Seeing Red

by Sandra Brown

  “I don’t believe you’ve done anything illegal, per se.”

  “I haven’t. So you’ll help?”

  “Trapper, please don’t drag me into this.”

  “Okay. Forget I asked. And, look, about the condom malfunction. It could happen to anybody. Especially in the heat of the moment. Lust fueled by peach brandy. I’m sure Emma and your congregation would understand.”

  This time it was the pastor who swore. Then he sighed with resignation. “Text me your list. Will you be all right tonight?”

  “It won’t be the Ritz, but we’ll manage. See you in the morning.”

  “I can’t give you a time. A lot depends on the weather.”

  “Whenever you can make it.” He paused. “And, Hank, I realize this is asking a lot. I owe you big time.”

  He clicked off, then went into messages and began making a list of basic necessities. “Any special requests?”

  “Toilet paper. Can Hank be trusted?”

  He chuckled. “He can now.”

  “You’re ruthless, Trapper.”

  “You’re right,” he said and sent his text.

  Around three a.m. the precipitation began to taper off. By dawn, it had stopped altogether. The sun came up behind an overcast eastern horizon, but the skies began to clear from the west, making the day brighter, the icy surfaces reflective.

  Hank squinted against the harsh light as he braked his car at a distance from the shack.

  Nobody knew who’d built it, somebody in the last century, possibly in the one before that. It had been used for shelter by cowboys checking herds and rounding up strays, or riding the miles of barbed wire fences checking for breaches, manmade or otherwise.

  Most cattlemen now kept tabs on their herds and graze land from the cockpit of a helicopter, so nobody used the shack except for the occasional drifter who veered off the beaten path, or hunters caught in storms, or randy teenagers who upheld the tradition that Trapper had initiated.

  After a quail hunt, during which The Major and Glenn had acquainted their two sons with the existence of the rough-hewn cabin, Trapper had claimed it as his personal pleasure palace, an ideal place to sneak away with a girl whenever he visited Lodal. One time Trapper had invited him to go on a double date. That was the last misadventure he’d had in Trapper’s corruptive company.

  It was impossible not to like Trapper. He had charisma. Charm was effortless, as much a part of him as his fingerprint. He walked into a room, and the atmosphere became charged with vitality. He was the devil whispering in one’s ear of the delights to be found in sin if only one dared.

  Throughout their boyhood, Trapper had mocked Hank’s conscience. He’d resented being the object of Trapper’s ridicule, but he’d also harbored a deep-seated jealousy of Trapper’s flagrant disregard for rules and often wished he could be that cavalier.

  But bad behavior that could be forgiven in an adolescent was unacceptable in a grown-up. Trapper’s unconcealed scorn for high ideals and morality had left him a lonely, bitter man. He was liked, but not admired.

  What mystified Hank was that Trapper seemed unaffected by the opinion of others. Indeed, he seemed indifferent to anything that truly mattered, including his own self-destruction.

  Hank eased his foot off the brake and drove at a snail’s pace toward the squat, weathered structure. It was somewhat protected from the elements by the rocky hill that rose behind it. The rusty tin roof had barely a dusting of last night’s snow, while the black SUV parked outside had an inch of accumulation on its level surfaces. The tall off-road tires were caked with frozen mud.

  How like Trapper to defy a blizzard.

  Hank pulled up beside the SUV. He got out of his car and retrieved two bags of goods from his backseat. When he reached the door of the shack, he tapped it with the toe of his shoe. “Hey, Trapper, it’s me.” He hunched his shoulders in order to raise the collar of his coat up around his ears to protect them from the wind. “Hurry up. It’s freezing out here.”

  When nothing happened, he set down the bags and tried the door. It swung open, was caught by the wind, and blew wide, banging against the interior wall.

  The shack was empty. From the looks of it, it had been vacant for a long time. Cobwebs clinging to the doorjamb fluttered against Hank’s face.

  His breath escaped through his teeth in an angry whistle that matched the wind curling down the rocky face of the hill. He took his phone from the breast pocket of his coat and used speed dial. His call was answered on the first ring. “They’re not here.”

