“No need. You all stay off my property,” the old man said. “I’m inclined to shoot every last one of you.”
Hammer raised an eyebrow and his skepticism must have showed.
“Daddy was a sniper in the Gulf War,” Melanie explained with a saccharine smile. “And he taught Julie and me how to shoot, too.We can protect ourselves.”
Hammer met her cool confidence with another small smile. “The three of you can’t protect the whole
farm and your father knows it.”
He turned around and walked to his motorcycle, his strides slow and sure. He’d be damned if he showed uneasiness in front of the old man and two girls. He’d faced worse in the Middle East and the Central and South American cesspits where drug cartels, terrorists, and revolutionaries were indistinguishable from one another.
Melanie watched the man’s slow swagger and admitted silently to herself that he filled out his jeans very, very nicely. She liked the breadth of his shoulders and the bulge of hard muscle beneath his tee shirt. Stick a sword in his hand and she’d cast him as Aragorn in a Lord of the Rings remake.
“He’s hot,” Julie whispered, echoing her sister’s thoughts.
“He’s trouble,” their father muttered.
“What do we do, Daddy?” Melanie asked as the man started his motorcycle and rode away.