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  FRIENDLY FIRE

  The Wilde Brothers

  Lorhainne Eckhart

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  Chapter 1

  Don’t choke, don’t hesitate, the voice in his head urged over and over as Logan Wilde pounded the ground, kicking up dust and sand as he ran through the field, his finger locked on his rifle. As the squad leader, he was never supposed to go first, but he wanted—needed—to; even though his heart was pounding. Adrenaline surged through his veins like cool liquid from an IV. Sweat made his T-shirt and uniform stick to his chest, a second skin…and the smell, it was something he might never forget. The dirt and grit scraped his lungs, his nose, his mouth. He had been told he would get used to it eventually.

  The heat and dirt and grunge didn’t get to him, though, no matter how uncomfortable they were. What got to him was the guilt and worry, needing to be first through the door, because if anyone was going to take a bullet, it had to be him. These were his men. He had trained them, and they were his brothers.

  He hunkered down, resting his rifle on the sandy mound and looking through his scope, eyeing the roadblock ahead as his marines took their position. His men all knew what to do. Many of them were still kids, but they trained together and lived together, and they knew each other better than most families. To Logan, these men were family. He didn’t have to look to know that Sergeant Mike Duffy was manning the tank-mounted machine gun or that Corporal Jeff Starly had his back.

  He gave the order right before a high-pitched whistle caught his attention—then there was a flash, heat and pain. His muscles seized at the long, rough droning sound, intense pain ripping through his leg. He gasped, fighting past the sense of being strangled. He couldn’t get his breath. His eyes were open, and he was on his back, staring up at the light blue sky. Was it the sky? He blinked. The sound was deafening; everything happening in slow motion. Where was the brightness, the obscured sun, and the colorless desert? It made no sense, this dingy, speckled ceiling.

  He blinked again. The buzzing kept going on and on, irritating him. It just wouldn’t stop. His heartbeat was a booming sound in his ears, and something twisted around his legs, pulling him down. This time, he couldn’t get away. He was drowning, he was sure. Something had him, and he thrashed and fought. There was a crash, then silence. No noise, no buzz—nothing. He just stared. Logan blinked, trying to make sense of what he was seeing.

  He took a breath, beads of sweat rolling off his forehead as he tried to swallow past the dryness in his throat—his heart hammering in his chest. When he went to lift his hand, twisted in the sheets, he yanked it free and heard the cloth tear. He was naked, out of breath as if he’d been running for miles, and he was drenched with sweat. His face, his chest, even his hands were damp. He stared at a spot on the wall and then lower, to a shattered black alarm clock in the corner, then to his gun on the nightstand beside him.

  Logan Wilde lowered his face to his hands and scrubbed hard over a day-old beard. “Get a grip,” he muttered, his hands trembling as he tried to shake off the dream that returned every time he closed his eyes. He never knew when the dream would hit him. It always crept up on him, sucking him back into the insanity of war. It took him a minute now, as he stood on shaky legs, staring at the plain, boxlike bedroom, his clothes stacked on a three-drawer dresser, before it started to come back to him. He had taken a job in MacKay, a small town, part of a ranching community nestled in a charming valley with Idaho’s nine highest peaks right at its back door.

  This should have given him peace. MacKay had everything he wanted, everything he needed. He had told himself over and over that this would be good for him. He took in the rumpled double bed, nightstand, and dresser that had come with the older two-bedroom house he was renting at the edge of town. It was all he needed, since it was already furnished with everything, including a coffeepot in the kitchen. It was perfect, no stress, easy: So why was he still having these damn dreams?

  He sat back on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping, and lowered his head in his hands. He ran his fingers roughly through his short, rumpled hair and over the back of his head. His damn hands still wouldn’t quit shaking. He held them up in front of his face, worried for a minute that he’d see blood; and let out a sigh of relief when he didn’t. He blinked, sweat rolling off his brow and down the bridge of his nose. His large, calloused, tanned hands should have been steady and sure and solid—instead he felt like some wet-behind-the-ears kid.

