The Enforcer by Marliss Melton

bugle for another two hours, but Dylan had been up and stirring in the room below his. For a while, he’d ignored the restless noises, determined to sleep. But then he’d thought he’d heard the screen door at the front of the house squeak shut and a flurry of footsteps cross the yard. 
    Why would Dylan leave the house at this ungodly hour?
    He sat up slowly so as not to disturb Milly sleeping next to him. Levering himself to peer out of the window over his head, he spied a shadow streaking down the moonlit hill like an apparition in flight. Christ, what was Dylan thinking?
    As she disappeared from view, he sat a moment, thinking. Perhaps she made a habit of running alone at night. All the same, he felt he ought to let Lt. Ashby know. 
    Toby slithered out of bed, and Milly raised a sleepy head. Stay, he signaled before tiptoeing down the stairs with stealth that belied his broad build.
    As he stepped into the hall, his gaze slid toward Dylan ’s open door. Darkness lay beyond, a chamber of sleeplessness and nightmares bad enough to make her flee. The other doors remained shut, muffling the snores of three sleeping men.
    A golden opportunity—one too good to pass up—presented itself, unexpectedly.
    Toby slipped into her room and closed the door. He stood a moment to study the layout. Faint moonlight gilded the ornate headboard of an old bed, a walnut bureau, and a matching vanity. The open book by her bed drew him nearer. He picked it up, turned it over, and by the light of his watch, read the title: John Brown Still Lives!: America’s Long Reckoning with Violence, Equality, & Change . The pages had been earmarked and passages heavily marked.
    Struck by her complexity, he laid the book back down, next to the Bible and a rosary, along with a framed photograph of her elderly parents.
    As he turned to the bureau, a pale rectangle drew him straight to the letter that had thrown Dylan into a funk yesterday. Finding the envelope open, he drew out the letter with a steady hand and once more used his watch to scan the contents. The message confirmed his assumptions regarding the subject. But the director’s closing comment made him wince on Dylan’s behalf. We ask with utmost respect that you consider whether your diagnosis of PTSD has left you with unfounded paranoia. Ouch. That had to have hurt.
    And now she was outside in the dark and cold, trying to run from the director ’s humiliating—though possibly accurate—remark.
    He put the letter back and turned to the door. The sight of Dylan ’s purse hanging from a hat rack elevated his pulse. Eager to discover what weapon she carried, he lifted the flap. The gleaming butt of a .357 Magnum caused his eyebrows to shoot up.
    Jesus. No micro-sized pistol for this woman. The revolver was large and lethal looking. Not only that, but she carried a full box of Speer, Gold Dot .38 special, 135 grain ammo in the same pocket. He closed the flap and looked around. Anything else?
    A ghostly object lay across her quilt. Curious, he crossed to the bed to pick it up and realized he was holding Dylan ’s nightshirt. Lifting it to his nose, he inhaled a blend of woman, coffee, and sundried cotton. Nice. The pleasing scent strummed a protective chord inside him. 
    He couldn ’t just leave her out there, distraught and alone.
    On the other hand, wouldn ’t he appear too astute going after her? Play your cards close to the vest , he reminded himself. Hell, he even owned a T-shirt with that message on it.
    Dylan Connelly was a grown woman, not a child. If she wanted to run around at night on her own property, who was he to stop her?
    Ignoring the seed of doubt rooted in his mind, he returned to the door, where a peek and a listen assured him he could slip upstairs unnoticed. Reveille would sound in less than two hours, anyway. How much trouble could she get into on her own before then?
    Back in the attic, he squirmed into his bedroll for a little more shuteye. It felt like he had just