Relentless (Fallon Sisters Trilogy: Book #1)

by P. J. O'Dwyer

  Bren's every nerve ending tingled, and that voice inside screamed for her to hotfoot it out of there. But there was something about him, a familiarity she couldn't quite place. "I should go." Bren motioned toward the entryway of the kitchen. "Enjoy the house, Mr. Langston."

  He leaned in over the counter. "Mr. Langston's my father. My name is Rafe."

  "Fine, Rafe."

  He came around the counter. Leaning against the edge, he crossed his arms. "Can I call you Bren?"

  Bren nodded. "Sure. We're neighbors now. We share a common driveway. You might want to think about purchasing a tractor with a bucket. It's still winter, and February in Washington County is heavy snowfall season."

  "Don't see much snow in Texas."

  "No?"

  "Nope. Too warm."

  Definitely too warm. Bren inched back toward the cabinet behind her.

  "I'm sorry about your husband."

  "Thanks." Not at all what she expected him to say. Nor did she expect the way it made her feel. He seemed to genuinely care that it was upsetting to her. "I heard Bernie's crack. I'm not unpredictable. Bernie forgot to mention my husband was murdered."

  "What's the sheriff doing about it?"

  "Kevin? Not a damn thing. He believes Tom's death was an accident, just like everyone else in this narrow-minded town."

  "How do you know it wasn't?"

  The one-year anniversary of Tom's death had come and gone. She'd given up sharing her theory with anyone. She knew the truth. But for the first time in a long while someone actually wanted to talk to her about it.

  "This is probably upsetting for you. It was insensitive for me to ask. I'm sorry."

  "Are you kidding? I could talk about it until lack of breath. That's the problem. No one takes me seriously. Tom knew his way around a barn. He didn't wrap himself up in the pulley system and say a Hail Mary and jump out the hayloft."

  "Hayloft?"

  "It's complicated." Bren reached in her pocket and grabbed her hair tie and pulled her hair up into a loose bun. She pointed in the direction of the front door. "I could show you. It's the red barn as you come in. Right before you get to my house."

  He remained quiet, the expression for a split second in his eyes hard, almost angry, and then it disappeared.

  Jeez, Bren. You sound so needy. Rafe Langston would have no interest in helping her sort out Tom's death.

  This guy probably thought she was a total fruitcake. Self-consciously she brought her hand down, nervously scratched the back of her head, and let her hand waft down to her side. "You're not interested. It was silly, anyway. I just thought... you seemed..."

  He pushed off from the counter. "How about I take you home? I didn't see your truck when I pulled up. It's getting dark."

  He was just like everyone else. She fisted her hands. And here she'd thought he might be different.

  "I'm perfectly capable..."

  He stepped forward. His green eyes smiled at her while he reached back to grab his jacket. "Are there lights in this barn?"

  Chapter Six

  Bren had the prettiest ass Rafe had seen in a long time. He guessed running a farm kept her in shape. "Why are you stopping?" he asked, coming to a halt on the ladder up to the hayloft.

  Bren looked down from above him, her dark red hair softly cascading from her bun.

  There was no way he could say "no" to recreating Tom's last hours. The sadness lurking in her brown eyes when she'd asked pained him. But just as quick, her expression changed to one of eagerness at the prospect someone, even a stranger, could take her assertions seriously.

  Except he'd been so preoccupied with checking her out. Her slender shoulders swallowed by the rough barn coat left open to reveal the soft curve of her breasts beneath her black turtleneck and tiny waist. He'd hesitated. Then that look about her eyes changed to one of embarrassment, and he'd wanted to kick himself for his stupidity.

  "The flashlight," she said. "I need to find the light."

  Shit. He was doing it again, totally lost in her big brown eyes. "Oh. Right." Rafe reached behind into his jean pocket and grabbed the flashlight he had taken from his truck. Handing it of to her, she lit up the loft and disappeared over the ladder. He followed, lifting his leg over the edge, and eased himself up to a standing position.

  She pulled a long string hanging down from the rafters. A single lightbulb popped on. She turned off the flashlight and frowned at him. "Rafe. I want to apologize for my behavior this morning, and the time before that."

  "Before?"

  "The sale barn."

