by Laura Wright
Caleb pushed out a breath, then uttered, “Ms. O’Neil and I have an understanding.”
“I hope it’s that she’s your boss and you’re her employee,” James said, his tone surprisingly serious.
That made Sheridan’s eyebrows lift. And maybe her chest tighten a little too. No boys’ club. Or maybe there was and James Cavanaugh, Esq., just wasn’t a member. She liked that. And she liked that he’d remained on his horse and let her handle her business.
Wanting to keep things civil and productive, she turned back to the contractor and stuck out her hand. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Mr. Palmer. Bright and early.”
“Sure thing,” Caleb ground out. Then after giving her hand one irritated pump, he stormed past James and headed for his truck. Yes, he was going to be trouble.
“I see why you’re Deacon’s right hand,” James said as he dismounted, and the contractor’s truck sped off in a cloud of dust behind him. After tying up the stallion, he climbed the steps and came to stand beside her on the porch. He touched the brim of his hat. “Ms. O’Neil.”
“Mr. Cavanaugh.” Tendrils of heat skittered down her back. “Lately, it seems, I’m both of Deacon’s hands.”
His brows drew together. “Really?”
Okay, that hadn’t come out right. She stared at him. Up close, the man’s eyes were shockingly beautiful. Like the sunlit water in Hawaii or Bali. “You know, the business side of things, and then helping his bride-to-be with wedding plans.”
“Oh, right,” James said with sudden understanding. He scrubbed a hand over his square jaw, which carried a night’s worth of stubble. “I saw you at the bakery earlier.”
Perfect. “Yes, you did.”
“You waved at me.”
Double perfect. “Possibly.”
He grinned. “So what’d y’all choose?”
Food. Much better topic of discussion. “I suggested she go with the coconut cake, but who knows which way the wind blows? Sweets are a very personal decision. Now, if it were my wedding, I’d be all over a Reese’s Peanut Butter cake.” Could she talk any faster? God . . . And was that sweat trickling down her back?
“Your wedding?” Those eyebrows drew together once again.
“I just meant—”
“Are you engaged, Miss O’Neil?”
Sheridan laughed, but it came out sounding like a choke. In fact, it probably was a choke. “No. God, no. No.”
He leaned back against the railing, regarding her, and crossed his arms over his chest. His very broad, very muscular chest. “That’s a pretty passionate answer. You against marriage or something?”
“Of course not!”
“Because if you think it’s a sham institution, maybe you shouldn’t be helping out a couple who’s gettin’ hitched.”
“Okay, you’re really misunderstanding me here,” she said quickly, thankful for the breeze picking up around them. She looked him over. The casual stance, the relaxed expression, the amused, ocean eyes. “What’s this all about?”
“What?” he asked innocently.
“Your obsession with my feelings on marriage.”
His face broke into a wide grin. “No obsession. Just curious about you, Miss O’Neil. That’s all.”
Oh. Right. That’s all. He was curious about her.
Was that her heart fluttering around inside her chest, butterfly-style? Good God, did Deacon have to have such a swoon-worthy brother?
“You know,” he continued casually, “you mentioned the Reese’s wedding cake, and I just thought there might be someone cutting into the cake with you.”
“There’s not.” Sheridan was pretty sure her answer was spoken at the speed of sound.
“Okay.”
“I mean, I think the idea of having a partner you can trust with your heart, who’s your friend as well as your lover . . .” She cleared her throat. Why was she continuing to speak? What was wrong with her? “It’s a nice, romantic idea. But I don’t know if I really believe it’s possible.”
He nodded, his expression turning serious all of a sudden. “I agree. I’m never getting married.”
His words—his statement—had Sheridan’s eyes widening, her chest tightening, and her mind clearing of all that crazy-girl fog. Wow. She knew what had formed her opinions on marriage, and relationships in general, but she was very curious about what had formed his. Not to mention strangely disappointed. But James Cavanaugh’s romantic future—or his past, for that matter—wasn’t her business. Couldn’t be. And she needed to keep reminding herself of that when he was around.
