And then it hit Bren like a hoof to the head. This was never about wanting the colt and his mother for slaughter; Wes wanted to make a point. He controlled the sale barn, both he and Lyle. And together they controlled her, since a fair amount of her rescues came from auction.
Kill buying was only pocket change for Wes. He only did it for recreation, which irritated Bren more than if he were doing it to eke out a living. His moneymaker was the Clear Spring Horsemen's Club, where the affluent came to play. Since Bren and anyone she knew were working class, Wes's world was a distant planet and inaccessible.
The gavel came down and the words "gone" reverberated up to the peak of the barn. Finn pumped his little arm in celebration, his cheering section whooped and hollered, and Bren's blood boiled in her veins.
"Why, you jackass," she seethed and started in Wes's direction.
Wes stood and moved toward the rail. His ruddy complexion deepened, and his cheeks puffed with indignation. "You pull another stunt like last month, and I'll see your ass in jail, girl." He pointed his thick, blunt finger her way.
Bren, still in the chute, moved to the left where Wes stood, her body pressed up against the rail, their faces inches apart. "Screw you."
Wes reached out to grab Bren, and she jumped back. The broodmare to her left reared hard, the rope snapping from the rail.
To her right, a dark form came at Bren, jumping the rail and knocking her to the ground. She rolled with it. The air popped from her lungs and she struggled to breathe.
Strong arms held her in place. "Don't move," the stranger ordered in a deep male voice she didn't recognize.
Bren looked up. The broodmare snorted and kicked after being cornered by one of Lyle's men. Another pulled on its rope, leading the mare out of the chute. A third man snagged the colt's lead, walking him around behind the mare.
Wes still clenched the rail. "Damn fool."
Bren tried to wrestle free to get to Wes, but the arms around her tightened, and her captor whispered against her ear, "Relax, honey."
Bren didn't miss the drawl in his voice.
She squirmed. "I'm not your—"
"You don't need to thank me, darlin'."
He was mocking her, which made her blood run hot. His arms remained wrapped around her waist, his muscular biceps pillowing her breast. Strong, jean-clad legs held her legs between his, and she was on the verge of hyperventilating.
"Get off me!" She pulled hard against his hold.
He opened his hands wide, and she tumbled out of his grasp, her face scant inches from the mix of dirt, straw, and manure on the barn floor.
"Jerk," she mumbled before grabbing the first pair of hands, only to find Robert Connelly hoisting her up. Tall and blond and wearing a well-tailored navy suit, there was no denying the successful accountant he'd become. Too bad for him he'd returned to Clear Spring, leaving the Baltimore firm to run his father's books.
"Hey, Bren." Robert's eyes, a light shade of sympathetic blue, met hers through a pair of gold wire-framed glasses.
Slightly embarrassed by her show of bravado earlier, and the fact it was directed at his father, her cheeks warmed. "Thanks, but I'm the enemy, remember?"
"Don't remind me." He turned her around and dusted her back. "You hurt anywhere?"
She tossed her head back. "No. He took all the shock."
Robert nodded to the stranger.
Him, she did not recognize. Although something about him, his eyes maybe, looked familiar. Dark, lean, dressed in jeans and a white button-down, shirttails out, he sat on the barn floor, a Stetson lying next to him. His unshaven face and short, dark hair gave him an ill-tempered appearance as he scowled at her through a pair of hooded eyes.
No one had asked for his help. She had everything under control. So if he was expecting her to shower him with gratitude, he could suck wind because it wasn't going to happen.
Robert glared at his father and released her. "What's going on here?" He glanced at Finn. "You bid against a boy for his colt? What the hell is wrong with you?" Robert placed his hands on his hips, pushing the tails of his suit jacket behind his back.
"Lighten up, Robert. I was just having a little fun. The boy has his horse." Wes's usual commanding voice quavered. The only time he ever squirmed was under the penetrating gaze of his son.
The role reversal was one Bren enjoyed.
