Logan, p.1
Logan, page 1
LOGAN
LIGHTHOUSE SECURITY INVESTIGATIONS MONTANA
MARYANN JORDAN
In the Arms of a Hero (Baytown Heroes) Copyright 2024
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.
If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, then you are reading an illegal pirated copy. If you would be concerned about working for no pay, then please respect the author’s work! Make sure that you are only reading a copy that has been officially released by the author.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover by: Graphics by Stacy
Cover photograph: Eric McKinney 612Covered Photography
ISBN ebook: 978-1-956588-66-8
ISBN print: 978-1-956588-67-5
Created with Vellum
CONTENTS
About the Author
Author Notes
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
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Also by Maryann Jordan
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
I am an avid reader of romance novels, often joking that I cut my teeth on historical romances. I have been reading and reviewing for years. In 2013, I finally gave in to the characters in my head, screaming for their story to be told. From these musings, my first novel, Emma’s Home, The Fairfield Series, was born.
I was a high school counselor, having worked in education for thirty years. I live in Virginia, having also lived in four states and two foreign countries. I have been married to a wonderfully patient man for forty-two years. When writing, my dog or one of my cats can generally be found in the same room if not on my lap.
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AUTHOR NOTES
Logan and Vivian’s story was first released as a novel, Thin Ice, part of a multiauthor series (Sleeper SEALs). When I wrote their story, I knew that Logan would make an incredible leader of a security firm. Since I was writing my Saints Protection Investigation series, I made sure to involve his character near the end. I have also kept Logan “alive” as he occasionally popped up in my Lighthouse Security Investigations and Lighthouse Security Investigations West Coast series.
The time is finally right to bring Logan back to the forefront. Thin Ice is no longer available. I have completely rewritten the book… different protagonists, different reasons for his mission to Alaska, where he meets Vivian, and a completely different experience as he begins the process of building a Lighthouse Security Investigations Montana.
And for those of you who say, “But there are no lighthouses in Montana!” You will discover how it all works out as you read this story!
When writing fiction, I research topics so the reader can enjoy the story and feel as though it is as real as possible. I often change the names of cities and places. Choosing to do so allows me creative license to write the places as I see them and not become bogged down in trying to re-create a real place.
In this story, I have taken that one step further. Our heroine is a scientist and is asked to utilize her skills in order to help our hero. I ask, dear readers, that you follow the story, accepting that not all laboratory procedures and methods are completely accurate. This is fiction—enjoy!
1
THREE YEARS AGO
“Can you take us higher? I want to get a picture of the very top.”
“Oh, honey, no. I feel like puking as it is.”
Logan Bishop heard the request and subsequent whining but pretended not to. It was easier that way. He maneuvered his H10, light, single-engine helicopter along his regular tourist path, ignoring the special requests coming from the back. Sometimes he deviated…depending on the passengers and his mood. But today, the monotony of the tourist season was getting on his last nerve, and playing nice was not part of the service.
Circling the majestic mountains of the Glacier National Park in Montana once more, Logan marveled at the sprawling landscape beneath him. His view was of snowcapped mountains, thickly adorned with green forests. The predominately coniferous pine, fir, and spruce woodlands gave the vista its continuous color. The lower elevations were covered in cottonwoods and aspens, their foliage a testament to the ever-changing seasons. The park, considered the Crown of the Continent Ecosystem, was once the domain of Native Americans and now served as a sanctuary for countless animal species.
With over a million acres, including two mountain ranges and over one hundred lakes, the tourists wanting to experience the park from above the ground kept him in business.
“Look at that, Dorothy! Looks like a lighthouse tower!”
“Those were used to assist aircraft flying over the mountains,” Logan said. “Most in the country are decommissioned now, but Montana still has them.”
He made another pass near a crystal-clear lake, then decided the couple in the back seats was more interested in the photographs than any history, so he kept his mouth shut as they chattered among themselves.
As he began the flight back over the Blackfeet Indian Reservation, he added, “The Blackfeet have inhabited the area for over ten thousand years.” It didn’t surprise him to hear an audible huff from behind him.
“Look at all this good real estate going to waste here for a bunch of Indians.”
“Native Americans,” responded the woman. “That’s what you say now. It’s politically correct.”
The other passenger pinched his lips before snapping, “Well, excuse me, Dorothy, if I ain’t all PC and shit.”
With a glance behind him, Logan could see their interest had waned, and he made a straight trip back to the landing pad outside Cut Bank, Montana, circling over the small town right on the edge of a steep bank leading down to a river. He had knocked off about fifteen minutes on their tour but figured it was due to him for having to listen to their bickering.
