Nixon's Promise Read online

  Nixon’s Promise

  Gemini Group

  Riley Edwards

  Nixon’s Promise

  Gemini Group Book 1

  * * *

  Riley Edwards

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  * * *

  Copyright © 2019 by Riley Edwards

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover design: Lori Jackson Designa

  Written by: Riley Edwards

  Published by: Riley Edwards/Rebels Romance

  Edited by: Rebecca Hodgkins

  Proofreader: Julie Deaton and Rebecca Kendall

  Nixon’s Promise

  Paperback ISBN: 978-1-7339667-7-1

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-7339667-6-4

  First edition: June 25, 2019

  Copyright © 2019 Riley Edwards

  All rights reserved

  To my family - my team – my tribe.

  This is for you.

  To the local law enforcement in Kent County, Maryland. Please forgive me for using the Sheriff as a bad guy. Nothing could be further from the truth, KC Sheriff’s Department is top notch. One man in particular stands out, a local war hero, who sustained injuries while serving in the U.S. Army. He’s a Purple Heart recipient and an all around great man. Cpl. G. T. Manning.

  * * *

  I’ve also used local eateries in this book. One I’d like to mention here is a pizzeria—Procolinos. If you ever find yourself in Kent County stop by and grab a slice. Best pizza in the world—bar none.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Riley’s Rebels

  Also by Riley Edwards

  Acknowledgments

  1

  “Do you need some help?”

  I was balancing a fifty-pound bag of dog food on the tailgate of my pickup watching kibble pour out the side. As much as it pained me to have to say yes, the growing pile on the asphalt was indicating I had to.

  “If you wouldn’t mind. I ripped open the bag on the cart.”

  The man stepped into my peripheral and if I hadn’t been using my hip to keep the bag from slipping, I would’ve stumbled back.

  Good God.

  He hefted the bag up then to the side, stopping the spillage, and lifted it the rest of the way into the bed. I would’ve found this impressive if my attention hadn’t been solely on the size of his biceps. I was concentrating so hard trying to work out if I could wrap both my hands around one and have my fingers touch, I hadn’t noticed he’d stepped back.

  “Thanks. If you hadn’t come along when you did, I’d be scooping up all fifty pounds’ worth.”

  Jeez, could I sound any more like a putz?

  “Glad I came along then. I’m Nixon.”

  “I know who you are,” I told him.

  His head cocked to the side, his piercing brown eyes narrowed, his lips formed two flat unhappy lines and I would’ve tinkled a little had I not been so enthralled by his arms. Yet again, his biceps, now firmly crossed over his chest, held my attention.

  They defied all laws of nature. It was simply unnatural for a man’s muscles to be that big.

  “Small town,” I mumbled when the silence had stretched to uncomfortable.

  Gossip about Nixon Swagger being home had hit Cliff City like a hurricane. Everyone was talking about the local war hero’s homecoming like it was the second coming of Christ. Rumors had been circulating for the last two weeks.

  I didn’t even work in town, and only came in when I needed supplies, much preferring to stay out on my farm away from nosy, prying eyes. Yet, I’d still heard all about Nixon. The stories were hard to ignore. Not because I was one of the nosy, prying types, but because I had ears and spoke English, therefore I couldn’t miss the talk.

  Everything from, Nixon was suffering from PTSD and he should be avoided at all costs, to he’d come home after his enlistment was up and needed quiet to soothe his ravaged soul, were circulating. I didn’t grow up here but I’d lived here long enough to know rumors were as abundant as the steamed crabs from the Chesapeake Bay, and they were just that—rumors.

  “Right.”

  “Anyway, thanks again.”

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Micky.”

  “Micky?” His head dipped and I was now staring at his ratty blue hat with gold stitching that read NAVY, just as worn I might add, across the front.

  “My name’s McKenna but everyone calls me Micky,” I explained.

  “Well, McKenna, will you be able to get that bag out without spillin’ the rest?”

  “You offering to follow me home and unload my feed?”

  Jeez, why’d I ask that?

  Now the poor man was gonna think I was hitting on him. Which I wasn’t.

  Nixon’s gaze slid from me to the bed of my pickup, Old Blue, and he smiled. “How many animals do you have?”

  “The bags of corn and wheat are for the ducks and Goat,” I started. “The Buckeye is for Sally, my Chincoteague pony rescue. And the dog food, is well, for the dog.”

  “You have a Chincoteague pony?”

  “Not by choice. She’s a cantankerous bitch. But her owner was moving to Florida and I couldn’t say no. And with Sally came Goat. They stick together and roam so she’s not a problem until I need to argue with her to get her in the barn.”