Having been dictated to as a child, including his choice of friends and those Wes ordered he stay away from, Robert hadn't had much contact with Bren through the years. She'd seen him infrequently over the past several months, to his father's ire. But judging by the interaction of father and son tonight, it was the son's ire Wes should have feared. He stood to lose more than an accountant.
Robert lifted his fine-planed face to Lyle. "What was the final?"
"Thousand fifty."
Robert whistled through his teeth and gave his dad a look of disgust. He turned to Lyle. "What are they worth?" Then he added, "Don't snow me."
Lyle shrugged. "Three."
Robert reached for his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. He opened it and counted three crisp hundred-dollar bills and gave his dad another look. "You're an ass." He handed Finn the cash.
Finn hesitated.
"It's okay, son," Robert said. "Go ahead and pay the auctioneer."
Robert looked back toward a petite blonde, very pretty, dressed in a light-charcoal designer suit and black heels. Clear Spring was a small town, and news traveled fast. Bren bet this was his fiancee, Susan Hewitt.
"Ready, sweetheart?" he asked. Susan nodded. Robert looked down his nose at his father. "It's late."
Understanding Robert's meaning, Wes straightened off the rail, but he waited until Robert was out of earshot before he leaned over toward Bren. "Keep it up, girl, and you'll end up—" He locked onto something to the right and gave Bren a tight smile. "Don't start trouble for me with my son." The edge to his voice menacing, he turned his back and walked away.
The crowd parted, and Bren cringed when Kevin, dressed in street clothes, pressed forward.
Now she was in trouble.
He eyed her. "I don't need your take. I saw it from the stands."
"But he threatened me."
Wes glanced back grinning and kissed the air with mocked sincerity.
Bren pointed at him. "He—"
"Give it a rest." He nodded to the stranger, still in a sitting position with his legs drawn up, hands resting on his kneecaps. "Nice save." Kevin reached out and pulled him to his feet.
"Not with her." The stranger nodded in Bren's direction and dusted off his jeans.
"Bren." Kevin waved a negligent hand her way and frowned. "Don't get me started."
The man bent down and picked up a black felt cowboy hat, then placed it on his head.
"Nice Stetson. Where you from?" Kevin asked.
"Texas."
"Visiting?"
"No. Looking for land."
"Not enough in Texas?"
"Branching out." The stranger cocked his head. "Third degree?"
Kevin laughed. "No." He reached out and extended his hand. "The name's Kevin Bendix. I'm the sheriff. I guess it's my nature to ask questions."
The stranger shook his hand. "Rafe Langston—rancher."
Bren gave them her back and checked the bleachers, looking for Aiden and Finn. Finding them with Jeremy, she took a step in that direction.
"Hey." Kevin grabbed her arm. "Hold on. I need to talk to you."
Bren's shoulders slumped, and she glanced over at him. "Kind of busy here, Kev. Unless it's about Sweet Prince, you're going to have to wait." He'd had two weeks since Christmas to dig into the most recent horse death.
"Bren," he warned.
"Okay. How about later?" She nodded toward Aiden and Finn in the crowd. "I need to get them home."
"Fine." He motioned with his hand. "I'll be by tomorrow morning."
Wonderful. He would read her the riot act. Except he forgot one thing—Wes had instigated thi
s one.
Bren took a step in the direction of the bleachers but hesitated. To the right of her the cowboy remained. Leaning against the rail, a slow smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, and he followed her with his eyes.
Her cheeks warmed.
Jerk.
Chapter Four
Bren shivered against the patchwork quilt and pulled her legs up tight to her chest. Why was it so cold? She couldn't afford to come down with the flu. There was too much work that needed to be done and money to be raised.
The nightstand rumbled, and Bren glanced at the clock: three seventeen in the morning. Screw him. She'd taken in three abuse cases yesterday, mucked out stables, and taken a ride on her horse Smiley toward the back forty to mend a hole in the fence. She was tired and in no mood to play his game tonight. Bren ignored her cell phone and pulled the quilt over her head. Get the message, asshole. I'm not picking up. She smiled when silence greeted her back.