Although Cut Bank’s population was only about three thousand people, tourists looking for wildlife photo opportunities came to the town this time of year. The three small hotels in the town and three in nearby Shelby filled up quickly.
After assisting Dorothy down and silently nodding toward both of them, he pivoted away, deftly extinguishing any further requests to see the natural Montana vista from his helicopter. After refueling, he waved to Gus, the owner of the small airfield, and climbed back in the cockpit, soon lifting off the ground.
In quiet solitude, he traversed the landscape below, a slow hum of satisfaction moving through him as he surveyed what was his. When he came to Montana, he’d initially planned on buying a small spread. But the right price for a family trying to sell off a large estate acreage was too good to pass up. Loneliness occasionally gnawed at him, but he tried to tamp those feelings down. Who’d want to live way out here, and where would I meet them? With no answer to those questions, he just enjoyed the peace.
Five minutes later, he touched down once more, this time with an air of contentment on his own property. Guiding his craft into the metal, dome-topped hangar, he parked his bird next to his Lakota—a huge, military-grade helicopter used for mountain rescues of skiers or stranded hikers.
Climbing out, he stretched the kinks out of his back before beginning his routine maintenance. Qualified as a mechanic and a pilot, he alone handled his birds until the annual inspection was due. With a final pat on its side, he walked to the hangar door and pulled it shut, sliding it along the channel until it closed securely. Locking it, he activated the security he had installed before trudging over the hardened ground toward his low-slung ranch house.
His acreage included flat, scruffy land with trees and hills leading to the mountains in the background. The one-story house with a basement was on the land when he bought it, and he added the helicopter hangar. The house was plain but functional, large enough for him, and sturdy enough for the winters. A porch gave it a homier appeal but was added to cut down on the direct sunlight blasting through the front windows.
Stepping into the neat interior, he walked straight to the kitchen, threw open the refrigerator door, and reached inside to grab a beer. None. Fuck. He knew he had been getting low but dreaded making the trip to the grocery in town. It wasn’t the act of shopping that irked him, but rather the prospect of social interaction. Nah, that’s not true. It was just hard being around people who didn’t really know him or would never be able to understand him. He rubbed his aching knee and wondered if he even knew himself nowadays. This wasn’t the future he’d envisioned for himself.
Sighing, he debated for a moment but decided he also needed milk, bread, soup, vegetables, and a few other staples.
“Meow.”
At the same time he heard the meow, he felt the tabby feline rubbing against his legs. Looking down, he grinned. “Hey, Poncho. You need something to eat, too?” Even if he ran low on his own supplies, he always stocked the dog and cat food well. Reaching into the cabinet, he grabbed a can of cat food and dumped a measured portion into the dish on the counter. Placing it on the floor, he watched as Poncho quickly scarfed every morsel and then looked up at him in expectation.
“You know what the vet said. No more kitty treats. You have about two more pounds to lose to be as svelte as you need to be.” He squatted and rubbed the cat’s fur, hearing the purring begin immediately. Poncho had come with the ranch and was skinny when Logan first moved in. Feeling sorry for the scrawny fella, he overfed him, not realizing how quickly Poncho would pack on the weight. Now, on a diet, Poncho protested mightily at feeding time but never passed up a chance to sleep next to Logan, whether on the sofa or the bed.
“Okay, you’ve eaten. Now, I need to get some things for me.” Grabbing the keys to his truck, he headed out the door.
Fifteen minutes later, he drove into Cut Bank, stopping at the little grocery store on the outskirts. A larger one had opened on the other side of the tiny town, but he preferred the quiet, comfortable feeling in the older one, run by a couple who didn’t have a predilection for talking everyone’s ear off or asking too many personal questions.
Moving through the glass door, he nodded politely to the woman behind the cash register. “Marge.” His voice sounded rough even to his ears.
“Logan,” she replied, her smile firmly in place as her tight gray curls bounced about her head before she looked back down at the magazine opened in front of her.
Walking through the aisles, he quickly loaded his cart with the necessities, calculating they would last him several weeks. He preferred to stock up at one time so he didn’t have to make too many trips. Avoiding the few other shoppers, he pushed his cart toward the counter and waited patiently as the woman in front of him balanced a toddler on her hip and tried to contain a small child interested in the candy.
The little boy fingered a candy bar longingly, and Logan could see the wheels turning in his head, wondering if his mother would notice if he took it. Clearing his throat, Logan gained the little boy’s attention. His wide eyes looked up at the large man standing next to him. He snatched his fingers back to his sides before looking down at his shoes.
