Broken: The Cavanaugh Brothers

by Laura Wright

  “I have to go. Don’t follow me.”

  “Grace, please. He said this to James right after my brother asked him about Cass’s murder. We think it might be a boy my sister called ‘Sweet.’”

  She kept walking, her face tense. So was her grip on Belle’s leash.

  “Please just ask him if he knows that name!” Cole called out, desperate once again. “Ask him if he knows Caleb Palmer.”

  This time, she stopped, frozen in place. “Caleb Palmer’s in jail,” she said.

  “He got out. Attacked Sheridan O’Neil again.”

  She turned, her expression horror-struck. “Oh my God. I hadn’t heard. I was out on a call. Is she okay?”

  Cole nodded. “But when he and James were wrestling, he said something. Said that if James killed him, he’d never know the truth about Cass’s murder.”

  Shaking her head, Grace looked away, then back at him.

  “What is it?” Cole asked.

  “Caleb Palmer was my dad’s best friend.”

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you to my wonderful family for their love and support.

  And to my New American Library family, as well. Especially my editor, Danielle Perez. Keep kicking my butt, darlin’.

  Maria Carvainis, you rock!

  And to my first and most beloved dog, Bud. Thank you for fifteen amazing years. I miss you every day.

  Don’t miss the next novel in

  the Cavanaugh Brothers series

  by Laura Wright,

  BRASH

  On sale from Signet Eclipse in March 2015.

  Diary of Cassandra Cavanaugh

  May 5, 2002

  Dear Diary,

  I think Sweet’s right. Someone is following us. This is what happened. I was at the drugstore today after school. I was hoping maybe Sweet would come in because I haven’t seen or heard from him in three days. And it is where we first locked eyes and all. I really wanted to know why he didn’t meet me the other night like he said he was going to. I wanted to know if it was because of the kiss. I practiced it on my hand a couple of times, and I didn’t think it was all that bad. Well, he did come in. He was buying all sorts of strange things like headache medicine and soap. He looked surprised to see me. But when I went up to him, he smiled his amazing smile and told me he’d meet me behind the diner in ten minutes.

  Diary, I waited for a half hour, and he didn’t come. Why would he do that? Did something happen to him? Does he just not like me anymore?

  My brain tells me to hate him, but my heart tells my brain to shut up. Who do I listen to?

  Stupid boys.

  Okay, here’s the weird part. When I was walking over to the diner, I felt someone’s eyes on me. I looked all around and didn’t see no one. But I swear they were there! What if it’s one of my brothers?

  Maybe they discovered what we’ve been doing.

  I could ask ’em? Or talk to Mac? Waaaaaa! I’m so confused. I hate how my heart feels right now. Heavy and broken.

  Cass

  Cole Cavanaugh watched as Johnny Blair dropped his needle into the red ink, then resumed his special brand of torture.

  “You going to tell me what this stands for, man?” Johnny asked, working the final curve of a C on Cole’s shoulder. “Or do I need to guess?”

  Cole smirked at the Austin-based artist who had inked nearly every one of his tats. “Guess away, brother.”

  Black brows lifted over pale green eyes. “Woman’s initials?”

  Cole snorted. “Hell no.”

  The guy chuckled, the two small studs in his lower lip flattening against his teeth. “Your next victim in the ring?”

  “Nah, man. That joker’s blood on my knuckles is all the stain I need.” He glanced down at the finished artwork. “These three Cs are for the ranch where I grew up.”

  Johnny placed the tat gun on the metal side table beside Cole’s chair. “I didn’t know you were a ranch boy, Cavanaugh.”

  “Born and bred.”

  “And now branded,” the man said as he cleaned Cole’s skin, then slathered some A&D ointment on it.

  “Let’s get to bandaging,” Cole said, not wanting to get any further into discussions about the Triple C, and how he had grown up, and why he’d left. Some shit needed to stay private outside River Black. “I have training in an hour.”

