Broken: The Cavanaugh Brothers

by Laura Wright

  Saliva fanned the air to his right, but Cole barely noticed. He was filled with something, up to his neck in it. Rage? Insanity? It was like those days before he became a UFC fighter. Those days on the street, just surviving—grabbing his high, not from any kind of drug, but from imagining the face of Cass’s killer in every shithead that tried to mess with him.

  “Fuck!”

  Before he could get another shot off, he was grabbed by the waistband of his shorts and yanked backward.

  “What the hell?” he growled.

  “You’re fighting like you’re on the blacktop and it’s recess,” Matty whispered in his ear. Not angry. Never angry. So damn calm it was irritating.

  Eyes narrowed on his bruised opponent, sweat dripping down his face as he danced back and forth in the center of the ring, Cole shot back, “That’s a good thing.”

  The trainer reached for him again and whirled him around sharply. Dark eyes narrowed, all that calm from a moment ago gone. “Only when the battle’s being fought underground. You don’t do that anymore, remember?”

  Cole was so worked up, it took everything inside of him to keep his gloves down and away from his trainer’s face.

  “For what we’re going after here,” Matty continued as if Cole’s hyped-up and highly aggressive attitude was something he’d witnessed a million times before, “you need to have focus and clarity and strategy—”

  Fuck that. “I have heart,” Cole fired back.

  “Christ.” The man looked away, eyed Cole’s sparring partner, whose lip was starting to swell. “Take ten, Reg,” he said, then turned his eyes back on Cole. “Now. Want to tell me what’s going on?”

  Still dancing, fists twitching inside his gloves, he uttered a terse, “Nothin’.”

  Matty shook his head. “Nope. Try again.” His chin dropped. “And remember I’ve known you for a while now. Seen you keyed up, seen you pissed, seen you with heart, passion, all of that. This is something else.”

  Cole shook his head to get the sweat on his face and neck a flyin’. “It’s just some shit back home, okay? It’s fine. Being worked out.”

  Matty took a deep breath. “This have to do with your dad’s passing?”

  “No.”

  “Then what?”

  Cole answered with a growl of irritation. What was making him manic—exploding inside him—was raw and overwhelming. He didn’t know what to make of it, how to explain it. Where to begin. He hadn’t given a shit about the Triple C or its future since he’d left home at seventeen. Hell, maybe not even then. Then that night at the Bull’s Eye happened. And the vet had brought up Cass and the diary. Now, all Cole could think about, dream about, was that day his twin sister had been taken, and the motherfucking nightmare that followed. How he’d felt ravaged and guilty. How his mama had looked at him—or couldn’t look at him. Shit . . . just last night Cass had come to him in his dreams. Begging him to find her. Come to her.

  He inhaled deep, shook the images out of his head, and stopped dancing. “Listen, I’m going back end of the week.” His eyes lifted to meet Matty’s. “I’ll be there for a couple of days. I’ll get my shit worked out, come back and do what I need to do.”

  The man studied him for a second or two, trying to decide if he believed what Cole was selling. Then his expression changed to one of concern. “I hope so. You can go into that fight with passion and drive, and, hell, even anger. But you can’t go in without focus and skill and a shitload of training. You’ll get murdered.”

  Cole flinched. His trainer had no idea what he’d just said. He knew a few things about Cole’s past, but nothing substantial. He didn’t know about what had happened to Cass or anything that had happened to him afterward. It was something he didn’t share with anyone. Not because he was embarrassed, or because he wanted to keep his private life private. No. He kept it to himself—inside his guts and his mind—because the shame and guilt drove his rage. It had made him an unbeatable fighter.

  It made him win.

  And winning was what he had. All he had.

  “Let’s go,” he ground out. His game face back in place, he shook the cobwebs out of his brain and started dancing again. “Let’s do this.”

  “You sure you’re ready?” Matty asked him.

  “Absolutely.”

  Maybe not for the truth about what had happened to Cass, he thought, as Reg climbed back into the ring. But he was ready for a fight. Hell, he was always ready for a fight.