“So,” she began, forcing a professional tone. “You obviously came all the way out here for a reason, and I’m guessing it wasn’t to debate the merits and/or pitfalls of romantic and committed relationships.”
Amusement returned to his gaze. “You’re something else, Sheridan.”
The way he said her name . . . it was like being given only one lick of an ice-cream cone on a very hot day. Deliciously irritating and a giant tease. Not your business, Sheridan. “Is there something you need, Mr. Cavanaugh?”
“Do you know when Deacon’s expected back?” he asked, his eyes still holding her captive.
Deacon. Well, now that made sense. Of course he was here to see his brother. Not to banter about inappropriate subjects like marriage, or demonstrate how blue his eyes could get in the light of the ebbing sun. “Tomorrow night, I believe. But he has a meeting with investors, so that one day could be stretched into two.”
“Shouldn’t you be with him?” James asked.
“Excuse me?”
“Well,” he began with a casual shrug and a grin. “Doesn’t he need both his right and his left hand?”
Did he know that when he smiled his entire face lit up? Probably not. And she wasn’t about to tell him either. “I think he needs me here to straighten out greedy contractors who think they can slip and slide when a mere filly’s in charge.”
He checked over his shoulder, took in the spot where Mr. Palmer had made a hasty departure a few minutes ago and turned back. “That what I came up on?”
She nodded. “Sometimes country boys underestimate strong women.”
He laughed, took off his hat, ran his hand through his tousled and possibly sweaty hair. “Oh, I think that applies to all boys.” Then he put it back on and captured her with those devastating eyes once again. “And even more so if the filly in question happens to be breathtakingly beautiful.”
For a moment, Sheridan wondered if she’d heard what she’d thought she heard. Or if maybe that foolish and juvenile side of her brain had taken over and was tossing out heart stoppers. And then James Cavanaugh added another whopper to the mix and she was toast.
“Maybe what you need to be dealing with is a man, Miss O’Neil.”
It was truly unfortunate how warm she felt inside her red skinny jeans and tailored white blouse. And it had nothing whatsoever to do with the blazing sun poised overhead. She swallowed, her throat dry. She needed to find some water. With ice. Maybe a bucket of it to throw over her head. And she needed to get away from the gorgeous cowboy. Like maybe permanently.
Avoidance was key.
“Well, I’d better get,” he said, as if he’d just read her mind. Or seen the sweat droplets glistening near her hairline. He pushed away from the porch steps.
“Of course,” she acknowledged. “Back to your horses.”
“Well, they ain’t mine exactly, but . . .yeah. I’m trying to find them different lodgings.”
“Oh,” she exclaimed softly. “You don’t want them at the Triple C?” She remembered how angry he’d been when Mac had brought those BLM horses onto the property. All the brothers had been at odds about what to do with the place. But since Deacon had given up his quest to destroy his father’s ranch, Sheridan had assumed that maybe James had given up his anger and come to acce
pt that the wild mustangs were home for good.
“They need someone around who knows what they’re doing, how to handle ’em,” he told her as he descended the porch steps.
Sheridan’s brows slammed together in confusion. Someone who knew what they were doing? Well, that was most certainly him. So what was the issue? “Are you planning on not being around to care for them?” she called after him. It was surprising how the thought of him leaving River Black anytime soon made her chest ping.
Yes, avoidance, Sheridan! Learn it, know it.
He untied his horse, then stuck a foot in the stirrup and easily swung up into the saddle. “I’ll be here for the wedding. But after that, who knows?”
Who knows? That was pretty much her future plans with regards to the small Texas town as well. Her gaze moved over him in a lazy, yet problematically possessive way. All that lean, tanned muscle and quiet, capable talent. Those raw blue eyes that searched hers, and that mouth that turned up at the corners in an irresistible smile before saying her name. He was the stuff of fantasies, and she needed to do everything she could to keep herself away from him and focus on her work. Because fantasies were trouble. For suckers. They got you hurt and broke and sidetracked and miserable.
