His Southern Temptation - By Robin Covington Page 0,32

don’t want you to make another one.”

The papers he signed when he’d left the government were so classified that even people who knew where Jimmy Hoffa was buried didn’t know about him. He’d fought on the side of the righteous, but the images of what he’d done still played in a sickening, loud as hell, continuous loop in his head. The noise had driven him home, to the place where the silence on the mountain was the only thing louder than the echoes of gunfire and people dying.

“Lucky.”

With a slight jump, he realized that he’d risen to a standing position on the steeply pitched roof. He squatted down quickly, lowering his center of gravity before he fell off the damn roof and broke his neck. When he looked, pulse pounding and a short of breath, his dad’s face was pale under his farmer’s tan.

“I think we should talk about this on the ground,” Owen said.

The few minutes it took for them to descend with their tools gave him time to compose his thoughts and shake off the bad memories. The gear stowed in the tool room, he followed his father into the 125-year-old farmhouse he’d been raised in and left as soon as the ink was dry on his college diploma. It was cooler inside, the air-conditioning humming, and the promise of cold sweet tea in the fridge rapidly cooled him down. As was custom, they headed to the kitchen where all-important family decisions were made.

“Lucky, this is a good offer.” Barely seated, his father thumped a finger on the envelope containing the bid from Summerfield corporation lying on the tabletop between them as they settled in with their drinks. He wasn’t going to beat around the bush. “What kind of money can you put on the table?”

“I can’t match their bid, but I can put down about thirty percent and the bank will lend me the rest.” He bit back a smile when his dad’s eyebrows shot up at the figure. It wasn’t chump change.

“Can I ask how you got that kind of money?”

He took a sip of the cold, sweet beverage and didn’t meet his dad’s eyes. It made it easier to avoid directly answering the question. “I got a very nice severance package when I left my last employer.”

“I didn’t think the government paid that well.”

“They do if they want something from you.” Everything had a price, including silence.

His father dropped his gaze, tapping the tabletop with blunt, rough fingers as he considered the offer. Lucky did the same thing when he was making a decision.

“Why do you want the farm?”

“What?”

“I think it’s a fair question, since you’re offering to buy the place when I really need to sell it.”

Lucky stared, the mask of control bred by the Marines coming to good use as his dad gave him the hairy eyeball across the table. He didn’t want to lie, but he didn’t want his dad to think that playing the white knight was the only reason he made the offer.

“You know about the debt, right? Isn’t that why you’re offering?” Owen asked.

“It isn’t the only reason, but I’m glad to do it. I’m tired of living with a gun in my hand.” The bottom line was that he was just plain tired—period.

“Okay, that tells me what you don’t want to do. I asked why you wanted to do this.”

“I need it. I need something to get the ugly shit out of here.” He tapped his head on the right temple.

“I see.” His dad got up, the chair legs scraping against the hardwood floors and raking down his nerves like claws. Placing his glass in the sink, his father turned, leaning his big form against the edge of the countertop, arms crossed against his chest like a barrier. “Like I said. I’ve been to war, so I think I understand what you’re going through. You’ve done this before, come home to rest and get your head straight—it’s what home is for. You need a place where you can find your peace.”

Lucky braced himself—literally digging his heels into the floor —waiting for the “but” to follow.

“But that’s no reason to buy a farm and saddle yourself for a lifetime with something you always said you didn’t want.” His dad paused, struggling with his words. “All I ever heard when you were little was that you wanted to be a Marine. You achieved your goal, served admirably, and now you’re just plain worn out. After you rest, this life might