  • • •

  Starvation had officially set in. It was ten thirty a.m., and Sheridan was running on fumes. ’Course that’s what one got when she forgot to eat dinner the night before. She’d just been so focused on going over the budget for the ranch construction. Though things were looking good on the surface, something wasn’t right, wasn’t adding up, and by three a.m. she still hadn’t discovered what it was. Of course, she would. She wanted to have all her ducks in a row by the time Deacon returned from Dallas.

  The bell over the door jangled as she entered Marabelle’s. It was pretty late on a weekday for the diner to be packed, but it was. With no tables free, she headed for the counter, which was completely vacant on one side. Her stomach grumbled and she laughed at herself as she sat down on one of the red stools and reached for a menu. When she was hungry like this, no scrambled eggs and a side of toast would do. She needed big portions. Starch and carbs and butter and syrup.

  “Can I help you, honey?”

  Sheridan looked up and gave the older woman with the striking orange hair and heavily tanned skin a broad grin. “Yes, please. I’ll have the blueberry pancakes, a side of bacon, a side of hashbrowns, tomato slices with capers if you have them, and—”

  “A Reese’s Peanut Butter milkshake,” someone cut in behind her.

  The waitress’s eyes lifted, then warmed, a reaction that Sheridan completely understood. She’d warmed many a time looking into those ocean-blue eyes.

  “We don’t have that, James Cavanaugh, and you know it,” the woman scolded. Though it came out sounding more like a coo. She eyed Sheridan again. “Sorry, hon. Might wanna try the ice cream shop for somethin’ like that. We do have a cookies-and-cream shake if that’ll please.”

  “No, thank you,” Sheridan said, trying to calm her racing heart. But it was difficult with six feet, two inches and one hundred and ninety pounds of lean muscle standing right behind her. “I’ll have tomato juice.”

  The woman winked. “Coming right up.”

  Before Sheridan could turn to look at the man standing behind her, he appeared at her side.

  James Cavanaugh leaned against the counter in a way that was both casual and sexy. Damn him. “So, who you got joining you this fine morning?”

  “No one,” Sheridan said, confused and slightly flustered. Why would he think someone was joining her? He who hadn’t shaved yet today. She tipped her head to the side. Boy, that night’s growth of beard really set off his lips. Made them look fuller and . . .

  “You sure about that?” he asked, cutting into her inane thoughts.

  “What do you mean?” Stop looking at his lips, Sheridan.

  “It’s just that I heard your order and . . .” He trailed off, lifted one chestnut eyebrow.

  Heat slammed into her cheeks, and she bolted back to reality. She knew exactly what he was insinuating. Jerk. Hot and sexy jerk. She lifted her chin and gave him her most imperious glare. “For your information, sir, I missed dinner last night. I’m very hungry.”

  He just stared at her, his eyes glittering with amusement.

  “And,” she continued, “pointing out that my order sounds as if it’s for two people is rude and unbecoming a gentleman.”

  His lips twitched. “Who said I was a gentleman?”

  She rolled her eyes with impatience, but inside her belly things were a’tingling. “No one. I just assumed.”

 
“Well, you know what they say about assuming things, Miss O’Neil.”

  “That it’s the surest way to make an accurate judgment call on someone or something?” she fired back.

  Both brows went up this time. Then he started to laugh. It was a rare sound, and its husky quality drowned out all the other voices in the diner and coiled around Sheridan like a blanket. Or a snake.

  “You gonna ask me to sit down?” he said after a moment.

  Him beside her. His eyes holding her captive. Oh hell, that sounded good. No. That sounded bad. Very, very bad. “Why? So you can insult me further? Maybe while I’m consuming a haystack of pancakes and an entire side of pork?”

  He laughed again. “Come on, Sheridan. I was just playin’ with you.”

  “Sure. So much fun.”

  “Frankly, I’m glad you’re tuckin’ in.” His eyes moved lazily down her body. “You could use a little meat on your bones.”