  “Get a grip. Come on, it’s not real,” he said, his gruff voice sounding strange to his own ears. He was a man on the edge; losing control. He had dangled between life and death, seeing all the horrors of battle. He had teetered with one foot over that edge during the seventeen days he had been in a coma; tubes sticking out of him, a ventilator breathing for him. He had been left without a spleen, his skull fractured, his leg having to be pieced back together—all because of the roadside bomb he had never spotted. The explosion had ended his career as a first sergeant in the marines, but that wasn’t the worst of it. No, the worst thing was his memories of the people he had lost because of that mistake.

  Chapter 2

  Logan rinsed out the cheap white mug in the deep sink of his tiny kitchen. He took his time wiping it dry as he glanced out the back window at the young kids running and skipping past with their backpacks. He set the cup back in one of the six cupboards and snapped it closed. All the cupboards had been painted white, still bearing the dated handles from the Fifties. The cracked linoleum floor squeaked when he walked, but then, everything in this older house did; especially since Logan wasn’t a small man. He was the eldest of the Wilde brothers. He checked on his brothers often—not so often as to arouse suspicion, just enough for his own peace of mind.

  He reminded himself that daily phone calls to check in weren’t okay—and weekly was pushing it. He could get away with a call every two weeks, just staying in touch, asking how things were going and all that. He did it as often as he could, one brother at a time, and his parents, too. The fact was that he worried about everything; fearing that something would come out of nowhere and take one of them down. It was this protective quality that defined him—it had just been amplified after he woke up in the hospital and was discharged from the marines.

  Even though the Wilde brothers could take care of themselves—strong, big boys, all built like linebackers—Logan believed none of them had the experience to deal with all the bad shit that could sneak up on them. After all, he was the eldest, wisest, and tallest of them all, as he often teased them. At six foot two, he was solid once again. He had managed to regain most of the muscle that had wasted away as he lay in that hospital bed; waiting for his shattered leg to heal. He pushed himself just like he always had, doing sit-ups, push-ups, everything—except running. The one thing he loved and had once done every day, jogging a five-mile stretch just to warm up. Now, his damn leg gave out on him time and again. The pain would come out of nowhere; making him feel useless and weak.

  Today, he had put on a light tan shirt and blue jeans, sticking the sheriff’s badge to his shirtfront, his sidearm already clipped to his belt. He pulled out one of the wooden chairs around the small kitchen table and stuffed his feet into worn boots, lacing them up and then massaging his leg when an ache crept out and stole his breath. He used the pain to think, saying nothing, as he always did. He just waited and rubbed, and eventually it passed. He started toward the front door; reaching into the small closet and shrugging on a down vest before he stepped out the front door and into the cool, crisp morning. The sun was bright. He looked dow
n at the cracked concrete steps, taking in the uneven cement and overgrown front yard; his black Jeep parked out front.

  Logan drove the two blocks to the sheriff’s station on Main Street. It was an older building, a single story with a wood frame, in a small town of just over six hundred people. It was sleepy and quiet, and Logan wondered how bored he’d be. It would be refreshing, just what he needed…maybe. He winced.

  He parked out front and made his way inside, taking in the front door. The word “Sheriff,” printed in red across the glass plate. The main room was rustic, with two desks in front and two desks against the back wall, a fan in the corner beside a tall black filing cabinet that should have been retired a century ago. A woman was talking on the phone, writing something down, and she peered up at him from behind her bifocals. She had short, curly black hair, and she was older, a little on the chunky side. Logan would put her in her sixties; around his mother’s age.

  She hung up the rotary dial phone, which seemed to go with everything in this office—and this town, for that matter. She must have noticed his badge, his gun, or maybe the way he couldn’t help but take everything in. The papers on her desk were neat and orderly, the pens tucked into a jar at one corner.

