Caught Up

by Rya Stone

  “He broke it off.”

  Her mother narrowed her eyes, or tried to, a lioness protecting her cub to the death, even with impaired facial movement. “I hope he had a damn good reason.”

  She’d never kept anything from her mother, not even her first time. That particular incident seemed distant now, the pain an entirely different thing. But how do you tell someone about a person they’d already been introduced to?

  Honestly.

  And with a resigned sigh, the twisted love story came spilling out, including that damned phone conversation. Mortified but owning it, her mother finally asked, “Don’t you see he’s trying to protect you?”

  “He could have been trying to protect me from a chupacabra, Mom. I get it. It was the way he did it.”

  “Yes, but coyotes happen to be real.”

  Oscar Martinez. Had he slunk closer or away since she’d been gone? Her heart beat up into her throat, and she told herself to calm the hell down. Jase had used his ex, his equally sick ex, to drive her away…back to her mom where she should have been anyway. Coyotes, chupacabras, freaking wooly mammoths. He didn’t need her. And he’d been willing to play dirty to make her see it. How do you stick around after that?

  You don’t.

  But that didn’t mean she wouldn’t be returning to Marian.

  And what would she do when she ran into Mr. I Don’t Need You?

  She looked up to see her mother slumping against her pillows. Her evening meds were kicking in. Her eyelids drooped, and a strange, drug-induced smile skirted her lips. Cassie feigned her own smile.

  There were worse things than swallowing your pride.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  She went straight for Claude Lemioux’s rig. Rig Three. Heath’s rig. Because that’s how dumb luck worked, apparently, and she stood zero chance of slipping in and out unnoticed.

  Another name roared through her mind almost constantly. The six-hour drive hadn’t been enough to prepare her for the way Marian itself reeked of Jase. The Tee-Pee, Roma’s, the Backstreet, her motel. She’d even passed the haunting Saxon Lake coming in from the other side of town. Its dark, dangerous beauty was just another reminder of the man who’d drawn her close then let her go. Her heart constricted painfully in her chest as she approached the rig. Between the hope of signing Mr. Lemioux and the despair of losing Jase, it was a miracle she wasn’t breathing into a paper bag.

  “So, let me get this straight,” Kyle said from the passenger seat of her car. “You’re hoping to be in and out of Marian before Jase catches wind, but you’re hell-bent on driving out to one of his rigs?” Kyle shook his head. “You should have lied to Marshall and let me do it.”

  “You’ve done enough.” Period. She would see this thing through even if it broke her heart all over again. “Besides, I have unfinished business to handle.”

  The secretary at the Kramer and Calhoun Law Offices had told her that morning that there was a title issue with the Lucas lease and that they didn’t have a time frame on it. So be it. Jase didn’t owe her a damn thing. And she still had the Neely lease up her sleeve.

  “Here we are, buddy.” She turned to Kyle. “Try to take it down a notch this time.”

  Kyle refused to believe that the catcalls from the drilling deck floor of the last rig they’d visited together weren’t intended for him. And hell, maybe they had been. He was a handsome man. As they crunched across the drilling pad, she prayed the novelty had worn off. Like a year ago. The last thing she needed was for him to wink at the wrong guy. Again.

  Kyle kept it to a discreet wave or two as she shielded her eyes and craned her neck toward the deck.

  “You got a Claude Lemioux here?” she called

  “Naw, he had to take off,” came a reply. “Something with one of his kids.”

  Dammit.

  To. Hell.

  She hollered her thanks, hoping nothing serious had happened to one of the Lemioux children.

  “I’m going to call him,” she grumbled as they hit the caliche. “He’ll call back or he won’t. I guess. Shit.”

  Kyle reached over to squeeze her hand. “We’ll pin him down, Cass.” He squeezed again. “It’s a done deal.”

  Nothing was done until the ink dried. Though she appreciated the optimism.

  As she turned onto the highway, a big white truck in the oncoming lane began slowing onto the shoulder. Her stomach dropped, her heart squeezed tight, and she hit the gas. “That’s Jase,” she said, her voice thick with emotion.