  Heat flickered through her. Heat hadn’t flickered through her in a long time. It was disturbing. “My bones?” she repeated tightly.

  “Don’t get me wrong . . .” His mouth curved up at the corners. “You look damn fine coming and going, but I’m bettin’ I could carry you soaking wet and fully clothed all the way from here to Dallas.”

  He’d looked at her coming and going? Good Lord. “Well, aren’t you sweet?” she managed to utter.

  “Obviously not sweet enough to get me an invitation to sit down.”

  A smile broke on her face, and she shook her head. She gestured to the empty stool beside her. “Hey, it’s a free country—and a free counter. But I’m sure you’re waiting for someone, so—”

  “I am,” he said.

  It was pretty spectacular that in a mere moment, her good humor and all that tingly heat that had been running around inside her died a quick death. Granted, none of it should’ve been in there in the first place. After all, he was her boss’s brother and, therefore, off-limits in the romance department. But the fact that he was meeting someone bothered her all the same.

  “But they’re not here yet,” he said just as the waitress set a plate of blueberry pancakes the size of a life preserver down in front of her. James whistled softly through his teeth. “Lookin’ good, Stevie.”

  The waitress batted her long fake eyelashes at him. “The pancakes or me?” she shot back with a wry grin.

  He leaned into the counter. “Shoot, woman. Those flapjacks can’t hold a candle to you.”

  Sheridan could practically hear the woman swoon. Or maybe that was her. She needed to eat. Blueberries were good for mental acuity and sharp reasoning, right?

  “You’ve grown into quite the charmer, James Cavanaugh,” Stevie said, reaching back to take a plate of bacon from the cook. “That what Hollywood does to a cowboy?”

  “Wouldn’t know.”

  Hollywood? Sheridan thought. What did that mean? Was his work with horses taking him to California? Away from River Black? And if it is? Not your business. Heck, she wasn’t going to be staying in town all that much longer either.

  Stevie snorted, then looked at Sheridan and said, “Juice and potatoes’ll be up in a jiff, hon,” before moving on to another customer.

  Boldy, proudly, Sheridan picked up the cute little glass syrup dispenser and poured the warm, pale brown topping all over her pancakes, then cut them up into bite-sized pieces. Her stomach growled in anticipation. She felt James move in closer, watching her.

  She stared at her plate. “You’re drooling, Mr. Cavanaugh.”

  “Am not,” he said, his gorgeous face way too close to hers now. “But you could offer me a bite.”

  Liquid heat filled the emptiness in her belly. Seriously, the guy was too much. And clearly her insides thought so as well. Those blisteringly hot insides that were right now urging her to pierce a triangle of pancake with her fork and hold it out for him, maybe watch as his mouth closed around it.

  She swallowed thickly.

  But her brain—her stupid, party pooper of a brain—warned her against it. Deacon’s brother. Your work. Your future.

  The bell over the front door jangled again. Sheridan turned just in time to see a petite woman dressed in dark green scrubs and sneakers enter. It was the town veterinarian. Grace something. Sheridan hadn’t formally met her, but she did know that the woman’s father was somehow connected with the disappearance of Cass Cavanaugh, and that Deacon, James, and Cole were all trying to get information out of her. So far, it looked as though they weren’t getting anything.

  Once the woman was inside, her gaze floated over the crowded diner. She waved at someone in the corner and smiled. But when she spotted James at the counter, that smile evaporated and she visibly recoiled. For several seconds, she just stared at him. Then she turned around and left.

  Sheridan ventured a glance at James. His jaw was tight with tension, but the rest of him was very much in control.

  “Wow,” she said, turning back to her plate. “That was cold.”

  “What do you mean?” James asked her.

  She stabbed at her pancakes. “Your date. She took one look at you and walked out. That’s got to sting.”

  “That isn’t who I’m meeting.”

  Her lips twitched with humor and she looked up at him. “Really?” She wasn’t sure why, but she was glad to see that some of the tension had eased from his strong, oh-so-handsomely-stubbled jaw.