  He was looking at me like I was a puzzle that needed to be solved. Or maybe he was thinking I was a crazy woman who had a feral pony and he was regretting stopping to help. The way he’d taken a giant step back from me after he’d tossed in the dog food, I was betting it was the latter.

  “So, you gonna need help?” He went back to his original question—obviously done with standing out in the heat in the parking lot of Southern States Feed Store.

  “No thanks. I’ll get Zack to help me.”

  “Right.” His smile dimmed a fraction and he dipped his head like he was a gentlemanly cowboy.

  But he wasn’t. We didn’t have cowboys on the Eastern Shore, we had Farm Boys. And he looked every bit the part. Dirty jeans, plain black tee, baseball cap, right down to his work boots. Ones that were used for working, not for style. Even though they were kick ass and he was rockin’ the whole look.

  “McKenna, it was a pleasure. See ya around.”

  “Yeah, see ya
. And thanks again.”

  With a lift of his chin he was gone.

  I’d survived my first Nixon Swagger sighting.

  I wondered if I should report the encounter to the local townspeople and mark myself as safe. According to some people, I’d taken my life into my hands just by talking to him, further supporting my views on rumors.

  Total. Bullshit.

  He seemed perfectly pleasant to me. Not to mention, he had to have been the second hottest man I’d ever seen. Second only to Tom Cruise in Top Gun. Even if you don’t like Tom’s chiseled good looks, he still looked mighty fine in his flight suit and aviators.

  Nixon Swagger looked better.

  Way better.

  He filled out his tee to maximum capacity. It was a wonder how the seams hadn’t split trying to accommodate his biceps. Not to mention, after a thorough inspection of his rear end, he more than filled out his Levi’s.

  Yes, indeed, I survived the great Nixon Swagger sighting.

  2

  Nixon Swagger thought coming home was what he needed.

  Twelve years serving his country was a long time. It wasn’t the amount of days he’d served that had taken a toll. It was what he’d seen and done that weighed heavy. It was what he’d lost that weighed heavier.

  The weight that had bared down on him to near-crushing levels lifted when he’d crossed over the Bay Bridge. By the time he’d made it east to the Kent-Narrows Bridge, he could breathe. And when he’d passed over the Chester River Bridge, he’d felt free.

  He was home.

  The problem now was, he was home.

  Cliff City was a small town. Population five-thousand. Four elementary schools, two middle schools, and one county high school. There had been two-hundred students in his graduating class, most he’d gone to school with from kindergarten on.

  He knew everyone and everyone knew him. And the people who didn’t know him still did—by rumor, tall tale, or straight bullshit. He’d forgotten that part, how fast shit spread. And most of it was pure shit and lies.

  It wasn’t like people tried to hide it. He heard them. Acme, Tractor Supply, Southern States, Nixon couldn’t go anywhere without someone giving him the side-eye or trying to pump him for information. The men mostly gave him a wide berth, the women thought they’d give it a go. You know, be the one who could tame his war-torn soul.

  That was never going to happen. He’d need more than a soft hand and a roll in the sheets to wipe his memory and guilt clean.

  So the new issue was he was home, and he’d forgotten people couldn’t mind their own business. When he was a kid, he was used to it. The man he’d become, the trained killer who was now used to living in the dark, under the veil of secrecy, hated it.

  Nix had come home for a variety of reasons. One being he’d needed to sort his life. He couldn’t think of a better place to figure out his next move as he transitioned into civilian life than on the farm he grown up on. Long hard days working did the body good. The mind, too. He couldn’t sit back and dwell on all the ways he’d fucked up his last mission when at the end of the day, he was too tired to do anything but fall into bed. Since moving back, he’d traded whiskey for hard work. His liver was thanking him even if his body was begging for a reprieve.

  The other was his father had died while he was still in the Navy. Nixon’s wife—who had no business being a Navy wife—had already divorced him, and he’d severed all contact from anyone back home. That hadn’t been on purpose, but time and circumstance had a way of cutting ties. Even ones you thought would hold fast. So being as Nix didn’t have anyone in Kent County he could count on, he’d done the best he could with the land, equipment, and farmhouse his dad had left him.

  The three hundred acres had been rented out to a farmer to till. The last of his dad’s dairy cows had been sold, and he’d hired someone to mow the grass in the summer. But other than that, the farm had been stagnant for years. Therefore, it was in disrepair.

  Not that it had been in any pristine shape before Wayne Swagger had died. The man had done the best he could, too. But with corn and bean prices what they were, and milk being sold by the pound and on a steady decrease for the last decade, farming was a dying occupation. At least small farmers were dying—corporate farms were thriving.

