by Pam Crooks
She took a breath. “He’s your brother.”
Trey kept buttoning, one after the other, but the movements had turned savage.
“What game are you playing with me, Zurina?”
She shivered at the lethal undertones in his voice. “It’s the truth.”
“You’re lying.”
“My mother told us, just before she died.”
“She was lying to you, then.”
“Your father raped her, Trey. Mikolas was the result of—of that.”
He went still. So still his silence terrified her. She didn’t dare move, didn’t dare speak. The blood pounded in her veins.
Then, a dangerous calm appeared to come over him, like sun through thundering clouds. He finished the last button and stuffed the shirttails inside the waistband of his Levi’s.
“Have you ever met my father?” he asked.
“No.” After what he’d done to her mother all those years ago, she was glad she never would.
“And yet you believe he was capable of forcing himself on a woman,” Trey said.
“I believe it because that woman told me so.”
“Your father, Gabirel, never indicated to me—”
“My father is a fair man, Trey. He never held you accountable for your father’s sin.” Which had been committed when Trey was very young and several years before Zurina had been born. If Papa had attempted any retaliation against Sutton Wells, he never told her so, even after Mama died. “It was more important to think of the sheep.”
His lip curled. “The sheep.”
Her father would do everything he could to keep from jeopardizing Sun River Valley and his agreement with Trey to use the plentiful grass there. Until Zurina had convinced Papa to leave, that is.
“Guess now that he’s dead, the Wells Cattle Company is ripe pickin’s,” Trey drawled. “Isn’t it, Zurina?”
The accusation burned right through her.
“No,” she said and recalled the ominous ransom note. “I mean, yes, but—”
“Never thought you’d prostitute yourself for my money, sweetheart,” he said smoothly. “Guess that makes you no better than Mikolas and sitting on the same wagon as Woodrow.”
She sucked in a breath and bled from his hostility. How could he accuse her of conspiring with the man who’d massacred her sheep? How could he think she’d be that devious? That stupid? Because she was Basque and therefore not capable of respectability? Morals and honor? Intelligence?
Of course, that’s what he thought. He was a cattleman, and he may as well have reached out and slashed her with a knife for the pain he inflicted.
“Don’t you dare compare me to him,” she said hoarsely, blinking fast.
“Just calling a spade a spade, sweetheart.”
“Damn you, Trey. What happened between us last night had nothing to do with Woodrow or Mikolas,” she said.
Why didn’t he realize she gave him what she’d never given a man before—and a cattleman to boot? That no Basque woman would’ve shamed herself by sinking so low, and yet Zurina had done just that?
“You wouldn’t be the first woman to use her body to get what she wants.” A muscle ticked in his jaw. “And I wouldn’t be the first man to fall for it.”
“I’m getting my clothes.”
Zurina refused to hear any more. Deep down, she knew he was hurting from what his father had done, just like Mikolas hurt. Disbelief, contempt, lashing out against those nearest to them… she understood.
But she was hurting, too. Just like they were. Trey was too blind, too full of contempt, to see it, or much care.
Zurina pivoted and headed for the creek’s bank. He let her go, and she kept going, her stockinged feet moving faster the farther away she got, yet her ears strained to hear his boot steps behind her. She ached to hear him call her name, to give them a chance to start over again.
To make their lives as wondrous as they’d been last night.
He didn’t come, though, and she broke into a run. Her skin turned numb to the morning chill, her cheeks oblivious to their wetness. She feared what Trey would do next and how he would fight Mikolas. Worse, if blood would spill….
Mikolas would be no match for a man of Trey’s power, and Woodrow… the man she hated most of all. A man who slaughtered innocent sheep, and he would stop at nothing to hurt Trey if Trey didn’t meet his demands.
And Trey wouldn’t.
But then, what of Allethaire?
Misery washed over Zurina, heavy and thick and suffocating. How would this all end? Who would suffer? Who could possibly win?
