Drake, p.1
Drake, page 1
Drake
Iron Horse Legacy Book #6
Elle James
Twisted Page Inc
Contents
Drake
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
Epilogue
Saving Kyla
Chapter 1
Afterword
About the Author
Also by Elle James
Drake
Iron Horse Legacy BOOK #6
New York Times & USA Today
Bestselling Author
* * *
ELLE JAMES
Copyright © 2022 by Elle James
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
© date Twisted Page Inc. All rights reserved.
ISBN EBOOK: 978-1-62695-395-6
ISBN PRINT: 978-1-62695-396-3
Dedicated to my readers who make my dreams come true by keeping me in the business I love dearly…WRITING! I love you all so much. Thank you for buying my books!
Elle James
Author’s Note
Enjoy other books in this series by Elle James
* * *
Iron Horse Legacy
Soldier’s Duty (#1)
Ranger’s Baby (#2)
Marine’s Promise (#3)
SEAL’s Vow (#4)
Warrior’s Resolve (#5)
Drake (#6)
Grimm (#7)
Murdock (#8)
Utah (#9)
Judge (#10)
Visit ellejames.com for more titles and release dates
Join her newsletter at
https://ellejames.com/contact/
Chapter 1
“Damn,” Drake Morgan muttered, checked his speedometer and repeated the expletive.
He hadn’t realized he’d been going over the sixty-miles-an-hour speed limit until blue lights flashed in his rearview mirror. Lifting his foot off the accelerator, he slowed and eased to the side of the road, just a few miles from his destination.
A county sheriff’s SUV pulled to a stop behind him, and a deputy dropped down from the driver’s seat.
The tan, short-sleeved uniform shirt stretched taut over full breasts, the shirt-tails tucked into the waistband of dark brown trousers, cinched around a narrow waist with a thick black belt.
Definitely female. Too petite and pretty to be out patrolling the wild roads of rural Montana.
He lowered the window of his Ford F250 pickup, reached into his glove box for the vehicle registration and insurance information she’d surely request and straightened.
“Sir, place your hands on the window frame,” she said.
He raised his hands, one of which held the documents. The other he carefully placed on the window frame of his door, staring out the open window into the barrel of a pistol. He raised his gaze to the deputy’s and cocked an eyebrow. “I have a concealed carry license,” he warned. “My weapon is in the glove compartment. I’m unarmed at this moment.”
“Just keep your hands where I can see them,” she said, her tone curt, her eyes narrowed as she held the pistol pointed at his head.
“Can I ask why I was pulled over?” he asked in a calm, even tone, knowing the answer.
“You were exceeding the speed limit,” she said. “If that’s your title and registration, I’ll take those. But no funny business.”
“Trust me,” he said with a crooked smile. “I’ve never been accused of being funny.”
Her eyebrows pulled together to form a V over her nose as she took the papers he held out for her.
She studied the documents then glanced up. “You’re not from around here,” she said.
“No, I’m not,” he said.
“Do you know how fast you were going?” she asked, all business, no smile.
Drake almost grinned at the seriousness of the young woman’s expression and the way she stiffly held herself. “Over the speed limit?”
She snorted. “By at least fifteen miles an hour. In a hurry to get somewhere?”
“I was.”
She shook her head, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “And how’s that working out for you?”
“You tell me,” he quipped.
She was pretty in a girl-next-door kind of way with light brown hair pulled back in an efficient ponytail.
Drake stared up into her eyes, trying to decide if they were brown, gold or green, finally settling on hazel. To cap it all, she sported a dusting of freckles on her bare face. “You have my information, but let me introduce myself.” He stuck out his hand. “Drake Morgan.”
Her brow furrowed as she contemplated his extended hand. “I’m Deputy Douglas.” She gave a brief nod, ignored his hand and stared past him into the vehicle. “Since you have a gun in the vehicle with you, you’ll need to step out of the truck while I run your data.”
Already late for the meeting with his team, their new boss, and this his first day on the job, he sighed, pushed open the door and stepped out with his hands held high.
“Turn around, place your hands on the hood of your vehicle and spread your legs,” she said in a tone that brooked no argument.
He cocked an eyebrow. “I’m not a convicted felon. I owned up to the gun in my glove box. I’m unarmed and at your mercy.”
Having stated her demand once, she held the gun pointed at his chest, unbending, waiting for him to follow through.
Rather than give her a reason to pull the trigger, he turned and complied with her command.
The shuffle of gravel indicated she’d moved closer. A small, capable hand skimmed over his shoulders, down his sides, around to his abs and lower. Bypassing his private parts, her hand traveled the length of his legs, patting both all the way to his ankles.
Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as she balanced her service weapon with her right hand as she frisked him with her left.