As the mother paid and placed the toddler back into the cart, she turned to take her little boy’s hand, who glanced back at Logan as they left the store. Logan didn’t mean to scare him, but he knew his grumpy persona probably terrified the kid.
Sighing, he placed his items on the counter, and as they were rung up, he grabbed the candy bar at the last minute. He paid, then grunted his thanks and pushed his cart out to his truck. Seeing the woman strapping her toddler into its car seat, he walked over and handed her the candy bar.
She looked up in surprise as he muttered, “Saw your boy looking at it. I thought he might like to have it. You can give it to him whenever you think it’s appropriate.”
The little boy looked at him with big eyes, and then a shy smile crossed his face. Logan offered a chin lift but wasn’t sure he could manage a smile that wouldn’t scare the kid.
He turned and made his way back to his truck, hearing her thanks called out to his back. Opening the massive ice chest in the back, he placed some of the groceries there and the rest of the bags in the passenger seat. Hauling his tall body up into the driver’s side, he started the truck, pulled out of the parking lot, and headed home.
Offering a chin lift to a few people he knew as he left town, he breathed easier once he was the only vehicle in sight. A few miles farther, he turned onto his long, gravel drive, the view of his hangar and house always giving him a sense of comfort. The place had been his home for a couple of years, but now, he felt restless. Only what he was restless for seemed to elude him.
He parked in his garage and left the door open to ease the unloading of groceries. First, he hauled the ice chest through the laundry room that led from the garage to the kitchen. Setting it down on the floor, he went back to grab the bags before closing the door. Kicking off his boots, he padded into the kitchen, bent over the ice chest, and placed items into the refrigerator and freezer.
Standing quickly, he froze in place. No sounds could be heard, but the hairs on the back of his neck stood up, a sign of danger he had always listened to. A habit that served him well in the military. A former decorated SEAL, his sixth sense had saved his life and the lives of his men more than once.
Depositing the milk into the refrigerator, he closed the door with a soft click before moving stealthily to the drawer where he stowed one of his weapons. Making no sound at all, he walked with a powerful grace that belied his size. Glad for his socked feet, he quietly rounded the corner with his gun in his outstretched hand, his aim facing the living room.
The room danced with shadows from the late afternoon, providing ample cover for any potential intruder. Yet with a quick sweep of the room, he immediately discerned no threat. His attention darted to the porch, where a subtle squeak behind the front door propelled him forward. No visitors ever came to his house, and there was no one he expected to see.
Swinging the door open, he intercepted a man in mid-knock. Their eyes landed first on his face and then immediately dropped to the firearm in Logan’s hand. His gaze searched behind the visitor, and he spied another silhouette just to the side. The only vehicle in the drive was a black SUV rental.
Both men moved into the light, their eyes twinkling as deepening lines emanated from the corners.
Logan lowered his weapon, shaking his head. Not one to beat around the bush, he asked, “What the fuck are you two doing out here? Did I miss the memo for some meeting, or did you get lost?” He remained in place, still stunned at his visitors.
“You going to invite us in, Bishop?” the first man asked, grinning.
Stepping back, he still couldn’t believe who was walking into his house. Jack fuckin’ Bryant and, if he wasn’t mistaken, Mace where-the-hell-did-he-go Hanover.
2
Logan was still shocked at his company and surprised that the two men had traveled all the way to Montana without letting him know they were coming. Not that he minded, but with some of the trips he made, it was always a gamble whether he was home. He stepped away from the door, setting the safety on his weapon and waving his arm to welcome his visitors inside.
Jack moved toward him with his hand outstretched. Logan reached out, clasping it, his handshake firm. One of his former SEAL teammates now worked for Jack’s Saints Protection Investigation business in Virginia, and that was how Logan had met the stoic former Army Special Forces soldier.
“Bishop, you’re looking good,” Jack stated, his eyes roving over Logan from head to toe and back again. “Have you met Mace Hanover?”
Logan turned to the other iconic man and shook his hand. “Never met but heard a lot about. Mace, it’s nice to meet you.” Mace had also been former Army Special Forces with Jack, but Mace had gone off the grid and the rumor was he had been recruited for CIA special operations.
The large, dark-haired, olive-skinned man held his gaze and smiled. “I've been looking forward to this for a long time.”
Logan led them into his living space and inclined his head toward the sofa. “Make yourself at home. I was just at the store. You want a beer?”