  “You sure?”

  As if in confirmation, the truck slammed on its brakes. She flew past, her eyes glued to the rearview.

  The driver door flew open and Jase emerged onto the asphalt.

  “Jesus,” Kyle breathed, his neck turning so quickly she worried about whiplash. “He’s standing in the road, Cassie.”

  “I know.” She could barely breathe.

  “That’s about the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

  It was more than hot. It burned in places she didn’t even know had pain sensors. And she wanted nothing more in that moment than to slam her own breaks and run to him, movie-style.

  The man who’d broken her heart with his beautiful eyes and lying tongue became smaller and smaller in her rearview. But he never moved. She watched a car swerve around him, and still he stood until she couldn’t look anymore.

  “Cassie, that was—”

  She cut him off. “I know what that was.” And she wasn’t dealing with it today.

  She had some unfinished business with the widow Neely.

  Cassie drummed the steering wheel with her thumbs, waiting for her turn to stop and look both ways at the blinking light ahead.

  “Claude’s going to call,” Kyle said as she turned north on 35 toward the Neely place. “This is insurance.”

  “It’s nothing yet.”

  “It’s going to be. How will she be able to resist us?” Kyle pulled down his visor and flipped open the mirror to mess with his new ’do—razor cut and shaggy on top, extra short on the sides. He was looking very GQ Smurf today.

  She glanced at the Google map she’d pulled up on her phone. “I think this is it.”

  “Yep,” Kyle said. “Big wrought iron sign hanging above the driveway.”

  She’d been too lost in thought to notice the curlicue NEELY above the cattle guard, but—yep—there it was.

  Mature live oaks lined the driveway, and through the leafy tunnel, Cassie glimpsed acres and acres of pecan orchard. Then they rounded a bend.

  Kyle let out a low whistle.

  Yeah. The country Tudor ahead was the kind of home you dreamed about raising kids in, and the sight tugged hard at her heart.

  “Neely did well for himself,” Kyle oh-so-astutely observed. “Rancher?”

  “I’m pretty sure he didn’t build that house selling pecans.”

  Kyle shrugged. “Never know.”

  “I know I’m not going to sign this lease if I don’t do some sweet-talking.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Keep your mouth shut.”

  The newer Cadillac sedan parked beneath an ivy-covered porte cochere suggested Mrs. Neely was at home but ignoring the doorbell.

  “Check around back?” Kyle asked.

  The back of the house was just as impressive, all ready for a Southern Living photo shoot. But no Mrs. Neely.

  “Come on,” Kyle said. “Maybe she’s out on the property.”

  They returned to the Lexus and took the gravel road beside the house, heading deeper into the property.

  “Is that the Lucas fence line?” Kyle asked.

  Even hearing Jase’s surname hurt. Ridiculously. Taking a deep breath, she examined the barbed-wire fence to the right—or rather, the tangle of thorny rose hedge covering the fence to the right. “Yeah, I think it is.”

  Two men appeared around the next bend. From Jim’s description, the one in the road glaring at them had to be Joel Neely, Jr. The other man stood near the fence
line, busy chopping brush with a machete.

  “This isn’t going to go well,” Kyle mumbled as she shifted into park.

  “What tipped you off, the murderous glare or the machete?”

  “The correct answer would be both.”

  “Come on,” she said, stepping onto hard-packed road. “Mr. Neely?”

  He barreled her way, wearing a long-sleeved pearl-snap stretched tight over a beer gut. His mouth looked tighter still, though most of it hid behind a bushy beard. “Best explain yourself,” he demanded.

  “I’m Cassie Mitchum, with Valhalla Land Services.”

  He spit a stream of tobacco near her feet. Charming.

  “I wondered if I could have a minute of your time. ”

  “Yeah,” he said, looking at his watch. “One minute. Exactly. And then you turn that foreign piece of shit around and get the hell out of here.”