  “What! Are you sure he meant this shack?”

  “Yes, Dad. The SUV is here, but Trapper and Kerra Bailey aren’t. You can come on up.”

  In a matter of seconds the sheriff’s unit, which had kept just out of sight, appeared on the horizon. Glenn sped toward the shack and, when he reached it, got out of his car, stormed past Hank and through the open door.

  Immediately, he came back out, hands on hips, breathing fire. “How could they’ve left while that SUV is still here?”

  “Well,” Hank said, “I don’t believe Trapper was raptured.”

  “Son of a bitch.” Glenn’s angry gaze swept the open landscape. “Where the hell is he?”

  Chapter 17

  The seedy motel was on the frontage road of eastbound I-20.

  Trapper was lying on his side in bed next to Kerra, watching her sleep. He was outside the covers, she was underneath, a stipulation she had insisted on after Carson had brought them here in the wee hours and checked them in. He’d used fake names and paid in cash. The desk clerk was one of his clients, currently on parole. He asked no questions.

  Kerra had demanded separate rooms. Trapper had told her to forget it. She capitulated, Trapper figuring because she’d been too exhausted to argue further. But when they entered the room and saw its one bed, she’d made him swear that he would behave himself. He solemnly swore that he would.

  Minutes after Carson left, she had removed only her shoes before climbing in and pulling the covers up to her chin. She fell fast asleep. Trapper had checked the bathroom window and determined that it was too small for an adult to get through. He tested the door lock, slid the chain into place, and wished for sturdier of both. He switched off the light. Then for half an hour, through the pair of ratty curtains, he watched the parking lot to make certain that, by some miracle, no one had followed them.

  Finally satisfied that he’d thrown Glenn off track—because surely Hank would have informed him that, come morning, he was meeting Trapper at the line shack—he’d removed his pistol from the holster at the small of his back and set both on the nightstand, pulled off his boots, and lay down as close to Kerra as he could get. He fell asleep immediately.

  Now, six hours later, she must have sensed that he was awake, because she stirred, then opened her eyes and looked at him drowsily. His cock went from semi-hard to battering ram, decimating his vow to behave himself. He leaned over her.

  “Trapper, we had an agreement.”

  “We’re not nekkid.”

  “You promised to behave.”

  “I’m not doing anything.”

  “You’re crowding me.”

  “You’ve got all the covers. I’m cold.”

  “You’re a furnace.” Suddenly she tensed against him. “Where’d that come from?”

  At first he thought she was referring to his erection, but seeing that she was looking beyond him, he glanced over his shoulder at the nightstand. “I don’t think the Tooth Fairy left it.”

  “You’ve had a gun all along?”

  “All along.”

  “Oh.”

  “I told you I had one.”

  “I thought you were just being a jerk.”

  “I was. But it was also the truth.” He ran his finger between her eyebrows to smooth out the worry line and pushed aside a strand of hair lying across her left cheek. “You never asked what I was thinking.”

  “When?”

  “In my office while you we
re sitting across the desk from me looking all prissy and disapproving. Did you ever figure out what was going through my mind?”

  Sounding prissy and disapproving, she said, “I didn’t want to know.”

  He grinned. “I was thinking about your beauty mark.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Disappointed?”

  “Surprised. I thought it would be something crude.”

  “No. I was focused on your beauty mark, thinking it looked like a speck of dark chocolate and wondering if it would melt against my tongue.” He dabbed his tongue against it now, then a second time. “Hmm. Still there. Guess I’ll just have to keep testing it.” He did once again, then moved his mouth down to hers.

  The kiss was long and languid, openmouthed and evocative, and ended only when he closed his hand around her breast. But whatever her protest would have been, it was replaced by a whimper when his fingers caressed her nipple. Even through layers of cloth it hadn’t been difficult to find.