  “You must be the new sheriff,” she said, smiling. Her teeth were crooked in the front, and she had creases around her eyes and mouth, with a little sparkle in her hazel eyes.

  “Logan Wilde,” he said, nodding down to the woman as she stood.

  She still had to look way up at him as she held out her hand. “Rose Barnes,” she said.

  He took her tiny, wrinkled hand, and she shook his without hesitating. Most people—especially women—hesitated, but not Rose. She appeared happy, confident; not nervous around him at all. “So what do you do here, Rose?” he asked.

  “I run the place, Sheriff. You need anything, you ask me. I answer the phones, run the radio, take reports, complaints…Whatever it is folks call about. I make everything easier for you.” She started around her desk with surprising speed; heading to another desk where a man dressed in a deputy’s uniform was hunkered down. He had light hair and was a little on the lean side, young and blue eyed. She set a piece of paper on his desk.

  “Clinton, there’s trouble out at the old Shepard place, some teens messing around,” she said. “Will called it in. There were beer bottles scattered, looked like they had quite a party. Sheriff, this here is your deputy, Clinton.” She patted the young man’s shoulder as if he were a son or relative.

  The younger man stood up, almost reaching Logan’s height. “Sheriff, nice to meet you,” he said. He was thin and didn’t appear to have much muscle. He stuck out his hand, and Logan studied him for a moment—probably the same way he would have studied any of his young marines. He winced, seeing “green” written all over this guy.

  Logan took his hand in a brief handshake; nothing as solid as Rose’s. The young deputy was sweating above his brow. “How old are you?” Logan asked. He set his hands on his hips, watching the younger man as he fidgeted with his sidearm.

  “Turned twenty-four last month—have a wife and baby, too,” he added as if trying to make a point. Logan thought he had just proven that he was young, stupid—and maybe, idealistic, too.

  “And how long you been a deputy?”

  The young man flushed. “A year now. I know what I’m doing, Sheriff,” he stated as Logan continued to scrutinize him.

  “You know how to use a gun without shooting your foot off?”

  “I grew up with guns. I’ve been handling them since I was twelve.” He sounded defensive, and Rose made a clucking sound.

  “Well, we’ll see,” Logan said. “Until I know what you can do, you’re on the desk or with me. Rose, you put everything through me from now on.”

  She exchanged an odd look with Clinton and then took the paper from the desk, handing it to Logan. She pursed her lips firmly as if she was holding back what she really wanted to say. It was odd—it reminded him of something his mother would do when she was annoyed. She gestured to an open door. “Your office is over there, Sheriff.”

  He started toward a glassed-in office with two windows and tired, off-white walls covered in photos—some of retired sheriffs and one of the town sixty years earlier, in black and white. The desk was old oak, solid and clunky. The chair squeaked when he sat, but everything was neat and tidy, with nothing on the desk but an old, rotary dial, phone. Logan opened the drawers to see pens, paper, and crime reports all neatly organized.

  He glanced up, and Rose was standing in front of the desk, frowning, while waiting for him to finish his perusal. “Rose, tell me about the guy who called in to report the trouble,” he said.

  One thing he had learned the hard way was to have all the facts before he walked into anything. Not knowing the first thing about anyone here—the ranchers, the townsfolk, the hooligans—was the same as walking blind into a firefight, which he had no intention of doing.

  “Well, Sheriff, that trouble is about as rowdy as it gets here, most days. Will is an old-timer, in his late seventies, owns a ranch just south of town, two hundred acres. There’s nothing around the old barn at the east end of the property, where he stores hay, so it’s the perfect spot for kids to sneak in to. They do now and then; and this time they left a mess: beer bottles, cigarette butts, some junk food wrappers. Kids, you know. The door was chained—Will started doing that—but this time they shimmied in through the loft. Oh, and, Sheriff—there’s a curfew here, just so you know.”