  Johnny shook his head, but grabbed the bandages and tape. “Will it do any good if I tell you to wait until tomorrow? Give this some time to heal?”

  “Thirteen tats and I’ve never had a problem.”

  “Fine,” Johnny said. “I’m gonna wrap it up extra good, but if someone knocks you there, it’s going to hurt like a motherfucker.”

  “I’m counting on it,” Cole said without thinking.

  “Damn,” Johnny said, fitting the bandage. “Had no idea you were such a masochist, man.”

  He wasn’t. Not really. Well, maybe in the beginning right after he’d left home—gone underground. Maybe then he’d wanted to feel the pain. Hell, maybe he’d thought he deserved it. But now . . . He eyed the tattoo artist. “Just makes my adrenaline rush. Heightens my awareness. Fuels the fight.”

  “When is your match?” Johnny asked him.

  “Next week.”

  “Who you beatin’ down?”

  “Fred Fontana.”

  The man’s head came up fast. “Oh, shit.”

  Oh, shit, indeed. Fred Omega Fontana had a rep for nearly killing anything that stepped into the ring with him. He was the one bastard Cole had yet to beat. But Cole fully intended to end that streak next week.

  “You ready?” Johnny asked him as he pushed back in his chair and stripped off his gloves. “Physically? Mentally? All that shit?”

  “Hell yeah,” Cole said convincingly.

  But it was all show. And, boy, did he need to put on a show. The fire and fury that normally pulsed in his blood this close to a fight weren’t there. Maybe too much had happened at the Triple C—too much up in the air. Too many damn memories assaulting him at every turn. It was why he’d gotten the Triple C brand inked into his skin. He was hoping it would put that wicked heat back into his gut and heart. Because, fuck him, if he didn’t, not only was he going to lose hope that he’d ever discover the truth about his sister’s death, but he might very well lose his life in the ring next week.

  • • •

  “You have issues, Belle,” Grace Hunter told her passenger, an aging basset hound who had just howled her damn head off as they drove past the Triple C ranch.

  And it wasn’t the first time.

  Any time Belle was within spitting distance of where Cole Cavanaugh hung his hat, the dog howled.

  Grace glanced over at the pup sitting on her cute rump, buckled in, staring out the open window. “He’s not interested in you, Miss Girl. He was only out for information.”

  Belle ignored the reminder that Cole Cavanaugh’s visit to the vet clinic a few days ago—under the pretense that he wanted to adopt the basset hound—was a lie. As soon as Grace had slipped out of the office, that rat bastard had gone through her drawers and found out where her father was living.

  “He hasn’t been back in days,” she told Belle as she got onto the highway. “Probably off practicing for that bloodbath he calls a job.” She grimaced at the thought. “You don’t want that kind of guy buying your kibble, now, do you?”

  This time, Belle turned to look at her.

  “Someone who beats people up for a livin’?” Grace asked.

  The basset hound barked.

  “Yeah, yeah, I know he’s good-looking and unpredictable, and charming in an overbearing way.” Grace continued. “But let me tell you from experience: that combination is nothing but trouble.”

  Belle seemed unconvinced, and once again turned to look out the window.

 
“Fine. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. And when he breaks your heart, don’t come crying to me.” Oh, who was she kidding? Sweet Belle could come crying to her, and Grace would take her in her arms and let her know it was okay. Then later, when they were sharing a pint of ice cream, she would gently tell the canine that if she wanted a real future with someone who would be there for her through thick and thin, she needed to look for stable instead of stunning, reliable instead of reactive. And instead of inked-up skin and hard waves of muscles, a balanced, tender, soulful heart.