  “I might’ve been thinking about more than just your beauty mark,” he whispered. He shifted closer, covering half of her, and used his nose to nudge aside the collar of the tracksuit jacket so he could nibble her neck, then lowered his head and nuzzled her breast, rubbing his open mouth against the hard tip, taking love bites of it through her t-shirt, pushing at it with his tongue.

  “You’d blush to know all the places my wandering mind has taken me. I’ve touched you, tasted you…” He wedged his hand down between them and cupped her sex. “…everywhere.”

  Urged by gentle pressure, her thighs parted. She adjusted her hips to his advantage. He removed his hand only long enough to slide it into her waistband, over smooth skin and lace panties, then inside them where the hair was damp, and beneath it his fingers found her pliant and wet, more honeyed than she’d been in all his daydreams.

  He slipped his thumb inside her. She arched up, inviting another stroke, and he obliged her, then he withdrew and with the slippery pad of his thumb traced small, teasing circles over the sensitive target. He kept that up, and sent two fingers deep, and God, she felt too incredible to be believed, so he tested just how good she felt by withdrawing his fingers before sliding them in again.

  Her breath caught. His thumb added pressure. Another catchy breath, another clench around his fingers. She gasped his name.

  “Wait. Don’t come yet.” He levered up and began working open the buttons of his fly.

  To his utter shock, Kerra shoved him off her, kicked away the covers, and got up. She stood beside the bed, he lay sprawled on it on his back, and for the next several seconds, they just gaped at each other, breath rushing through open mouths, she looking as startled as he by her action.

  Then he shouted, “What the fuck?”

  Kerra yanked the sides of her jacket together and zipped it over her t-shirt so the damp spot molded to her nipple wouldn’t show. “I won’t be one of your ‘fuck anythings.’”

  His eyes were blank, but when he realized what she was referring to, he got up and faced off with her. “That’s what this interruptus is about?” He flung his arm out to his side. “I only said that to make a point.”

  “Oh, so it’s not true?”

  He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. His arm dropped to his side.

  She laughed softly, but there was no humor behind it.

  He pushed his fingers up through his hair and walked a tight circle of frustration. He looked down at the bed. He looked at her breasts as though he could see the damp spot through the jacket. When his eyes lifted to hers, he said, “It’s not like that.”

  “No?”

  “No, dammit.”

  “What sets me apart, Trapper? What makes me special?”

  He copped an attitude. “I don’t know. Let’s see. Could it be your face? The silky hair I want to feel sliding across my belly? The hot body I want to finger paint? The way you move? Your voice? Name something. All I know is, ever since I laid eyes on you I’ve been one big boner.” He took a step toward her. “And forgive me for pointing out that you—”

  “Don’t.” She held up her hand, palm out. “Please don’t say something vulgar that’s going to make me angrier.”

  “Hold on. You’re angry at me?”

  “No, at myself.”

  He smoldered, all six feet four of him rocking slightly, as he waited for her to elaborate.

  “I saw how women react to you,” she said. “Furthermore, I saw how you know how they react to you. You’re everything bad-boy wrong, which makes you everything desirable, and, yes, even knowing better than to fall for the sexy charm, I did.” She gestured toward the bed. “But it wasn’t fair to you to let it go that far. I’m sorry.”

  He folded his arms over his chest and cocked his hip, which was risky since his jeans remained unbuttoned and low-slung. He squinted one eye as he looked at her. “In addition to being bad-boy wrong, etcetera, know what else I am? Smart. And I have a built-in, fool-proof manure detector, and everything you just said is pure bullshit.”

  She was about to deny it, but he overrode her.

  “You wanted me moving inside you just as much as I wanted to be. You didn’t call it off because your better judgment suddenly asserted itself or you got turned off by my alley cat ways.

  “No, you called it off because you still don’t trust me. You’re scared. You think I’m either a paranoid lunatic who dreams up conspiracy theories or an embittered son with so much pent-up rage against my famous father that I tried to kill him.”

  “That’s not true!” she exclaimed.

  “No?”

  “If I didn’t trust you, if I was still afraid of you, would I be here?”

  “Then what is it, Kerra?”