The nightstand rumbled a second time. Bren popped her head out for air, and shot her hand out. The phone glowed a serene blue with Tom's name bold and dark against the bright screen. The bastard knew what he was doing. She was beginning to associate anger and fear with Tom. And that pissed her off. She flipped open the phone and hung up on him, refusing to listen to his insidious breathing on the other end.
This had been the fifth call since the sale barn incident almost a week ago. For all the notifications she'd given Kevin, he still couldn't locate the phone or the caller through what he called triangulation. Seemed the phone needed to be on longer for that to happen.
Keeping the phone in her hand, Bren grabbed the quilt and wrapped it around her. Her bare feet hit the hardwood floor, the quilt dragging behind her like a cape. She checked the windows in the spare bedroom where she'd taken up residence. They were locked. Then why did she wake up on the tip of Antarctica? Whatever the reason, it would have to wait because she had to pee.
Bren entered the hall. She hit the light switch and stepped onto the cold tiles of the hall bathroom and almost wet her pants when she found herself still standing in darkness.
"What the hell?"
Did the light blow? Bren gathered up the quilt and fumbled in the dark until she hit the light switch in the hall—nothing.
Son of a bitch!
Seriously? One of the coldest nights in January. Standing in front of the thermostat, she tried to read the temperature. Frustrated, she lit the box with the blue glow of her cell phone, fifty-seven degrees. Bren's head fell, and she struck the wall with her palm.
My life sucks. Sucks, sucks, sucks!
Gripping her cell phone, she flew downstairs to the kitchen, headed for the drawer next to the dishwasher where she kept the utility bills. Moonlight spilled in over the shutters above the sink, filling the kitchen with a dim, eerie glow. Rifling through the drawer, she snagged a bill, still sealed, and started to rip it open. The side porch creaked and Bren's hand stilled. She held her breath.
Relax. It's only the wind.
She slipped her finger under the envelope flap, peeked, and frowned. The porch creaked louder. Her heart held tight in her chest, and she slid her eyes from the window above the sink to the side door. The haze of a flashlight bolted right, then left, like a dizzy firefly. Bren jumped back, hiding around the corner of the broom closet, clenching her phone and the bill in her hand.
Her chest constricted. The boys. She was all they had, and the only defense against whoever was outside the door. She ripped the quilt from her shoulders, casting it to the floor, and rounded the broom closet. Easing the drawer open where she kept her skillets, she snatched the handle of the cast iron and headed toward the door.
Bren focused on the doorknob. Her heart skipped when it shook. He wasn't going to get the jump on her. Surprise would be her leverage. She turned the lock and grabbed for the knob. The door swung open, and she lunged forward, the skillet raised above her head.
"Lord in heaven!" he bellowed. "You gone round the bend, girl?"
Her shoulders relaxed, and she let the pan down to her side. "Shh. You'll wake the boys."
Bren's father stood several paces back, his face wide with surprise against the glow of the moon filtering under the covered porch. He brought the flashlight up and angled it dead center on her face.
She squinted against the bright light and waved an irritated hand toward the flashlight. "Turn that thing off," she hissed.
"You have lights?"
Shit. If she didn't have electricity, her father didn't, either. She laid the pan on the counter and stepped back, shielding her face—from what was it, the intrusive light or her father's questioning eyes?
Another failure.
"No, Dad. We're on the same electric bill."
Daniel lit the floor of the kitchen with the flashlight and stepped in wearing his winter coat and flannel pajamas with his furry slippers. "Is that all you're going to say on the matter, Bren?" She didn't miss the rancor in his voice.
Bren ignored the question, grabbed the teakettle, and filled it. She reached above the stove and felt for the lighter in the cabinet. She turned the burner on. The pungent odor of gas filled her nostrils, and she flicked her Bic, admiring the orange-and-blue flame coming to life.
"Tea?" She glanced over her shoulder.
Daniel slid a chair out from the table and sat. He scratched his head, his body slumping back against the wooden spindles. "Come out with it."
Bren faced him. Leaning against the counter, she sighed. "I'm sorry. I thought I was handling everything." She gave a weak smile. "Until I woke up freezing my ass off."
"Did you forget to mail it?"
She frowned. "The bill?"