  "When you almost got knocked on your ass." I wasn't—

  He held up a hand. "I know, you had it all under control."

  Her mouth snapped shut, and she turned away and walked toward the back wall. "When I found Tom, I was outside below the pulley system. I came up here, hoping to lower him down." Her shoulders dipped. "But he was too heavy for me."

  She remained quiet for a moment, her eyes hardened. "Tom is, was, all farm boy, Rafe. This wasn't an accident."

  Rafe examined the thick braided rope tied of securely by a winch against the wall. He moved toward the loft doors and opened them. They were at least three stories up. "How'd you find him?"

  "There was rope everywhere wrapped around his body. Part of it was around his neck. He strangled to death."

  Rafe glanced back and frowned.

  "Tom knew his way around a barn." She crossed her arms, her brows knitting together.

  Rafe shut the hayloft doors. "I believe you knew your husband."

  Bren slumped up against the wall. "Then you believe me."

  "I'd say there are questions that need to be answered."

  Bren slid down onto a hay bale and pressed her head back against the wall. Her eyes closed, and her slender nose flared as she took a deep breath. "That's all I really wanted. Someone to take me seriously."

  Rafe sat down on the floor next to her, his back against the barn wall, and patted her leg. "I'm not a cop. I'm a cowboy. I ride. I rope. And I'll take up a fight for an underdog in a minute. From where I'm sitting, you're the underdog, Bren. If you want, I'll help you sort this out. But I'm going to be a little tied up with moving in and looking into buying some cows."

  Bren opened her eyes, looked at him, and laughed. "You really are from Texas."

  He grinned. "Yes, ma'am. Born and bred."

  "So why Maryland? Don't they have cows in Texas?"

  "They do. The Langstons raise only beef cattle—Black Angus as far back as I can remember. Let's just say my daddy's not a fan of milking cows for a living."

  Bren leaned forward and placed her elbows on her knees, her chin in her palms. "I understand. My sister Kate... she's not into horses. She didn't mind riding them, but she couldn't wait to leave the farm. She's a trial lawyer and lives on the eastern shore." Her eyes dimmed, and she frowned. "I miss her. A lot." Her gaze hardened. "But she married a control freak. One who monitors her every move. Last I heard, we—the farm and all its occupants—were off-limits."

  Definitely a story there. Rafe cocked his head. "What about your parents?"

  "Just my dad, now. My mom died of cancer a few years ago."

  "I'm sorry, Bren."

  She shrugged. "I'm okay with her passing. When someone you love's in that kind of pain, it's mercy." She pulled at a piece of hay from the bale she sat on. "Not real happy with Tom's passing, though." She hung her head down and twirled the hay between her fingers.

  He'd never found the kind of love Bren and Tom obviously had. Hell, he probably wouldn't know love if it bit him in the ass. Now, lust he was all too familiar with. And for all involved it would be best to remember, this one was off-limits. The problem was he had a thing for redheads. And Bren Ryan's hair shimmered against the light in the barn. Silky smooth and the damnedest color red he'd ever seen, almost a dark cherry, a flattering contrast to her alabaster skin and the natural flush of her cheeks. Even the dark, long crescent of her lashes seemed natural.

  "S
o tell me about your boys."

  Bren lifted her head. Her expression brightened. "Aiden. He's fifteen, every bit the teenager. He looks like Tom. It's been hard on him. He and his father meshed well together. He and I, not so much."

  "And Finn?"

  Bren touched the puzzle pin attached to her coat and smiled. "Finn's my baby. Sweet and a lovey. He's seven."

  "It's hard for a boy, almost a man like Aiden, to deal with his feelings. I've been there. He's not a boy anymore, but there are times he wants to be, but that would be a sign of weakness. So he walks around with a chip on his shoulder."

  "Tell me about it. Only thing is, Mom's the bad guy. It's my fault his dog died in the spring. It's my fault his father died in the winter."

  "Did you kill his dog?" Rafe sent her a sideways glance.

  "No!" Bren pushed him hard in the shoulder, rocking Rafe's body to the side. "Not on purpose." Her voice softened.

  "But you had something to do with the dog's demise?" Rafe raised a brow.