Absorbed with heartache, she almost missed her clothes strewn along the bank, right where she’d dropped them, and she fell to her knees, covered her face with her hands and prayed. Prayed for strength to find Mikolas. To fight Woodrow. To help Allethaire.
But mostly, she prayed for herself. For strength to go on without Trey, when he despised her so much, and she loved him.
She loved him.
Slowly composure returned. Or at least, a mellowing of her fears. She’d never be able to hunt down that old cabin in Rogers Pass if her mind was twisted up in knots, and she swallowed down her despair. She scrubbed her cheeks dry, put on her blouse and skirt and topped them off with her sweater.
Somehow, being fully dressed again bolstered her resolve. Only her boots remained; she sat and pulled on one boot and reached for the second.
Her glance snagged on a set of prints in the mud.
Each large, with five toes and five claw indentations. And as far as she could tell, fairly recent.
Bear tracks. Her glance lighted on a large pile of dung nearby, still glistening—
He was somewhere close, and the tiny hairs rose on the back of her neck. He must have come to the creek to forage for fish, or maybe only a drink, but all of a sudden, she was twelve again. Mikolas had just shot the wild-haired fur trapper, and they were escaping, just as the giant grizzly came at them, charging with his sharp teeth bared, his mammoth paws reaching, reaching—
A low, rumbling growl floated toward her and prickled against her nerve endings. Her gaze shot in the direction of the sound, and there he was, a short distance into the trees, bent over a carcass of something she couldn’t determine. If he noticed her, he would see her as a threat to his food. He would strike out to protect his kill, and the urge to run surged through her, so strong she shook from the onslaught.
Yet she forced herself to put on her boot. To stay calm. If she could slip away unnoticed, she’d run better, faster, with both feet shod.
Her fingers shaking, she managed and stood. Her heart pounded so hard, she could barely breathe. She took one step back, then another, but a third clipped a protruding tree root. She grappled for balance but failed, and she went down with a startled squeak.
The grizzly caught the sudden movement of her fall, and his big head swung around. His fierce black eyes fastened over her, a new prospect for prey, and he straightened on his hind legs.
Sunlight dappled through the leaves and pine branches and turned the tips of his deep red pelt silver. He stood like a monster, at least seven feet, maybe eight, hundreds of pounds, maybe even a full thousand, and if he charged toward her, if he tried to maul her, she’d be powerless, powerless—
“Roll over, Zurina, and do it now.”
Her horror cracked at the sound of Trey’s terse voice in the shadows of a willow tree. He stood with his Winchester rifle to his shoulder, the barrel leveled at the bear’s heart. She nearly wept with relief.
“I’ve got you covered, Zurina. Do what I tell you.”
She obeyed when every cell in her body cried out to jump up and run toward him. It was one of the hardest things she’d ever had to do—take her eyes off that grizzly and lay her life in Trey’s hands.
But she did and pressed her cheek into the damp grass.
“Spread your feet and hide your hands,” he ordered slowly. “And whatever the hell you do, don’t look at him.”
&nb
sp; Zurina swallowed hard. Play dead. Appear defenseless. Make myself hard to flip over, yes, yes, yes….
She squeezed her eyes shut and repeated the mantra, assuring herself to lay still would save her life—and so would Trey.
Yet the faint thud reverberating through the earth beneath her cheek incited a new wave of terror. The bear had begun a lumbering walk toward her, and what if he saw through her ruse and knew she wasn’t dead at all? What if he kept coming and scooped her up with his mammoth, sharp-as-a-switchblade claws?
A gunshot barked through the silence, and Zurina nearly jumped out of her skin. Bits of dirt and fallen pine needles pelted her, and the bear roared, a harrowing sound that pushed a scream into her throat.
Trey fired into the ground again. And again. Her eyes flew open to see for herself what the grizzly was doing. He’d retreated, scared away by the gunfire….
Zurina shuddered in supreme relief and pressed a fist to her mouth. The toe of Trey’s boot appeared in front of her, and he hunkered down.
“He’s gone,” he said. “Let’s go.”
