Julie Miller - Private S.W.A.T. Takeover

“I’m not supposed to like you, Kincaid,” she whispered against his collar. “I’m not supposed to even know you.”

“I know.”

Liza’s fresh, angelic face, momentarily free of attitude or suspicion, was smiling.

Those peachy lips were parted in anticipation, and, like a hungry man, Holden couldn’t resist. He leaned in, brushed his lips against hers. Her taste was sweeter than he’d imagined.

The scrape of metal on metal jarred Holden from the unexpected pleasure of that kiss, reminding him that nothing could come of it—that he was only guaranteeing trouble for them both if something did…

The Sheriff’s Amnesiac Bride by Linda Conrad & Soldier’s Secret Child by Caridad Piñeiro

Her Best Friend’s Husband by Justine Davis & The Beast Within by Lisa Renee Jones

Questioning the Heiress by Delores Fossen & Daredevil’s Run by Kathleen Creighton

The Mystery Man of Whitehorse by BJ Daniels

Unbound by Lori Devoti

Private S.W.A.T Takeover by Julie Miller

Julie Millerattributes her passion for writing romance to all those fairy tales she read growing up, and to shyness. Encouragement from her family to write down all those feelings she couldn’t express became a love for the written word. She gets continued support from her fellow members of the Prairieland Romance Writers, where she serves as the resident “grammar goddess.”

Born and raised in Missouri, she now lives in Nebraska with her husband, son and smiling guard dog, Maxie. Write to Julie at PO Box 5162, Grand Island, NE 68802-5162, USA.

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For the Greyhound Museum in Atchison, Kansas. What a pleasure to meet “The Talented Mr Ripley,” a retired champion greyhound, and his two female companions, who greeted us at the door, kept us company as we toured the facility and insisted that we pet them.

Thanks to the friendly docents and dog owners who made the visit an unexpected yet marvellous addition to last summer’s vacation. And thank you to every person with a kind heart and a conscience who rescues unwanted, discarded and neglected animals and gives them a loving home.

April

“…’Tis I’ll be here in sunlight or in shadow. Oh Danny Boy, Oh Danny Boy…”

Officer Holden Kincaid had learned three things from his father—how to sing like an Irish tenor, how to shoot straight and how to be a man.

He’d never learned how he was supposed to deal with losing the father he idolized to two bullets. He’d never learned how he was supposed to help his mother stop weeping those silent tears that twisted him inside out. He’d never learned why good men had to die while bastards like the ones who’d kidnapped, beaten and murdered Deputy Commissioner John Kincaid could cozy up someplace safe and warm while Holden buried his father in the cold, hard ground.

The lyrics flowed, surprisingly rich and full from his throat and chest, while he sought out his fractured family. Thank God his brother, Atticus, was here to sit with their mother and hold her up throughout this long, arduous day. Though he was the hardest one to shake of all the Kincaids, Atticus was hurting, too. Holden noted the way his unflappable older brother sat, with his hand over his badge and heart, revealing a chink in his stoic armor.

He looked farther back and spotted Sawyer standing just outside the tent, getting soaked. The tallest of all the Kincaid brothers, Sawyer might be hanging back so as not to block anyone’s view of the graveside ceremony. Judging by the way he kept shifting from foot to foot, though, it was more likely he was scanning the crowd of mourners, sizing everyone up as a potential suspect. Holden could understand that. He was about to crawl out of his own skin because he was so antsy to do something about the injustice of their father’s murder.

But Susan Kincaid had asked him to sing. Had asked him to honor his father with John Kincaid’s favorite song. He’d suck up his own grief and anger, and do whatever he had to do to bring their mother some measure of peace and comfort.

Speaking of comfort, where the hell was Edward? Holden’s oldest brother should be here, too, no matter what the reclusive master detective was dealing with. Yeah, he knew that there were a couple of heartwrenching reasons why Mount Washington Cemetery was the last place Edward might want to be. But after losing the husband she’d loved for more than thirty-seven years, all her sons gathered around her might be the one thing that could bring a smile back to their mother’s face. For her sake, if not his own, Edward Kincaid needed to be with the family.

Holden finished the song, as quietly as a prayer, and blinking away his own tears as he pulled his KCPD hat from beneath his arm and placed it over his light brown hair, he turned to the flag-draped casket to salute his father. The steady drumbeat of rain on the green awning over the burial site punctuated the ensuing silence like a death knell. Holden didn’t even remember moving, but next thing he knew, he was seated beside his mother, warming her chilled fingers in his grasp. The Commissioner of Police completed the eulogy and the twentyone gun salute resonated through every bone in his body.

And then it was done.

Or was it all just beginning?

“Holden?” Atticus asked him to take his place at their mother’s side. Instead of telling him the reason, he nodded toward a copse of trees about thirty yards up the sloping hill.

Son of a gun. Edward had shown up, after all. He wasn’t wearing his KCPD dress uniform like the rest of them, but even from this distance Holden could tell he’d cleaned up, and, hopefully, sobered up to pay his respects to their father.

Holden was twenty-eight years old and he still had the urge to charge up that hill and swallow Edward up in a bear hug. But he’d let wiser heads prevail. Namely, Atticus. Charging and hugging would probably send Ed running in the opposite direction just as fast as his cane and gimpy leg would allow.

With his extensive training in Special Weapons and Tactics, Holden understood that teamwork usually got the job done better than any one man’s heroic gesture. Tamping down his own desire to take action, Holden slid into the role required of him on this particular mission. He drew his mother’s hand into the crook of his arm. “I’ll stick with her.”

As Atticus picked up an umbrella and went to talk with Edward, Susan Kincaid’s grip shifted. “You did a beautiful job, sweetie.”

“Glad to do it, Mom. I know Dad loved that song. He taught it to me on one of our camping trips. Scared all the fish away with our singing. All the brothers, too.”

He heard a bit of a laugh. Good. Maybe not.

He easily supported her weight as she wrapped her arm more tightly through his and leaned her cheek against his shoulder. As he looked down at the crown of her dark brown hair, he noticed gray sprinkled through the rich sable color. Hell. He hadn’t noticed those before. He’d bet good money the sudden sign of aging hadn’t been there a week ago when he’d stopped over for a family dinner—while his father had still been alive.