Finally, she straightened and stepped back. “Please stand at the rear of your vehicle while I run your plates and license.”
He turned and gave her a twisted grin. “Told you I was unarmed.”
She backed toward her vehicle then slipped into the driver’s seat. Her fingers danced across a computer keyboard as she entered his license and registration data and waited.
Moments later, she got out of her work vehicle, weapon back in the holster on her belt, and strode toward him while writing on an official-looking pad. When she reached him, she ripped off the top sheet and handed it to him. “I’m only giving you a warning this time. Next time, I’ll cite you. Slow it down out there. The life you endanger might not be your own.”
With that parting comment, she spun on her booted heels and marched back to her vehicle.
“Deputy Douglas,” he called out.
As she opened her SUV, she turned to face him, “Yes, Mr. Morgan?”
“You’re the first person I’ve met here. Nice to meet you.” He waved the warning ticket. “And thank you.”
Her brow furrowed, and she shook her head as she climbed into the vehicle. Moments later, she passed his truck and continued toward the little town of Eagle Rock ahead of him.
Drake slipped into the driver’s seat and followed at a more sedate pace. Hell, he was already late. What were a few more minutes? And it wasn’t worth getting a full-fledged ticket. He was lucky she’d only issued a warning. She could’ve hit him hard with a speeding ticket, with the lasting effect of jacking up his insurance rates.
He owed her a coffee or a beer. Since she was the only person from Eagle Rock he knew besides Hank Patterson, he’d kind of like to get to know her better. It paid to have the law on your side in these backwater towns.
Following the GPS map on his dash, he drove through town and out the other end, turning on the road leading to his destination.
Soon, he saw her, perched on the side of a mountain, her broad porches intact, her late eighteen-hundred charm shining through, despite the need for a good paint job and dry-rot repair.
The Lucky Lady Lodge clung to the side of the mountain, welcoming travelers in search of a quiet getaway in the Crazy Mountains of Montana.
From what Hank had told him, this lodge had been a place for the gold rush miners of the late eighteen hundreds to spend their hard-earned gold on booze and women.
After the gold had dried up, the Lucky Lady had become a speakeasy during the prohibition, with secret passages into the old mine where they’d made moonshine and stored the contraband in the mountain.
Drake had done some research on the old lodge. He’d found stories telling of days when mafia kingpins had come to conduct business while hunting in the hills or fishing in the mountain streams.
Fires had consumed hundreds of acres surrounding the lodge, missing it on more than one occasion by less than a mile. Throughout the years, the lodge stood as she had from the beginning, a little worn around the edges. Recently, she’d been damaged by an explosion in the mine. That’s where Drake and his team would come in.
He looked forward to rolling up his sleeves and putting his carpentry skills to work restor ing the old girl. He hoped that, like riding a bike, it would all come back to him despite the sixteen years it had been since he’d last lifted a hammer to build or repair anything more than a deck on the house of a friend. The summers he’d spent working on new home construction while in high school gave him skills he wouldn’t have known otherwise and the confidence to try new things he’d never done.
Having joined the Navy straight out of high school, he hadn’t had much need for carpentry skills. He’d focused all his attention on being the best military guy he could be. That had meant working his ass off and applying for the elite Navy SEALs training.
BUD/S had been the most difficult training he’d ever survived. Once he’d made it through, he’d been deployed on a regular basis to all corners of the world, fighting wars he thought were to help people who couldn’t help themselves or protect his own country from the tyranny of others.
Drake snorted. He’d learned all too soon that war wasn’t always for just causes. When he’d tired of putting his life on the line for the benefit of big business, he’d said goodbye to what had been the only career he’d ever wanted.
From there, he’d worked with Stone Jacobs as a mercenary in Afghanistan, leaving just in time before the US pulled out and left Stone and the last five members of his team stranded.
Rumor had it that former SEAL, Hank Patterson, had sent a rescue team to get Jacobs and his people out.
Since Afghanistan, Drake had refused to be another hired mercenary. He’d been drifting from one low-paying job to another. Nothing seemed to fit.
When Hank Patterson had called him out of the blue, he’d been working at a small diner in the backwoods of East Texas, dissatisfied with life, unable to fit into the civilian world and ready for any change that would take him away from the diner, the small-minded residents of the town and the meddling mamas bent on matching their single daughters to the only bachelor in town with all of his original teeth.
No, thank you.
Drake had been ready to leave East Texas.
When Hank’s call had come, he’d been willing to listen and even come to Montana for a one-on-one chat with his old friend and brother-in-arms.
Hank had offered Drake a job as a Brotherhood Protector, a kind of security firm providing protection, extraction and whatever else was warranted for people who needed the expertise of someone skilled in special operations.