  Sticks and stones, buddy. But words did hurt. Jase had proven that beyond a doubt. “I’d like to talk to you about the oil and gas lease my coworker Jim—”

  He cut her off, despite her minute not being up. “I have a better offer on the table.”

  Reid. It had to be. She cleared her throat and tried to appear more confident than she felt. “In that case, I’d like to make a counteroffer. I’m sure I can near double whatever offer you’ve received—”

  “I seriously doubt that.” Joel Neely narrowed an eye—just one—and looked her up and down.

  “If you’ll talk to me, maybe we can sort through it. I don’t know what you’ve been offered exactly, but unless it’s astronomic—”

  “It’s a done deal,” he clipped, still eyeing her strangely.

  “No deal is done until it’s signed.”

  “This one is.”

  She stepped toward him. “I’m going to level with you, Mr. Neely—”

  “Level with me?” he snorted. “That’d be a new one. Fuckin’ land sharks. All you people do is fight over who gets to sink their teeth in.”

  Land shark. It hit her hard and stopped her dead in her tracks. She clenched her jaw, feeling anger raise its ugly head. “Another company is trying to bust our block, and it goes beyond just friendly competition. I’m willing to make whatever kind of deal I have to in order to get you to sign with Valhalla.”

  Neely studied her while the rest of her allotted minute ticked away.

  “Que piensa? Podemos llegar a un acuerdo con ella?”

  Her heart began a slow dive as she turned to the man at the fence line. He stood to middle height and wore a pair of jeans and a faded chambray shirt. A straw cowboy hat sat low on his forehead. But it didn’t hide his empty eye socket.

  Oh God…

  She searched for oxygen like the wind had been knocked out of her. This shit doesn’t just happen. She could even feel Jase’s beard against her cheek outside Roma’s as he’d whispered, You know that don’t you, Miss Weather Bone?

  “No se. Parece que quiere jugar, aunque. Aplazas el otro. Vamos a ver.”

  She had no idea what they were saying or if it had anything to do with the lease. It did have to do with her. The prickling skin along her arms confirmed this, as did Neely’s eyes, flicking between her and the other man. But Oscar…his eye never left hers. He held her with his horrible gaze even as he reached for the machete he’d planted, tip first, in the ground.

  “Me gusta su,” he said, wrenching the blade free.

  “You’ll have my answer tomorrow,” Neely said.

  “But—”

  “Tomorrow.” Neely turned his back, and she grabbed Kyle’s arm for support as they made their way back to her car. Once locked inside, she couldn’t seem to make the key find the ignition.

  “He wants to play?” Kyle asked blandly.

  No, no, no. She chanted it over and over and somehow managed to start some wheels rolling beneath them.

  “Neely.” She whispered his name as she passed the man’s dusty truck, looking for a turnaround.

  Kyle shook his head. “The other one. He said he likes you, and, uh, it might be fun.”

  As playdates with psychos tend to be. Something slimy in her gut told her Neely would be happy to host. Joel Neely, Jr., with his deference to the “hand” clearing the fence line, with…with his father’s land to do with as he pleased. Oscar looking to expand…

  Everything Jase told her had been true. Well, hopefully not everything. Annnd…too late. The seared-in-her-brain image of Jase with his arm around Daphne, that look of love and loss on his face, prompted a fresh wave of nausea, and the grassy trail leading off into the woods ahead wavered through the windshield.

  The clammy sweat broke out about the time she pulled onto the path and threw the Lexus in reverse. To top it off, her tongue wanted to stick in her throat, which made talking rather difficult.

  Kyle sat rigid, staring out the window as they passed back by the two men. “The way he was looking at you…that eye…”

  Neely wiped his brow with a bandana while Coy Martin/Oscar Martinez tossed his machete into the back of the truck.

  “They didn’t get much done,” she said, trying not to think about Kyle’s translation.

  “Just made a hole in that hedge.” One that looked to be about four feet wide and exposed five strands of barbed wire. “Why the hell would they do that?” he asked.

  Staring straight ahead, she gunned it, past ready to be clear of the Neely property. “He was there.”

  “Who was where?” Kyle asked, turning to yank on his seat belt.

