gives me eight hours a day with her. What about the other sixteen?

Where is she sleeping?

My chest tightens. You wouldn’t know it by looking at me, but I make good money. I live in a rough, isolated log cabin, but my bank account is stacked. I don't care about fancy cars or expensive clothes, but right now, I want to buy every piece of real estate in this valley just to ensure Marlowe has a safe place to land.

Unfamiliar, wild thoughts start spiraling in my head as the truck climbs the winding mountain road. I picture buying a property near the creek. A real home. A place with a wide porch where my angel can sit in the sun, wrapped in one of my flannel shirts, looking soft, curvy, and entirely mine. I picture building a fence around it myself, iron bars high enough that no threat on earth could ever reach her.

I shake my head violently, slapping a hand against the steering wheel.

Fuck. Get it together, Kane.