Page 73 of Orphan Girl's Mountain Men

"It's my pleasure, ma'am." He smiles, tipping a pretend hat at me. "All in a day's work up at the farm." We laugh together, sharing in the moment of discovery. Then my curiosity gets the better of me.

"So okay, let's take a look inside," I say.

"Hey, those are your secrets." Reed is backing away. "From your ma and pa. Personal stuff. Best you look at it on your own." Before I can say anything, he heads to the doorway, turning back to say, "I hope whatever you find, it sets your mind at rest, Hailey." And with that, he is gone.

I draw a deep breath and let it out again—feels like I've been holding my breath for ages. My heart is pounding, and I suddenly realize that my hands are trembling.

If you want the truth you need to sleep on it.

But what is the truth? And will I want to hear it? Will I finally know what happened to Mom and Dad all those years ago? Will I learn why they came here, and why they left this place to me?

Slowly, I reach my hand into the open space that has been revealed when Reed pressed the knot in the wooden board.

I grope around inside.

An envelope.

I draw it out. It's old, brittle, a little yellow from its time hidden in this secret drawer.

I read what it says on the envelope and smile, my hand over my mouth. I don't want to cry. Not now. Not yet:

Well done munchkin, you found it!

CHAPTER 28

Lennon

There's a rumble of a vehicle coming up the track, followed by the sound of doors opening and closing, then a thump at the door, and a voice calls out, "Police."

I sigh.What has Reed been doing in town this time?Love him as I do, Reed can be a pain in the ass sometimes. Well okay, to be fair, all of us can. But Reed kinda specializes in it. It's the womanizing. Men tend not to look for fights with any of us—particularly when we're all together, but generally even if one of us is on our own. We're big guys, perhaps a little scary even, and we look like we can take care of ourselves. Which of course we can.

Not for nothing did the three of us pass the ultra-tough selection process to get into the SEALs. Most fail. But that was just the start. Once we were in, we were honed to an even greater level of physical strength, power, and endurance. Not only that, but we were also taught a whole shitload of combat techniques—everything from leaping out of helicopters to hand-launching heat-seeking missiles. We have expertise in a wide range of skills—tracking, camouflage, booby traps, sabotage, interrogation, rescuing kidnap victims, and of course the use and maintenance of all sorts of hand weapons. Our weapon of choice was theSpecial Operations Forces Combat Assault Rifle—a ridiculously long name for what was basically a heavily modified M16. For side arms we used Glocks and Sig P226s.

We all learned hand-to-hand combat techniques too—not following a specific martial art as such, instead employing stuff that works in the real world, though not necessarily all that showy to watch.

All three of us had seen action in several theaters of war. All three of us have literal and emotional scars to prove it. I'd been given a commendation for one particular action, where I'd managed to hold the enemy back whilst the rest of the platoon got its shit together. But to be honest, any one of us would have done the same thing in my place. We were a team. A family. But all that stuff is in our past now, and we try not to let our history in the SEALs dictate our present or future out here on the farm.

I open the door to see the Sheriff and one of his men on the doorstep. The sheriff is wearing a black, ten-gallon cowboy hat beneath his chubby, pink face, and mirror sunglasses that he probably thinks makes him look cool. His badge glints on his khaki tactical shirt, pockets bulging with pens, a notebook, other shit he carries. His pants are hitched high, in an attempt to cover up his large belly, but it's not working. Anyone can see the guy is overweight. He stands there, sweating a little in the morning sunshine.

Wouldn't harm you to spend less time eating donuts and writing reports, and more time chasing actual bad guys.

I think it, but I don't say it. I don't even bother looking closely at the guy behind him. A big guy, dressed pretty much the same. Heavy built. Looks like the type of guy who's handy in a fist fight, but would struggle to put a whole sentence together if asked even a simple question. He's holding a briefcase, which looks like a child's toy in his large hands.

"Yeah?"

"This is an official visit. Police matter." He wears a frown on his face to indicate the seriousness of the situation. But we covered interrogation techniques in my time in the SEALs and I'm not about to be phased by a fat prick like him, no matter how big a buddy he's brought along with him for support.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Are your two partners here? I need to talk to all three of you."

What the fuck's this about? Reed must really have done something special this time. I give a grunt, swing open the door and head to the kitchen. If they want to talk they'll follow. If they don't—well, so much the better.

I enter the kitchen, and Dean and Reed look up from where they're seated at the table, looking through a seed catalog and discussing next season's planting strategy.

"It's the Sheriff," I say flatly. "Says it's official. Wants all three of us."

Dean and Reed exchange a look. Then chairs scrape back. Nobody says a word—we've been half-expecting something like this since his last visit. Seems this is not about anything Reed has done after all. Seems now's the moment that the Sheriff has decided to take things into his own hands.

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