  “That night, at Roma’s. Coy Martin was there. He bumped into me, and my purse spilled. I think he did it on purpose.”

  “Still no wallet?”

  She shook her head. “I had to get a new license, credit cards, everything.”

  No, Oscar didn’t want to play with her. He’d been playing with her from the beginning.

  And he wasn’t done.

  “That’s not even his real name. It’s Oscar—”

  “Uh….”

  “What?”

  “You need to hit the gas.” Kyle ripped his gaze from the side mirror and whipped his head around at breakneck speed. “Now.”

  At the tremble in Kyle’s voice, her head snapped to the rearview.

  “Punch it!” he screamed.

  The last thing she saw before she lost control and the tree trunk filled her vision was Joel Neely standing in the middle of the road, a rifle at his shoulder.

  Darkness and blood.

  She could feel it. The darkness suffocating, the blood wet and everywhere.

  “Cassie!”

  She heard an engine and didn’t, both at the same time. It sounded far, far away, but coming closer.

  “Cassie! Say something, please. Oh my God.”

  “Kyle.” Her voice sounded distant, too, but she knew it was hers. She still couldn’t force her eyes open. The throbbing in her head, the ringing in her ears, the blackness all around—she existed in a tunnel of pain, one that was closing in on her with every anguished breath.

  “Cassie, get up. Now. We have to run.”

  She couldn’t even open her eyes, much less run.

  But Kyle could.

  “I can’t,” she whispered. God, it hurt to talk. Her chest burned, and her throat felt thick. “Go.”

  “No! I’m not leaving you. Come on.” He tried to lift her and she tried, too. Oh God, she tried. She felt suspended in something thick, something viscous. Something that threatened to pull her down into the murky depths of unconsciousness.

  “Get help!” She screamed it with all her might, but all she heard was a low rasp.

  There was shouting somewhere. Somewhere very close and very far away.

  “Cassie, please.”

  “Now…” she croaked, tasting blood, “…buster.”

  She heard him sob once and then his lips pressed against her brow. “Cassie, hang on. I’ll be back.”

  “No…” She struggled to speak. “…cops.” She was slipping under, no matter how hard she t
ried to force her body to move. She didn’t need Slick. She needed medical attention. She needed Jase.

  She breathed his name. “Jase…”

  Gunshots rang out, and she screamed again, an anguished cry with no voice. Run, Kyle! Then she screamed at herself. Fight!

  “Ah, muchacha,” whispered another voice, angel soft.

  “Jase…”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “What did she say?” Jase asked again, his voice rough and his patience shot.

  “She asked about Claude and that’s it,” Heath said. “Why would I lie to you?”

  “She didn’t say where she was staying?”

  “Why would she tell me that, man?”

  He was grasping at straws. It was the only thing he had. She’d completely rejected him out on the highway. And despite the fact that he still didn’t agree with her returning for a damn signature when, in reality, he could pay for her mother’s care for the next twenty years and never blink an eye, he’d been clawing the walls to see her. Hell, he’d been on constant Cassie patrol since Kyle’s visit to his office. But he hadn’t been prepared for how badly it had burned seeing her fly past him as if he’d never existed.

  “I’ve got to go,” he told Heath, not bothering with an excuse. He couldn’t change the fact that she’d returned. But he needed to get a lock on her.

  Marian was a small town. He’d find her.

  And then what? he asked himself.

  He asked himself that same question again and again over the next few hours as he searched for her. He was a recon man, dammit. If he couldn’t spot that fancy car of hers in this Podunk town, he had no business calling himself a Marine. And to answer his own question, he’d start with offering her an apology. An on-his-knees-and-groveling apology. Then he’d ask about her mother and present her with the receipt in his pocket. Then he’d…yell at her for coming back?

  Smash her lips to his?

  Run her out of town after dragging her to the nearest motel and doing very, very dirty things for two days straight?

  Fuck! Where was she?

  On his third lap through town, his phone rang, startling him out of his corrupt thoughts.

  Clint.