One Good Man. Charlotte Douglas
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cast by the trees. “Are you sure this is the right road? We’re in the middle of nowhere.”
Jodie was also wondering if she was lost when a clearing opened ahead. She stopped the van at its edge and surveyed the Davidson property. Unlike the fertile farmland of the valley, this terrain was rugged and rocky. The only structures were a run-down farmhouse, a ramshackle barn, its unpainted boards weathered gray, and a few outbuildings. To one side of the barn, a terrace had been carved out of the hillside long ago, a space barely big enough for a vegetable garden, a pond and a tiny pasture.
On the opposite side of the farmhouse, a larger terrace had been graded recently, judging by the bare red clay. Stacks of lumber lay beside a huge concrete-block foundation, and beyond, a driver on a track-hoe worked the land, enlarging the level surface one bucketful of hard clay and rocks at a time.
Brittany sat up straighter and peered out the windshield with interest. “Where’s the still?”
Jodie eased the van beside Brynn’s car in front of the farmhouse and shut off the engine. “Destroyed. After his father died, Jeff told the authorities where to find it.”
“Where does Jeff—”
“Mr. Davidson, to you, kiddo.”
Brittany heaved a sigh. “Where does he get the money for all this?”
Out of the mouths of babes, Jodie thought. Hiram Davidson never had two nickels to rub together, and Marine pay hadn’t made Jeff rich. How was Jeff paying for his project?
She started to comment, but Jeff bounded out the door of the farmhouse and sprinted down the steps toward them. Every bit of breath left her body in a whoosh.
With his killer smile flashing, he was dressed in khaki cargo shorts that revealed muscular, tanned legs, lace-up workboots with wool socks, a cable-knit sweater in olive drab and a soft cap with USMC emblazoned across the front in proud gold letters. At ease, but with an underlying alertness that could snap to attention in a millisecond, he looked handsome enough for a starring role on one of Jodie’s favorite television programs.
Move over, JAG Commander Harmon Rabb, and be still my heart.
Jodie took a deep breath to clear her head. She was thirty years old, a mother and a businesswoman. She had to stop reacting to the man as if she were some teenage Marine Corps groupie.
Four similarly attired men came out of the house behind Jeff and waited on the porch.
“Holy beefcake,” Brittany murmured.
“And all old enough to be your father,” Jodie said sharply. Instantly she wanted to snatch the words back. Of all the sore spots between them, the subject of Brittany’s father was the touchiest.
Jodie unfastened her seat belt and climbed out of the car. She had to have air. An unaccustomed heat flooded her. Hormones. Had to be. Did having a baby at fifteen precipitate early menopause? What else would throw her body into hot flashes?
Brittany left the car and joined her as Jeff reached them.
“You’re right on time.” His gaze, deep-gray eyes that seemed almost black, locked with hers.
For an instant time stood still and she forgot to breathe.
He turned to her daughter and broke the spell. “You must be Brittany. I’m Jeff.”
“Mr. Davidson, Brittany.” Jodie reminded her daughter. She’d raised her to treat grown-ups with respect. She wouldn’t let anyone undermine her efforts. Not even the world’s most attractive former Marine.
“Hi...sir.” Brittany looked ready to dig a hole and climb in.
Jodie groaned inwardly. Everything she did further alienated the girl.
“Your mom would make a good Marine.” Jeff turned his charm on Brittany, and she actually smiled.
“Only if she’s an officer,” Brittany said with the air of a conspirator. “She’s good at giving orders.”
“That means she loves you,” Jeff said. “Take it from someone who knows. My old man never gave a...hoot what I did.”
Jodie blinked in surprise. Jeff had taken her side, and not only hadn’t Brittany bristled, she was still smiling.
Jeff’s friends joined them, and he offered introductions. “Jodie and Brittany Nathan, meet my team.”
A tall and solidly built man with pale-blue eyes, ruddy cheeks and hair like corn silk offered Jodie his hand. “I’m Gofer, ma’am.”
After squeezing Jodie’s fingers in a crushing grip, he took Brittany’s hand.
“Hi, Mr. Gofer,” Brittany said. Jodie’s lesson on manners had apparently taken hold.
Gofer laughed. “My real name’s Jack Hager. My team calls me Gofer.”
Brittany cast Jodie a what-do-I-do-now look.
Before Jodie could respond, Jeff said, “We call him Gofer because ‘go-fer-broke’ is his favorite expression.”
A rugged man with deep black skin, broad shoulders, and a close-shaved head shook Jodie’s hand next. “Kermit. Pleased to meet you, ma’am.”
“That’s your real name?” Jodie asked.
Kermit laughed with a rumbling sound deep in his broad chest and showed fine white teeth. “No, ma’am. It’s a nickname, too.”
Brittany, who’d been a huge Sesame Street fan as a toddler, asked, “Like Kermit the Frog?”
Kermit’s smile widened. “That’s the one.”
“Every time we pulled on our BDUs—” Gofer began.
“Battle dress uniforms,” Jeff explained.
“And smeared on camou-paint,” Gofer continued, “he sang, ‘It Isn’t Easy Being Green.’ So we call him Kermit.”
“And this is Ricochet.” Jeff pointed to a lanky fellow with soft brown eyes and curly brown hair who was nearly as tall as Jeff himself.
“Ma’am,” he responded with a respectful nod. “Brittany.”
“We call him Ricochet,” Gofer, apparently the most talkative of the group, explained, “because he can’t keep still.”
Had Ricochet actually blushed, Jodie wondered, or was his color a trick of the rising sun?
“Unless we’re on a mission,” Jeff added. “Then he’s as focused as a hound on a ham bone.”
“And I’m Trace, Ms. Nathan.” The fourth member of the team was tall and muscular with long, slender hands and the face of a poet. “Short for Tracey, my last name.”
“What do they call you, Mr. Davidson?” Brittany asked.
As one body, the four men snapped to attention and shouted in one voice, “Lieutenant Davidson, sir!”
“At ease,” Jeff ordered with a laugh. “And help these ladies unload their car.”
Jodie swallowed her astonishment. Outcast Jeff Davidson, whom everyone had believed would join Hell’s Angels and die in a bar fight, was an officer and a gentleman? Who would have thought?
Jeff motioned toward the building site. “We set up tables under a canopy and ran a power source. Having the food nearby will speed up our work.”
Jodie opened the van’s hatch. Kermit and Gofer each grabbed a Crock-Pot, Trace manhandled the massive coffeemaker she’d borrowed from the church, and Ricochet tucked a huge cooler under each arm and headed for the tables. Jeff began stacking boxes of baked goods.
“Where’s Brynn?” Jodie asked. “I see her car.”
“Inside.” Jeff used his chin to steady the pile of boxes in his arms. “With Daniel.”