"Hell yes, the bill. Did you forget?"
"I wish." She'd gotten a peek at the contents of the envelope before she'd been distracted with her prowler.
"Bren, you're not funny. Stop this nonsense and tell me what's going on."
The teakettle let out a hiss, and she turned the burner off. Bren poured the steaming water into two cups and dropped a tea bag in each one, then set them on the table. "Sugar?" she asked as she grabbed the sugar bowl off the counter.
Her father nodded.
Sitting across the table, she moved the sugar bowl toward him and handed over the turn-off notice. "We're broke."
His eyes widened. "I'm serious."
"So am I, Dad." Her face fell forward into her hands, and she shook her head and moaned, "I'm a loser, Dad. A big fat zero."
Daniel muttered something and tossed the notice on the table. He pulled at her arm. "Nonsense. I didn't raise losers. You're having a tough time of it. That's all."
Bren lifted her head. "Tell that to Bernie."
"Bernie? The bank manager?"
"One in the same." She sat straight up. "It's not just the electric bill. Tom and I struggled every month to make the mortgage. I'm not good with budgets like he was. I owe Bernie, the bank, close to five K by the twenty-fifth of this month."
"Twenty-fifth. That's two weeks away. How much you have saved?"
Bren shook her head. "Half."
"Twenty-five hundred?"
Bren nodded.
"Savings?"
"None."
"Why the devil didn't you tell me?"
"I didn't want to worry you. I thought I could handle it. It's my problem."
"I'll not listen to this talk. It's our problem." Bren's father tossed his glasses down on her kitchen table. "I guess you think you created this recession all by yourself?"
"No. But—"
He put up a hand. "Just tell me what old Bernie suggests we do about it." She frowned. "You're not going to like it. I don't like it."
"Try me."
"Subdivide."
He fell back against his chair and rubbed his temples. "Lord, heaven, saints preserve us." He sat up. "He's not serious?"
"It was a suggestion. Kind of like a preventive measure. I... we can continue to struggle, but eventually the bank will foreclose."
&nb
sp; Daniel tapped his finger to his lips. "He's right. How much do we owe total?"
"Close to five-twenty-five."
"That much?"
"We refinanced a few years ago, remember?"
"All I know is I signed some papers."
"I told you what—"
"I know. It just slipped my mind. At the time I was dealing with your mother's illness."
"I don't want to break up our land, Dad."
"I don't want to be homeless."
There was that, too.
Her father's brows met over his nose, and he placed his glasses back on. "You'd get more with the house."
"Your house? The house Kate and I grew up in?" She leaned over the table. "I can't. I won't—"
"You will. It's just a house."
"But Mom... her memories."
Her father put a hand over his heart. "They're here, Bren."
Yes they were, but, still, she loved her childhood home. Unfortunately for Bren, her sentiments ran to objects, as well—the house being one of them, her old bedroom part of it. he kitchen where her family had sat down to dinner every night when she was a child.
Mom was dead. Her sister Kate was married—married to an asshole who kept her under lock and key. Tom... Tom she couldn't think about. And Bren was left with her father, whom she was disappointing in a major way. He would never say it. That was her dad. He felt it—had to feel it—but would never consider putting it into words. Failure seemed to follow Bren like a dark shadow.
She grabbed her father's hand. "I'm sorry, Dad."
"It's not your fault, sweetheart."
"What about Kate?"
"She should know. Regardless, I don't think she's in a position to offer a solution."
"Will you come with me to talk to Bernie?"
"Of course." He squeezed her hand.
Being tossed off their land wasn't an option. Losing a part of Grace would have to be.
By the next morning Bren and her father had spoken with Bernie. They signed the paperwork and arranged the auction for the first of February. But now, two weeks later, she was angry all over again.
Bren swung her dark blue pickup into the parking lot across from the Washington County courthouse steps. She'd meant to be on time. Not that she could stop the proceedings today. But walking into this thing with her eyes open, she wanted to know who would end up with a cool hundred acres and one farmhouse below market.
Relentless (Fallon Sisters Trilogy: Book #1) Page 6