Clasping her elbow, he helped her to her feet and would have hustled her back to camp, but she pulled free and stole precious time to peer up at him.
He made no move to take her into his arms and give the comfort she craved. Not so long ago, he would have, in no uncertain terms, with his body and his kisses.
“Thank you,” she said, the words unsteady. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t come.”
His sharp gaze raked over her, as if to assure himself she wasn’t hurt. “I shouldn’t have let you come out here by yourself.”
“You couldn’t have known he’d be out here.”
“I should have.”
“Trey.”
She ached to touch him, to feel his hard, strong body against her. He blamed himself for what had almost happened, and if only she could take back all she told him about Mikolas and make things right between them again. She’d wrap her arms around him and kiss him until all their guilt melted away….
But that would only mean she was—what was the word he used?—prostituting herself again.
So she didn’t.
“Never mind,” she said.
If he had an inkling of what she was about to do, or say, his hooded expression kept from revealing it.
“Let’s go, then,” he ordered, gruffly.
Again, he clasped her elbow with a firm grip, as if he refused to let her out of his sight again. He kept her moving at a fast pace back to camp. Along the way, his scrutiny clawed the trees around them, up and down the mountain. He kept the rifle ready under his arm, in case the grizzly reappeared.
They returned to camp unscathed. Trey had already set the ewe free, she noticed. To keep her hobbled would’ve made her an easy mark for a wolf. Zurina hoped she’d find her way down the mountain safely, perhaps find another sheepman’s flock to join, and as full-woolled as she was, to stay out of the water.
“Collect your things,” Trey commanded. “I’m ready to break camp.”
Indeed, most of it was done, and her gaze lingered over the matted spot in the grass, near the banked fires. The place where she’d lain with him, shared with him tenderness and pleasure, and never would she forget her time here, on the mountain.
She tucked aside the memory and found the few supplies she’d brought with her, lying near where Trey had strung the rope line. Bending, she retied the corners of the towel. Just as she was about to join Trey, she noticed the lone red rose lying in the grass.
The one he had plucked off of Mama’s bush. The one he intended to give Allethaire. It had fallen from the pocket when he hung his shirt to dry.
Carefully Zurina lifted the flower, now crushed and wilted. A single petal broke away and drifted to the ground.
It struck her, that petal. A symbol of how crushed her life had become, her dreams wilted. A symbol of Trey’s, too, his life broken from all he’d learned from Zurina.
Still, perhaps Allethaire would appreciate his gesture. She wouldn’t think of it as Zurina did, and Zurina tucked the flower inside the waistband of her skirt. She would return it to him later, when the time was right. When his sensibilities weren’t so raw.
Waiting, he held the reins to her old mare. After she stuffed her supplies in the saddlebag, she climbed up and settled in.
Trey mounted, too, and gathered the reins into his fist.
“How old is Mikolas?” he asked roughly.
“Twenty-five.”
With a slight flare of his nostrils, he slid a pensive stare over the horizon. Zurina imagined his mind working, digesting the information.
“My mother would’ve already died,” he said, as if to himself.
Zurina didn’t think there was anything proper she could say in response.
But she knew Trey would ride into Rogers Pass with what his father had done heavy on his mind.
Chapter Fifteen
The bitch couldn’t cook worth crap.
Woodrow glowered down at his plate with fierce distaste. Congealed beans. Chunks of beef still raw. Half-cooked potatoes. Gravy as thin and pale as water. Never mind a lick of seasoning, and those damn biscuits, dry as shoe leather and black as charcoal, and damn her.
He flung the plate in a fit of rage.
Allethaire flinched from the clattering tin, but only rolled her eyes and turned her back while she dropped more of her rotten biscuits into the skillet.
Woodrow was convinced she only cooked this terrible to spite him. She didn’t care how hungry he was or if he ate or not. She didn’t care about anything but herself.
Just like all rich people.
Including the old man. And big brother, Trey.