  "Okay." She leaned forward conspiratorially. "You might not be a cop, but you're damn good at interrogation. If you must know, he was in the truck with me when I got out to get the mail. I forgot to shut the door."

  Rafe laughed. "So you really did kill his dog."

  Bren scrunched up her face. "Ha. Ha."

  "Maybe Aiden needs a new dog. His dog. His responsibility. Keep him out of trouble."

  "I'll take it under advisement. But right now I need to get a handle on my life before I can begin to tackle the puppy stage."

  Rafe snatched a piece of hay for himself and began to chew on the end. "So tell me. What's between you and Wes Connelly?"

  "The Fallons—my maiden name, and the Ryans—that would be Tom and his dad, have always been enemies with the Connellys. We're like oil and water. But Wes is the greasy bastard. He's a kill buyer."

  Rafe put up a hand. "Say no more. They're in Texas, too."

  She swept her arm up and looked around them. "As the name suggests, Grace Equine Sanctuary is in direct contrast to Wes's outfit. And don't let the name fool you. Sweet Creek Stables should have been named Bitter Creek."

  "He sounds like a real ass."

  "Yep. Not just an ass. He killed Tom."

  Rafe leaned in. "Come again?"

  "Wes killed Tom. I'd stake my life on it. He had motive. We've been enemies since forever."

  "So you don't get along. Is that a reason to kill someone?"

  She tensed and averted her eyes for a moment—definitely more to the story. He'd asked the question. Now he hoped the answer, if she gave one, was the truth and not a watered-down version.

  After all, he couldn't help if he didn't have all the facts.

  The taillights of Rafe's black pickup blurred in the distance, the small cloud of dust settling. Another set of headlights snaked up the driveway in the opposite direction, flashing intermittently as they passed the wide, sturdy trunks of oaks leading up to the house. It was time to get into mom mode. As usual, Bren was more concerned with proving Wes guilty of murder than fixing dinner. Confiding in a stranger about the days prior to Tom's death, the implication—if there was any—of the recent horse deaths, Finn's colt, and the missing stock horses at Sweet Creek took precedence.

  The old white pickup came to a stop next to her, and her father popped open his door. "There's my girl."

  Aiden hopped out from the passenger side, and Finn slipped out behind him.

  "Who was that?" Aiden shot his mother a curious look, his brown eyes unsmiling.

  "Our new neighbor."

  Her father jerked around. "We heard in town you let your Irish temper get the best of you."

  Bren smiled. "He gave me a reason, and I jumped on it."

  "More like swung and missed." His blue eyes twinkled against the glow of the porch lights. "Who's this Langston fellow? Are we going to get along?"

  Bren nodded. "Time will tell. But he's interested in my theory." She avoided mentioning Tom's name because of her boys.

  Her father picked up on her meaning. His eyes turned to flint. "Let it go, girl. No good will come of it." He leaned in against her cheek. "Think of your boys."

  Bren pulled back, ready to argue her point. Finn's sad eyes and Aiden's angry words almost a month ago invaded her thoughts. She bit down on her lower lip and swallowed, the comeback moving down her throat.

  "I don't suppose you thought of dinner?" His eyebrows rose.

  Maybe she needed to rethink living under the same roof as her father.

  Finn grabbed Bren's hand. "I'm starving, Mom. I haven't eaten since lunch."

  She frowned at her father, and then gave Finn a hopeful smile. "How about blueberry pancakes? It's your favorite."

  "Yay! Can you make the smiley faces with the blueberries?"

  Aiden moaned. "You're such a baby."

  Finn stuck out his tongue at Aiden. "Shut up."

  "Make me, squirt."

  "That's enough," Daniel said. "You two get inside and set the table. I want to talk to your mother about her day."

  Aiden pulled Finn's knit cap off and ran toward the steps, and Finn fol­lowed, bellowing after him.

  The sturdy hand of her father squeezed her shoulder. "Tell me about this Langston fellow and how he stole one hundred prime acres and my house, then."

  Bren laughed. "Looks like the gossip mill didn't give you all the facts. Rafe Langston paid five hundred thousand."

  Her father's mouth dropped open. "You can't be serious! Then we're almost paid up?"

  "Yep."