“I’m not interested in mercenary work,” Drake had said. “Been there…done that.”
“It’s not mercenary work,” Hank had said. “It’s bodyguard, rescue and protective services for real people who need specialized help. We aren’t working for big corporations.”
Drake had been insistent. “Not interested. Got anything else?”
Hank chuckled. “As a matter of fact, I know someone who needs carpenters for a lodge restoration project. It’s good physical work, and the lodge is worth restoring.”
“Sounds more my speed,” Drake said.
“Come out to Montana. See what we have here and make your decision,” Hank had urged.
Drake had remained firm. “I’m not going to change my mind.”
“Okay. I get it. But I want you to meet the guys who work with me and get their take on what we do.”
“Fair enough,” Drake said. “I’d still rather pound nails. It beats slinging bullets.”
“I’ll put you in touch with Molly McKinnon and Parker Bailey. They are leading the effort to restore the lodge. I’ve sent several spec ops guys their way already. You probably know some of them or know of them.”
“I’m down for some renovation work with a team full of former spec ops guys, as long as they aren’t going to try to talk me into working for your Brotherhood Protectors.” He thought he might have insulted Hank. “No offense.”
Hank laughed. “None taken. Whichever way you lean in the job front, you’ll love Montana and the little town of Eagle Rock.”
Anything would be better than the close-minded, stone-faced inhabitants of the small East Texas town he’d worked in for the past six months.
“How soon can you get here?” Hank asked. “The other four SEALs are due to start on Monday morning.”
“I’ll be there,” Drake had assured him.
“Great. See you then,” Hank ended the call.
Drake had immediately given the diner his resignation, packed up his few personal items in his furnished apartment and left Texas. He’d driven for two days, stopping only long enough to catch a couple of hours of sleep at a rest area along the way.
When he rolled to a stop in the parking lot in front of the Lucky Lady Lodge, with the Crazy Mountains as a backdrop to the old building, he already felt more at home than he had anywhere else. Maybe it was because he was tired. More likely, he felt that way because he didn’t want to move again.
As he stepped down from his pickup, he shrugged off his exhaustion. He could sink his teeth into this project. It beat cleaning years of grease off the diner’s floor back in Texas.
With a new sense of purpose, he passed the large roll-on-roll-off trash bin, already half-full of broken boards, crumbled sheets of drywall panels, ruined carpet and damaged furniture. He climbed the steps to the wide veranda and entered through the stately double doors of the lodge.
Six men and a woman stood in the lobby, wearing jeans and T-shirts. They had gathered around a drafting table, all looking down at what appeared to be blueprints.
The woman glanced up. “Oh, good. Drake’s here.”
The others straightened and turned toward Drake.
As he studied the faces, his heart filled with joy.
He knew Hank from way back at the beginning of his career as a Navy SEAL. Hank had been the experienced SEAL who’d taken him under his wing and shown him the ropes of what it was like beyond BUD/S. Clean-shaven, he had a short haircut, unlike the shaggy look he’d acquired on active duty. The man had a few more wrinkles around his green eyes, but he was the same man who’d been his mentor so many years ago.
Hank stepped forward, holding out his hand. “Morgan, I’m glad you made it. You must’ve driven all night to get here.”
Drake took the man’s hand and was pulled into a bone-crunching hug.
“Good to see you,” Hank said.
“Same,” Drake said. “It’s been a few years.”
Hank stepped back. “I believe you know everyone here.”
Drake nodded, his lips spreading into a grin.
A man with dark blond hair, blue eyes and a naturally somber expression stepped past Hank and pulled Drake into another powerful hug. “Dude, it’s been too long.”
“Grimm,” Drake clapped his hand on the man’s back. “I thought you were still on active duty.”
Mike Reaper, or Grimm as he’d been aptly nicknamed, patted his leg. “Took shrapnel to my left leg. It bought me early retirement.”
Drake shook his head. “Sorry to hear that.”
“I’m not. I was getting too old to play with the young kids. It was time for me to move on.” He nodded. “I’m looking forward to getting my hands dirty with something besides gun cleaning oil.”
“Move over, Grimm. My turn.” A man shoved Grimm to the side. “Bring it in, Morgan.”
A black-haired man with shocking blue eyes grabbed Drake by the shoulders and crushed him in a hug. “’Bout time we worked together again,” he said. “When did we last?”
“Afghanistan,” Drake said when he could breathe again. He grinned at his old teammate from his last tour of duty before leaving the Navy. “We took out that Taliban terrorist who was cutting off heads for fun. How’re you doing, Murdock?”
Sean Murdock stood back, smiling. “Better, now that you’re here. Thought we were going to be Army puke heavy. We needed some bone frogs to level the playing field.” He turned and dragged another man forward. “Remember this guy?”