  That had Logan’s attention. He leaned back in the stiff wooden chair, and the hinge squeaked as he stretched out his aching leg. Rose wasn’t scared of him one bit. She was a woman he liked, a woman he could respect. “Curfew? Please explain that,” he said.

  “Well, kids, under eighteen, who wander around all night—must be looking for trouble. On school nights, they have to be in at eleven, and midnight on weekends—no exceptions. We’re a small town, and the kids need direction, a strong hand. The curfew was implemented years ago by the town council, and it works.”

  “If it works so well, what was this little party all about?” Logan asked.

  Rose wasn’t deterred at all by his comment. “They’re kids, Sheriff. They always find a way to blow off some steam.”

  He grunted as he stood up. “So who all works here?” he asked, taking in the report, the address and details noted in Rose’s neat hand.

  “Clinton works days, and then you have Jordy, who’s been covering most nights and weekends. He’s not expected in until later,” she said. Her tone had Logan wondering what kind of politics went on in the office. She didn’t have to say any more for him to notice that she appeared instantly irritated. “Anything else I can do for you, Sheriff?”

  “No. I guess I’ll be taking Clinton out with me. We’ll take my Jeep,” he added as he strode into the bullpen, the creak of the floor echoing with each step. “Come on, Clinton. Let’s go pay a visit to Will.”

  “Sheriff, there’s a car for you, and it has a radio in it,” Rose said.

  Logan paused. “No, my Jeep’s good. I like to know what I’m driving.”

  “There’s no radio in your Jeep,” she insisted. “How am I supposed to call you and get a hold of you?”

  He paused with his hand on the door. “Call my cell phone,” he said before rattling off the number. He took in the old western feel of the office as he shouted over his shoulder, “Move it, Clinton!”

  “Yes, sir,” Clinton said. Rose scribbled down the number as he lifted his jacket off the hook and hurried to catch up. Logan couldn’t shake the sense that his deputy was wet behind the ears; a rookie with more ego than common sense—not a good combination at all.

  Chapter 3

  It had been interesting, to say the least, being on this side of the law and listening to the petty squabbles of some old-timer. There were half a dozen empty beer cans in the barn, along with empty bags of chips and scattered cigarette butts. It was a dangerous stunt for the kids t
o have pulled; considering the barn was filled with hay. If it had gone up, there wouldn’t have been anything to stop it. The only thing the volunteer fire department could have done was stand back and let it burn. Of course, the entire thirty minutes Logan had been at the scene, Will had addressed Clinton. Adding, half a dozen times—that Sheriff Wilcox, now retired, would have known exactly who had been in the barn and would have taken care of it. In fact, he would have had those kids back there, cleaning up the mess.

  Logan had said nothing other than warning Will to get a better lock. On the way back to town, Clinton had filled him in on the teens in the area; telling him which ones were problem kids and running through a list of some of the local families.

  “Johnny Rhodes is the town bad boy,” Clinton said. “His dad is Stan Rhodes, who has a cattle ranch next to Will’s spread. Several kids follow him: Kim Hendricks, Connie Brattman, and a few others.”

  “So you’re saying Johnny is responsible?” Logan said. He was beginning to seriously wonder what the point was in pursuing this. The kids were just blowing off steam. It seemed like a waste of time to track them down and figure out who had been there, let alone to get one of them to talk to him. He tapped his steering wheel, wondering if this was the extent of crime around here aside from speeding tickets and noise complaints. This was possibly the sleepiest town in the west.

  “Not much goes on around here without Sheriff Wilcox knowing,” Clinton added, wearing his shades in the passenger seat, stirring Logan from his thoughts.

  It was obvious that everyone would’ve preferred to have the old sheriff back, along with all his old ways. Logan couldn’t help being irritated. There was one thing he wasn’t about to do, and that was kiss anyone’s ass. “Let’s stop in town, grab some lunch, then call Stan Rhodes and his son, get them to come in and pay us a visit,” Logan said, wondering if this was what a typical day would be like here. “So tell me about your family, Clinton. How long you been married?”