Talk about a forlorn hope. After what she’d lived through, the woman would want nothing more to do with the male gender.

And, if she ever did, it’d be a cold day in hell before she would want him.

The nice ones never did.

Chapter Three

People who use the phrase “sleep like a baby” must have never had one. ~ Unknown

Captain Grigor Nabera walked out of the small farmhouse in the Matanuska Valley north of Anchorage.

Hiding out like a coward was offensive, but necessary until he knew what needed to be done. When their leader, Reverend Parrish—the Prophet—had been arrested, the members of the militia here and in Texas scattered after a raid on their compound. Although the weak in spirit had abandoned the cause, the faithful went to ground and maintained contact.

When the Prophet called, they would answer, and Nabera would lead them to victory.

“Morning, Captain.” Walking up from the barn, Alvin joined him on the small porch. The balding farmer brushed a few strands of hay from his flannel shirt. “Have you heard from Reverend Parrish? How is it going?”

Nabera scowled as he looked out over the fields of beets. “He’s been denied bail…because of the women who’ve accused him of rape and murder.”

And other crimes. The list was long.

Nabera glanced at Alvin and added, “Untrue, of course. He’ll be cleared, but until then, our course is uncertain.”

“Of course.” Alvin shifted his weight from one foot to another. Unwilling to give up everything to join the compound, he’d kept his farm and sent money as his way of supporting the cause.

He hadn’t been pleased when Nabera showed up three weeks ago.

No matter.

“The missus will have breakfast for us soon.” Alvin took a step back. “I need to move the cows to a new pasture.”

It was time for a new pasture for Nabera too. He’d had Alvin rent a house in Anchorage. Nabera and his lieutenants would move in there.

If only he could figure out how to help the Prophet. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much he could do when Parrish was imprisoned all the way south in Texas, and Nabera was stuck here in Alaska. The state troopers, FBI, and DEA were on the alert, so getting to Dallas was impossible.

Meanwhile, Parrish was waiting for his trial where the women from the Texas compound would testify against him. The blasphemous bitches.

A cold wind swept across the farm, rustling the red and green leaves of the beets, waving the grasses in the pastures. Summer was getting on. Time was passing too quickly.

When running the compound, Nabera would normally make a bloody example of one woman—or child—to frighten the rest into silence.

Nabera growled under his breath. Times weren’t normal.