*Book 3 in the Isaacson Trilogy, "Reckless Protector" picks up where book 1, "Reluctant Berserker" and book 2, "Fearless Warrior" left off.*
Ulric Isaacson, a berserker and US Marshal, has always believed that everyone, except him, would live a full...
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Ingrid's drawing of Ulric found in Briarwood
Wyoming, late October 1880
Cold winter wind swept across the snow-covered field. Each gust stole the breath from Ulric, Gunnar, and Esmund as they lowered Father's coffin with utmost care into the empty grave next to Mother's. Nora and Elsie, the only two present who openly showed their emotions, sniffled and wiped at the tears rolling down their cheeks.
Tears gathered in Esmund and Gunnar's eyes, but Ulric had yet to catch either brother break down and wipe the evidence away. As for Ulric himself, any emotion other than a carefully banked rage failed to emerge ever since the night of Father's death three days ago.
Perhaps he was still in shock, secretly hoping this was all a nightmare he would soon wake from. Regardless, the simmering fury that had been building over the past three days since The Matron murdered Father was preferable to the grief threatening to consume him.
After leaving Briarwood two nights ago, in what should have been a victorious moment but had instead turned into a night full of grief on several different levels, he'd ridden to Erasmus' cabin, hoping the old shaman would have been able to work a miracle.
However, he'd known the second he'd entered the cluttered cabin and saw his father lying deathly still where they'd laid him on an old work table that the Gods had refused his cries, and his last sliver of hope shriveled up and died as well.
"The internal damage The Matron caused with her magic was too extensive," Erasmus had said with heartache in his eyes, "no amount of berries could have ever saved him."
He'd known deep down the old man spoke the truth, had told himself the very same thing on their way to dropping Father's body off, and yet hearing Erasmus speak the awful words aloud—compacted with the painfully fresh rejection from Ingrid—officially made that terrible night the worst night of his life.
The coffin gently thumped at the bottom of the grave, snapping Ulric back into the moment. He gave himself a mental shake to dispel the memory and helped Gunnar pull the ropes free, coiling them up before tossing them to the ground behind them. Unable to stop himself, Ulric stared at the closest shovel, dreading the chore that lay before him now.
"Your father was one of the noblest men I ever knew and a force to be reckoned with," Erasmus said, resting a comforting hand as close to Ulric's shoulder as his height of four-foot-eight would allow.
Esmund and Gunnar had long since debated the question of Erasmus' age. More than half the town and his brothers suggested that the old man was well beyond his hundredth year. However, Ulric knew of a surety that Erasmus had just passed his seventy-second birthday.
Every once in a while, mainly when Erasmus's penchant for the dramatic grated on Ulric's nerves, he was more than willing to spill the secret.
The only thing stopping Ulric from doing so was knowing how much the old man thrived on the speculation and confusion surrounding him because it lent him a sense of mystery that set him apart from regular 'old men.'