  He scratched his head under his wool cap. "Why would this Langston fellow pay more than it's worth?"

  "I certainly didn't ask." She held up her thumb and pointer finger, leaving just a little space between the two. "We were this close to rubbing fannies with Wes."

  "Oh, grand. Wes Connelly on Grace land? I guess I should thank this Langston after all."

  Bren laced her arm around her father's. "Let's just take it on faith things are turning around for the better."

  She walked with her father to the house, all the while planning her next move where Wes was concerned. Opening up to a stranger had been a huge gamble. But other than Rafe Langston, who else did she have? Even her father was not an avid supporter of her need to know the truth.

  But Bren wasn't foolish enough to tell Rafe everything. Tom's phone would remain her secret for now. Maybe she was reaching. But she knew nothing about the self-proclaimed cowboy, except she liked looking at him. The dark, moody expression that lined his face and his striking green eyes did weird things to her insides she hadn't felt in a long while.

  Rafe Langston, tall and lean and broad, invaded her mind. There was a story riding beneath that tough-guy sex appeal. But those thoughts made her uncomfortable. She had only lusted after one man, and she'd married him—till death do us part.

  She'd get close to Rafe—close, as in learn all there was to know about the Texas rancher. Somehow she didn't think the only reason he'd moved to Maryland was because he and his daddy didn't agree on the type of cows they raised.

  Bren winced—milk cows on Grace land. If Tom were alive, he'd be giving her holy hell.

  Chapter Seven

  Hey, Miss Bren."

  Bren turned. Johnny Grayson smiled that crooked smile of his and sauntered up the aisle of the barn with two chestnut horses in tow. A volunteer at Grace since Bren had been a child, he was moving up in years but refused to give into his age.

  "How do their hooves look?" she asked him.

  "I'd say they're in need of trimming."

  She'd already picked up on the gelding's gait. It was off. But the mare seemed to be sound.

  "I'll take a look." Bren bent down, her hand gentle, gliding down the mare's knee. She didn't have to examine the entire front right hoof. It was long in the outside toe.

  Bren came to her feet and smiled. "You're right." She patted him on his shoulder. "The farrier's working outside this morning since it's mild."

  "We'r
e on our way, Miss Bren." He gave her a wink and clucked his tongue, moving past.

  "Johnny."

  "Yes, ma'am?"

  "If you see Jenny out front, can you have her meet me in the office in ten minutes? I need her help inventorying the vaccinations and dewormer."

  "Sure thing, Miss Bren."

  The three plodded by, brushed by Jo, several stalls up, who was unpacking medicine she'd brought from the clinic.

  Bren went back to measuring out the feed for stalls eight and eleven when something wet and warm nudged her shoulder.

  Love for the culprit spread through her, and she laughed at his tactics to gain her attention. She scratched behind the ear of the old Appaloosa she'd named Smiley. He'd stolen her heart at the age of twelve, and she had spoiled him ever since.

  "You know I love you, boy, but you're not the only one who needs attention. You're going to have to wait for that apple until I'm done."

  Grace teetered at the limit of rescues they could accommodate. At capacity they could house, feed, and rehabilitate fifteen horses. They were already at twelve.

  "Jo, did Jeremy give you the antibiotic for Whisper?" Bren hollered down the row of stalls in the barn as she mixed the feed with what she had left of the antibiotic on hand.

  Something clattered against a stall, and Bren swung around.

  "Jo?"

  Bren moved down the aisle, her work boots silent against the compact, sweet-smelling earth of the barn floor. She stopped and picked up Jo's cane in front of Daisy's stall.

  The chestnut draft horse, all three thousand pounds of her, was positioned in the back of the stall with Jo pushing up against her, attempting to stay upright while she filled the draft's grain bucket. Of all the breeds Jo could be manhandling, she'd picked one that stood and weighed twice as much as an average horse.

  Bren shook her head. "If you fall, she's liable to trample you."

  Jo stopped, her shapely black brows creasing with consternation. "Don't treat me like a gimp, Bren." The usual airy voice of Jo Breakstone hardened, and Bren was reminded that Jo, before the shooting that had ended her career with the DEA, could run like a gazelle, scale fences with the agility of a track star, and kick the ass of any drug dealer she brought down.