His black kitty jumped off his lap to investigate the overturned plate, but Woodrow scooped her back up before she could. He didn’t want his kitty getting sick from the rich bitch’s lousy cooking.
He petted the furry back and tried not to think of his little kitty getting sick. Mama had gotten sick, and then she died….
His petting quickened. He wasn’t going to let his sweet little kitty die. Not like he let Mama die. No, not my sweet little kitty, my sweet little kitty.
“Shame to waste food like that.” Mikolas broke off a piece of hard biscuit and leveled him with a condescending glare. Crumbs fell into that thin gravy swimming on his plate.
“It’s crap, not food.”
Mikolas stuffed the biscuit in his mouth and took a swig of coffee that reminded Woodrow of slimy mud.
“It’s a waste,” he said.
Woodrow clenched his teeth against Mikolas’s arguing. He’d gotten tired of his brother’s arguing lately. Real tired.
Woodrow consoled himself with the knowledge that after today, this dinner, Allethaire would never cook for him again.
“What time is it, Reggie?” he demanded.
The cowboy pulled out his shiny gold watch, stolen off some fat banker during Reggie’s last stagecoach heist outside of Denver a couple of years ago.
Someday, Woodrow was going to have a watch that nice. A whole drawer full, if he wanted.
“Near noon.” Reggie snapped the case shut, put the watch in his pocket and went back to his dinner.
“Couple more hours, then we’ll clear out,” Woodrow said.
He could hardly wait to go. A short trip out of the pass, then on to Wolf Creek to wait for Big Brother, then this whole thing would be over.
Woodrow knew just the spot to hide, too, where he’d be able to see if Trey came by himself, or if he’d try to sneak in with the law.
Woodrow was no fool when it came to his big brother. He knew he had to be ready for anything Trey might try to pull.
“He’s never going to give you that money, you know,” Allethaire said.
Woodrow’s eyes slitted over her. Smoke curled from the skillet, fair warning she was on her way to burning another batch of biscuits.
“Shut up,” he said.
Her mouth wasn’t as s
wollen today, and he reckoned that was a good thing. He couldn’t give her over to Trey as damaged goods, could he? Though he’d been tempted to hit her again plenty of times since, he’d managed to restrain himself.
Woodrow prided himself on it. Damn, he detested a high-handed woman. One who couldn’t cook even more.
“It’s true,” Mikolas said. “He won’t.”
Woodrow swung his gaze. “You shut the hell up, too, Mikolas.”
Ever since Mikolas found out about what Woodrow had done to his family’s sheep, Mikolas had turned tail on him. Woodrow could feel it, though Mikolas hadn’t said a word to indicate he had. He appeared to go along with the ransom scheme, same as always, but something was different.
Different.
Woodrow figured Mikolas didn’t much trust him anymore, and the feeling was mutual. Damned shame, too, since they got along like two peas in a pod at the beginning.
So Woodrow had to change his plans a bit.
Once they got the money from Trey, and once Woodrow hired himself a good lawyer, he’d have to kill Mikolas off. That simple, and no other way around it.
Besides, getting rid of Mikolas only made Woodrow’s share of the WCC bigger, and that was more important.
He was entitled. He’d known he was a Wells bastard a lot longer than Mikolas did. Years’ worth of long. From what he’d been denied, he deserved as much as he could get.
Smoke curled good and thick from the skillet. Allethaire coughed and kept waving her hand, like a stupid flag. As if all that waving was going to make them biscuits any better.
“Get the pan off the fire, woman. You’re stinkin’ up the camp,” he yelled.
Mikolas tossed her his gloves. “Put the skillet over by the cabin. Don’t burn yourself.”
“No, put it over by the trees,” Woodrow said. He was the leader, not Mikolas, and by God, he’d see to it she did things his way. “Hurry it up, too.”
She took Mikolas’s old gloves and pulled them on. “I should just dump them on your stupid head, Woodrow.”
He stiffened at the way she spoke to him, in front of Mikolas and Reggie, especially. Who did she think she was, threatening him like that?