  He shook his head, his eyes glittering with sudden heat. “You playin’ with me, O’Neil?”

  “I never joke about dating,” Sheridan said in all honesty. “That’s serious business.”

  “Well, it’s a good thing I don’t date, then.” He gave her a wry grin and pushed away from the counter. “Better go before someone steals my table.”

  Sheridan just stared at him. He didn’t date? Curiosity swirled inside of her. He wasn’t ever getting married and he didn’t date. He was like her. She’d never met anyone who was like her in that way. And she wanted to know why. What had bought on that decision.

  “Enjoy those flapjacks, Miss O’Neil. Eat every bite.” His brows descended a fraction. “Can’t have you blowing away, back to Dallas. Not just yet anyway.”

  As he walked off, tall, lean, and masculine in the extreme, Sheridan forced herself to turn back to her meal. The pancakes, bacon, tomatoes—all of it untouched. A strange mixture of heat and anxiety stirred low in her belly, and her breathing felt uneven and forced. What the hell was wrong with her? He was just a good-looking guy. She’d known plenty of them. She needed to get herself together and stop the mooning and the swooning—curb the palpitations.

  She picked up a piece of bacon and held it to her lips. Her stomach was clearly beyond empty, growling up a damn storm, and yet she didn’t feel hungry anymore.

  At least not for the breakfast laid out on the counter before her.

  Four

  “He says you can come out and take a look, but he doesn’t think the place’ll suit. And frankly, neither do I.”

  James put his fork down on his empty plate. “Why’s that?”

  The foreman of the Bronco Barn Ranch finished off his coffee, then answered. “Only ten thousand acres, James. With that many mustangs—”

  “It’s enough,” James cut in.

  “Barely.”

  “He agreed, Micky—”

  “To let you come take a gander. Convince him it’s possible and not a gigantic pain in the ass.” He motioned for Stevie to come over. “Look, he knows he owes your daddy a big debt. This could be a right solid way to repay it. If—and that’s a big if—there’s room.”

  Normally, James wouldn’t have been interested in his father’s personal relationships and debts, but this one he’d take if he could get it.

  “How far you out again?” he asked.

  “Hour or so,” Micky told him. He thanked Stevie f
or the coffee refill, then turned back to James. “Depending on how fast you drive or what’s clogging up the roads.”

  Movement up at the counter caught James’s attention. Sheridan was looking at her bill, confused. His gut tightened as she leaned over the counter to talk to Stevie. Damn, the way those jeans stretched over her legs and backside. He’d been right about her being something to see coming and going. When the older woman told her that her bill had already been taken care of, she turned instantly to look at James. Her cheeks were flushed all pink and pretty, and he had the strangest urge to vault over the tables and pull her into his arms. Then those gray eyes left him for the foreman across the table. For a few seconds, she seemed to be deciding what to do—if she should come over or not. Then she turned back to James, gave him quick smile, and headed for the door.

  Something popped inside of James. Not that he’d expected her to come over, but he’d wanted her to. Wanted to see her up close again, hear her voice. He liked their sharp back-and-forth, liked teasing her, seeing her eyes flash with heat when he did. Maybe it was a bad idea, for him and for her, but he couldn’t help himself.

  As the bell over the front door jangled and she disappeared outside, James pushed his chair back. “Thanks for meeting me, Micky,” he told the foreman. “I’m going out to check on things.”

  The man paused, steaming coffee cup to his lips. “Right now?”

  “Right now.”

  James dropped a bunch of bills on the table, gave the man a quick handshake, then followed Sheridan out the door. She had a small head start, but it didn’t take him long to catch sight of her auburn hair and citified style. Black boots on her feet, tight, classy denim covering her toned legs and sensational butt, and a fitted, dark gray tank top that showed off her tiny waist and tanned arms. She was crossing the street a block and a half away. He eyed his truck. It was parked right outside the diner. Maybe it wasn’t the best of ideas, considering who her boss was. He didn’t want to make trouble for her. And yet, even so, he was inside the cab, gunning the engine and pulling away from the curb before she made it another block.