  Spring would be fast sliding into summer and if Nix wanted to get the rest of the old pasture ready to rent, he needed to get busy pulling out posts. Not that they’d be all that hard to rip out, considering most of the fence was held together by old baler string. One more thing Nix’s dad had let slide over the years. Without help, the man had done what he could and cheaply as possible. And the orange twine was something that was in abundance, wouldn’t rot, and was sturdy enough to tie posts together. It wouldn’t be hard, but Nix would have a week’s worth of work going at it alone.

  With an ever-growing pile of logs to burn, it was nearing on lunchtime and Nix was getting ready to head up to the house, when something in the woods nearby caught his attention. Whether it was growing up on a farm where his father always had either a pistol on his hip or a .22 in the truck, or his years as a Navy SEAL that had only reinforced the habit, Nixon always carried. In one smooth motion he had his Sig P226 out of the holster and at the ready. Not that there were very many wild animals in Cliff City that could cause harm, but he was always prepared, something his father had taught him as a young boy.

  It hadn’t taken long for the animal to get through the thick brush and pop out in his pasture. A horse. Or upon further inspection, a pony. A silver bay, Chincoteague pony if he wasn’t mistaken. And a goat. They were leisurely grazing, not paying Nix any mind. One thing that had changed over the years he’d been gone was the property backing up to his woods had been cut into parcels and sold. Now, instead of one large farm sharing his woods, he had three smaller farms that weren’t really working farms. More like three people who built houses on very large pieces of property.

  Nixon understood about needing space and privacy so he hadn’t thought much about it. But now that he had his neighbor’s pony roaming around, he was wondering. What were the chances McKenna was his neighbor? He knew a lot of people who owned horses, but only one person who owned a Chincoteague pony.

  “Hey, girl,” Nix called out.

  On a slow approach with his hand out, he advanced on the animal. McKenna had said her mare was cantankerous, so Nix was being cautious.

  “There you go.” He continued to talk to the pony while he made a quick lead line out of the baler twine. He slipped the makeshift noose over her head and let the slipknot tighten.

  With a gentle tug, he guided her back into the woods and waited to make sure the goat was following. It didn’t take an expert—though he spent his childhood in these woods and knew every inch—to see the path the pony had taken.

  That section of the woods was less than ten yards deep, and with it only being spring, nearly free of the basketgrass, thistle, honeysuckle, and wineberry vines that would soon take over, making the path unusable. Until then, it was easy to navigate through.

  The brush cleared, revealing a coated wire fence. On a quick inspection, Nix didn’t see any obvious breaks in the wire or downed posts, and it was doubtful the small pony could jump the enclosure. And he knew that even if the pony could, the goat couldn’t.

  “Come on, girl.” Nix gave the mare a gentle tug and guided the pony to the end of the fence and around the side. A big yellow barn he knew well came into view. Whomever purchased this parcel had inherited Mr. Todd’s outbuilding as well. A couple hundred feet past the barn was the old, brick farmhouse.

  Nix had spent more than one evening in that house when he was a child. Mr. and Mrs. Todd had taken pity on him and his father and they’d spent holiday dinners around their family table. The Todds didn’t have any children, and though Wayne had one, he was wifeless. The Todds had been good people, good neighbors. Salt of the earth and would—and truly did—give their last penny to the less fortunate.

  Mrs. Todd had
passed away when Nix was a senior in high school. Her funeral was a county event. Nix had never seen so many people pack into the high school’s stadium. Not even a Friday night home football game could garner the number of asses planted on the benches.

  When Mr. Todd died without an heir, he’d instructed everything to be sold and donated to the local churches. Even the Catholic church got their share, and the Todds were Baptist. Everyone was surprised.

  Nix was not.

  Gene Todd’s generosity knew no bounds. And seeing the house now for the first time since Mr. Todd had passed and his property had been divided, hit Nix square in the chest. He’d missed a lot over the years he’d been away. Most didn’t bother him, some did. Seeing Mr. Todd’s land with a horse enclosure, land that used to be a bean field, was one of those somethings.

  It was on this thought that Nix stopped short, his eyes landing on a denim-covered ass. He couldn’t catch sight of much else, seeing as the rest of the woman was bent over the front grill of a rusted, baby blue Ford. She was standing on a closed tool box, yet still rolled up on her toes for extra height.

  Goddamn.

  That ass.

  Those jeans.

  Nix had never seen such a sexy sight.

  Belatedly, a dog started barking and racing from the barn straight toward Nix and the pony, not looking like it had any intention of stopping.