  Matching him in angry volume, she said, “I don’t know how this is going to end.”

  “This what? This quarrel? This—”

  “This whole thing. The way you laid it out last night, we’re in a precarious situation. If it’s as dangerous as you indicate, the outcome could be that we both wind up dead.”

  He dropped some of the attitude. “A valid concern. But you knew that last night. Before you made the choice to stick with me, I made it clear that if you did, you’d be taking a huge risk.”

  With my life, yes, but not with my heart.

  Those were the words in her mind, but she didn’t say them out loud.

  Simply looking at him now in his dishevelment made her mouth water. She wanted badly to put her hands on him, pull him to her, feel him inside her and appease this craving that was as wonderful as it was terrible. If she thought that having sex would fix the problem, she would do it, and happily.

  But along with the sexual yearning, she was also emotionally drawn to the man who’d had to live in the large shadow of his father.

  Trapper didn’t whine about it. He didn’t tell a sob story to elicit pity. In fact, he rebuffed anything that smacked of compassion and sadness for him. Nor did he seem jealous of The Major. Trapper didn’t vie for his father’s celebrity. He did everything he could to avoid it.

  So while he thumbed his nose at propriety and rebelled against authority, Kerra sensed that underneath the charm, and flippancy, and screw-you attitude, was a boy who’d been abandoned at age eleven. Young John Trapper had been unable to compete with the allure of fame, which his father had chosen over him.

  She knew better than to open this up to discussion, of course. Wounded animals bit the tender hand extended to them. He would hate her for perceiving and exposing the anguish he suffered day after day.

  He was in mourning, not over the loss of a dead parent, but a living one.

  If she were foolish enough to let her heart get entangled with Trapper, he would break it. That’s what she didn’t want to risk.

  They both reacted to the sudden knock on the door, but in different ways. Trapper lunged across the bed, grabbed his pistol, and made it to the window in the same wink of time that Kerra took a startled breath and slapped her hand over her jumping he
art.

  “It’s Carson.” Trapper let the curtain fall back into place, slid the chain free, and unlocked the door.

  The lawyer, whom Kerra had met the night before, came in carrying two sacks from a fast food chain in one hand. In the other he had a grip on a pair of plastic shopping bags. He took in the rumpled bed, Trapper’s open jeans, and her dishabille.

  “Is my arrival untimely?” He turned to Trapper and scowled. “I hope. I owe you about five more interruptions.”

  With no discernible self-consciousness, Trapper buttoned up his fly. “You bring us a car?”

  “Isn’t that what you ordered?”

  “What kind?”

  “You have the audacity to be particular?”

  “Well, I’d rather this one not be hot.”

  “It isn’t.” Carson turned to Kerra. “I told him I was sorry about the SUV. Ungrateful bastard never accepts an apology.”

  Her eyes met Trapper’s. “No, he doesn’t.”

  Their gazes held until the tense silence became awkward. Carson chuckled. “I believe I did walk in on a scene. I love it.” He placed the carryout food sacks on the table beneath the window and tossed the shopping bags onto the bed. “There’s everything on the list you texted me. I took a stab at your size,” he said to Kerra. “Hard to tell in that baggy get-up you’re wearing.”

  “I’m sure that whatever you got will be fine. Thank you.”

  He motioned toward the table. “Y’all eat while it’s hot. I’ll sit here.” He sat down on the end of the bed. “I gotta make this quick. The missus followed so she could drive me back to Fort Worth. She’s waiting in the car.”

  “She’s welcome to come in,” Trapper said as he divided the food.

  “No way,” Carson said. “She doesn’t like you. Says you’re rude, and bad news, and you didn’t call her bridesmaid like you promised to.”

  Kerra looked across the table at Trapper. He avoided looking back, biting into his breakfast sandwich instead.

  Carson raised both hands in front of his chest, palms out, as though warding off something. “Really, truly, Trapper, don’t go out of your way to thank me for doing your shopping. Or for the breakfast. Or for driving out across the prairie last night during a snowstorm to rescue your ass. I mean, what are friends for?”