She hugged her files closer. “I’ll be sure to let Mr. Cavanaugh know you came by when he returns. Or when he calls, if you’d like.”
Under the brim of his black Stetson, James’s eyes shuttered, no doubt noticing the suddenly cool professionalism threading her tone. But he didn’t acknowledge it. Just gave her a polite “Appreciate that, Sheridan” before turning around and leading his horse down the drive.
• • •
“Beautiful sight,” Sam remarked as the mustangs thundered past, heading for the creek bed half a mile off.
“They are that,” James agreed, his eyes on the stallion out front—the paint who had won his place as the sole alpha among the mares. “But we need to find them a different ranch to roam.”
The old cowboy tossed him a curious look. “Why is that now, boy? They got all they need here. Water and vegetation. Why don’t you put those thoughts away for the time bein’. Deacon’s not selling his share of the Triple C; Blue ain’t back from wherever the hell he’s gone off to.”
“But he will be back. And when he does, he’ll have a say in what happens here.” Their father, Everett Cavanaugh, had passed on a few weeks ago, leaving a mess of trouble in his wake. Not the least of which was a will that named a Cavanaugh brother they’d never known they’d had. Blue Perez. Blue Cavanaugh. Hell, the man hadn’t known either. Now Blue was strapped with his share of the Triple C, and judging by his up and leaving town after Everett’s funeral, he didn’t seem to want anything to do with it. Or his new brothers. ’Course that could be because Deac, James, and Cole had pretty much treated the man like shit when they’d first found out.
“Blue might want to sell the C when he gets back.” James pulled off his hat and wiped his brow. “I don’t want the horses gettin’ used to something they may have to quit. And in a hurry.”
“They’re animals,” Sam said, as if that explained everything.
“Doesn’t matter. They feel the loss same as we do.”
The old man shook his head. “I don’t understand you, boy.”
James sniffed. Wasn’t the first time he’d heard that. “The longer they’re livin’ here, the more attached they become, to the air, to the land—”
“To you,” Sam finished.
Turning his horse around, James kicked the stallion into an easy walk. Sam moved in beside him. “Look, I can’t stay here indefinitely,” James told him. “It’s not where I belong. I got work. My own life.”
“Don’t be tellin me you’re gonna do that TV show.”
A Horse Whisperer in Hollywood. James frowned. That’s what they wanted to call it. Sounded like something that’d get him laughed right out of Texas. Honestly, he hadn’t even considered it until recently. Besides the bullshit title, he wasn’t all that comfortable in front of a camera, in the limelight. . . . But lately, well, he’d started to think maybe it could be an interesting change of pace.
“That Hollywood woman doesn’t give up easily,” James said as they headed for the north pasture, and hopefully to the mare who needed her wound checked and another hit of antibiotics. “She thinks it’d be a big hit.” He laughed. “I dunno about that. But the offer keeps going up every time I turn her down.”
“You don’t need the money,” Sam pointed out.
He tossed the man a wry grin. “Everyone needs the money.”
“Why are you really considering this? Something you never did before? Or had any kind of interest in? A job whisperin’ to fancy, celebrity horseflesh.” He snorted. “What do they got to be mopin’ about anyway? A job that takes you away from River Black right now, and for God knows how long.” Under shaded eyes, the cowboy studied James. “Or is that the answer right there?”
James turned away from him. “Don’t go analyzing me, old man.”
Sam chuckled. “Oh, shoot. Nothing else fun ’round here to do. Except for waiting on Deac and Mac’s wedding, the rest of life at the Triple C is damn stagnant. Depressin’ even. Though she’s cookin’ up a storm, Elena sulks and pines. Blue took off without telling anybody where he was headed or if he’s coming back, including his mama. And Cole’s in and out, training and fighting—coming back here with black and blues and reds all over his face.” He shot James a worried look. “And I hear you all been sniffin’ around the vet about Cass’s end.”