  She pulled off the highway and headed toward the center of town. Speaking of tender hearts, she was going to see her dad today. See if she could get him to clear up this mess with Caleb Palmer. Her father’s best friend had claimed he knew something about Cass Cavanaugh’s abduction and murder. What was he thinking? she mused darkly as she turned into the Barrington Ridge Senior Care parking lot and found a space. And God, could that actually be true? Granted, the man was not the same one she’d known as a child. In fact, he’d turned into a monster. He’d hurt Sheridan O’Neil, and Grace prayed he would never get out of the jail cell he was in now. But what she was really interested in was clearing her father’s name. Making sure everyone knew that he wasn’t connected to Caleb’s actions. Hell, she didn’t want him connected to Caleb in any way, if she could help it. No visits, no phone calls. Maybe then she could finally get the Cavanaughs off her back.

  With Belle leashed and walking beside her, Grace entered the front door of the care facility. Gentle piano music played from the speakers overhead, and she could smell the combination of cleaning products and breakfast foods. The care facility had cleared her request to bring Belle along. Her dad had owned a dog for many years—one that had been at his side nearly day and night—and Grace was hopeful that the canine would stir his memory. Or at the very least keep him calm and lucid.

  “Awww, ain’t she sweet?” called one of the nurses as they passed by.

  “Hiya, Grace,” another called out.

  “Morning, Bev,” Grace returned cheerfully. She pointed to her father’s door. “He awake?”

  Beverly nodded. “Just finished his breakfast ’bout ten minutes ago.”

  “Thanks,” Grace said, moving down the corridor as Belle tried to sniff every inch of the floor, wall, and desks.

  Bright sunlight welcomed Grace as she entered the room. As usual, her father was seated at the small table near the window. He liked the light and the breeze, just as he had at home. His nose was in a magazine, and he was flipping through the pages at lightning speed.

  “What are we reading today, Dad?” she asked, coming over and slipping into one of the chairs beside him. “Fishing or dirt bike racing?”

  Peter Hunter glanced up and smiled. “Gracie?”

  Grace’s heart ballooned inside her chest. Every time she walked into his room, she wondered if his eyes would flash with warm recognition or cool disinterest.

  “Hi, Dad,” she said with gentle warmth. This was the man who had tucked her into bed at night. Told her stories about his adventures as sheriff. Protected her, loved her, treated her like she was the most special thing in the world. Made her believe she could be anything she wanted to be. She reached for his hand and gave it a squeeze.

  “Who’s the mongrel?”

  She grinned. “This is Belle. She’s a friend of mine.”

  Her father reached down and gave the basset hound a pat on the head. Suddenly his face fell. “She looks about as miserable as I feel.”

  A fist squeezed her heart. “Why are you miserable, Dad?”

  He looked up at her. His eyes were no longer crystal clear. “I have a job to do, Gracie,” he explained, his chin lifting in that way it always did when he talked about his work as a sheriff. “People out there who need me.”

  God, it hurt her so much to hear him talk about the past as though it was the present. There was nothing she could do. Nothing except protect his good name.

  “Dad, I need you to tell me about Mr. Palmer,” she began gently.

  His dark brows rose. “Caleb?”

  She nodded.

  “Well, he is my very best friend, honey.” A hint of a smile played about his lips. “Good man. Right good man. Always there for me. That’s how friends should be. Don’t you forget that.”

  Grace reached down and started stroking Belle’s head. “He’s done something very bad.”

  Her father didn’t even hesitate before answering, “No, no, baby. Not him.”

  “Yes, Dad,” she insisted. “He hurt a woman.”

  That snagged his attention. He sat back in his chair, looking utterly dumbstruck for a moment. Then he gasped. “Lord Almighty, he takin’ the blame for that, is he?”

  “He admitted it, Dad. There were witnesses and a police report. And the woman’s going to testify against him.”

  A sad smile touched the man’s mouth. “How can she, baby? She’s dead.”

  A boulder the size of Texas rolled through Grace at his words. She wasn’t exactly sure why, but she wanted, more than anything, to get up and walk out. Not ask him anything and not hear anything. But she had to, didn’t she? “Who are you talking about, Dad?”

  “That girl, Gracie dear.” His gaze dropped to his magazine, and he started thumbing through the pages once again. “Cass Cavanaugh.”