Pain smacked James in the chest and his lip curled. “I ain’t talking about that.”
“With me, you mean. Your daddy’s closest friend.”
James stilled. He hadn’t really thought of it, but maybe Sam was right. Maybe James didn’t want Everett’s memory anywhere near what he and Deac and James were trying to do, trying to uncover. Maybe he was afraid that even from the grave the man would taint things—crush their spirit, their hope.
When he didn’t reply, Sam just shrugged. “Fine. Just be careful. Sometimes when we look too closely at something, we find things we never wanted to see.”
“Like the truth?” James spit out.
“Truth’s a rectangle, boy. Many sides to it.”
Behind them, the sound of hooves thundering against the ground rent the air. Both Sam and James halted their horses and turned. About five hundred yards away, two mares, who had probably broken from the herd he and Sam had just passed, were coming their way, picking up speed with every inch they covered. Without a word, James kicked his horse and raced to a nearby tree. When he pulled up and jumped down, Sam was right there beside him. He thrust his bridle into the man’s hand and took off.
“What the hell you doin’, boy?” Sam demanded as James headed back on foot to where they’d just come from—right into the line of equine fire.
He didn’t answer the old man. Didn’t even think about him. Didn’t think about anything but the mares and his own body. He stopped directly in their path and brought his hands up, real gentle, palms out. He softened his gaze, slowed his heart, and with every breath he expelled, he called to the mustangs as they approached.
“Whoa. Whoa, easy,” he cooed. “There we are.”
At first, they didn’t seem to take notice or care. They were too fired up, coming quick and hard, dust flying everywhere. But as James continued, as he walked slowly toward them, asking them to stay easy and go gentle, they downgraded into a canter, then a trot. Eyes wild, heads tossing, they pulled up short before him. One stopped a few feet away, nostrils flaring, but the other came right up to him and nuzzled into his side.
James closed his eyes, let his body, his breath, his pulse return to normal. The energy that rushed from the mares into him was making him light-headed, but he held his ground. It was his way. Their way too. How they communicated together.
So
mewhere, far off, he heard Sam call out, “Holy buckets of shit,” but James was too far in the zone to reply. The sweet, wild girl continued to push her soft, warm face against him, and before long, he had his arms around her neck, stroking her. Christ, he would do right by her—her and her brothers and sisters. He understood how they worked, what they needed to feel safe and secure. He would do right by them. While he stayed, thinking about the TV show and waiting for Deac’s wedding, he would find them a permanent master and advocate—find them land they could truly call home. And while he did that, he would push the vet for answers. Go around her if he had to. Find that diary and get to the goddamned truth so he maybe—just maybe—could finally forgive himself and move the hell on.
A certain gray-eyed woman flashed into his brain. She was in there far too much lately. Swimming around in rainwater, mooning over Reese’s Peanut Butter anything, and making James question the oath he’d made to himself after he’d left college, after Tori had been attacked—shit, after he’d failed to protect her. There was no disputing the fact that he found Sheridan O’Neil attractive. Hell, more than attractive. But he wasn’t going there. Couldn’t. She wasn’t a one-night-stand, let’s-just-have-some-fun-and-walk-away kind of gal. No matter what she claimed regarding relationships and marriage, she had picket fences and promises, diamond rings and auburn-haired kids written all over her. And that was never happening for him. Not for a broken loner who didn’t deserve love, and could protect females only if they happened to be of the equine variety.
Stepping away from the mares, he shooed them in the direction of their herd. For a moment, they didn’t move. Their eyes remained on him, watchful, curious, infinitely soulful. Then James made a clicking sound with his tongue, and they turned and took off into the coming sunset.
Three
“You’re distracted tonight,” Matty called out from the corner of the ring. “Which means the likelihood of brain damage just went up fifty percent.”
“Bullshit.” Cole barreled forward, sending his fists first into his sparring partner’s gut, then into the man’s jaw.
