Master of Solitude (Mountain Masters & Dark Haven Book 8)

by Cherise Sinclair

  “No clue. Just wanted them scared enough to drop the tire iron and leave.” He put his hand on Att’s shoulder, pulled out his phone for a light so he could assess the damage, and reconsidered. It wouldn’t be wise to give the assholes a well-lit target. “How bad are you hurt?”

  Att swiped a hand over his mouth and spat. “Caught some punches. No major damage.” He used Sawyer’s hand to pull himself to his feet, groaned, and pressed an arm to his side.

  “Busted ribs?”

  “Or cracked.” Att straightened slowly.

  “You’re fucking lucky they didn’t split your skull open.”

  “Oh, they tried, believe me.”

  Jesus. Sawyer turned on the phone Att had bought him last week.

  “What’re you doing?”

  “Calling the cops.”

  Att laughed and winced. “No need, bro. Station’s across the street. We’ll walk over, and I’ll report it.”

  “You don’t want them rounded up fast?”

  “Can’t. I can’t ID who attacked me—they wore ski masks.” Atticus sighed. “I have no doubt it was the Aryan Hammers. Their new head honcho, Animal, got in my face the first week he was here. Slash was his cousin.”

  Atticus had killed Slash.

  “No shit.” Fury still snarling in his veins, Sawyer fought the urge to chase down the bastards. The law sure as fuck wasn’t going to be any help.

  Trouble was, he wasn’t in any shape to battle gangbangers. Dammit. As Sawyer walked beside his brother, the image of the tire iron hitting Att kept flashing like a strobe light in his brain. His teeth ground together. If Sawyer had arrived a minute later, Att would’ve been dead, his brains splattered over the pavement.

  Dammit, his brother should still be safely on the police force in Idaho, near the family ranch. He shouldn’t be targeted by a gang known for its savagery.

  All my fault. He should’ve gotten more help for his PTSD. Instead, he’d fallen asleep in a car, killed his best friend, and been sentenced to prison.

  Att had abandoned everything and moved to California to support Sawyer. Damn idiot over-protective big brother. Hell, when their abusive stepfather had whipped them, Att would take the blows directed at his mother or siblings.

  Sawyer wouldn’t have made it to adulthood without Atticus.

  As Att stumbled on the boardwalk and cursed, Sawyer gripped his brother’s upper arm to steady him. “Easy, bro. Not much farther.”

  The Aryan Hammers wouldn’t back off. The violent white supremacists were out for revenge—and to restore their damaged reputation. They couldn’t afford to let Att live.

  Sawyer’s mouth tightened. He’d have to postpone his plans to find a city job. Until Atticus was safe, Bear Flat had just gotten itself another resident.

  Chapter Two

  ‡

  Biting into a German pastry from Friede’s bakery, Mallory McCabe ambled down the boardwalk, enjoying the sights and sounds of her small mountain town. Could any place in the world be more beautiful? With a nineteenth-century boardwalk, mining-town storefronts, and antique hanging signs, Bear Flat was a picturesque delight. Wooden barrels spaced along the railed boardwalk overflowed with bright orange marigolds and nasturtiums.

  As the sun dropped behind the dark mountain peaks, the air was finally cooling. Such a relief. She’d spent the day running back and forth between two of her construction sites—and the early August weather had been exceedingly hot and dry. Her all-male crew often stripped off their shirts to keep cool. As a female—and their boss—she couldn’t exactly do the same.

  Life could be so unfair at times.

  On this Saturday, Main Street was filled with activity. Some people, like her, were finishing up their weekend errands. Others, especially the tourists, were starting their evening early.

  With a quick side-step, Mallory dodged a young man who was already drunk as a skunk. Thrown off his stride, the guy thumped into the boardwalk railing, apologized politely to the post, and staggered on.

  Jeering at the young man, two skinheads swaggered across the street.

  Mallory slowed to avoid intersecting them. One had horrible racist tattoos everywhere. They both had dark…ugly…auras. A shudder ran up her spine.

  Crossing the street, Mrs. Jenkins and Holly Simmons gave the skinheads a wide berth—and glares.

  When the prison closed two weeks ago, some gangs had left. She hadn’t seen the Crips in the last few days. However, Virgil Masterson, her neighbor who was a police detective, was worried the gangs with profitable drug distribution networks would stay.

  Trailing after her mother, Holly’s teenage daughter, Jasmine, turned her blue-eyed gaze on the skinheads…and smiled.

  Now that wasn’t good. How easily youngsters could be fooled by a macho façade, not perceiving the brutal nature beneath.

  Noticing Jasmine’s flirting, Holly took her daughter’s arm and tugged her away quickly.

  Mallory frowned. Drugs and violence had followed the gangs like winter followed autumn. Just last weekend, her other neighbor Atticus Ware had been attacked.

  Surely there was something that could be done—that she could do. As frustration surged, she shook her head.

  Stop. She knew better than to let events dictate her emotions. She was the one who decided how she would feel. Her childhood teacher in the commune would have been disappointed in her.

  Pausing, Mallory collected herself, settled herself. Years ago, her instructor had taught her how to shift her focus to the shimmering light around each person—and to note how the clear colors of bighearted people far out-numbered the cruel ones. Peace swept through her at the reminder, and she continued on her way.

  Half a block down, an aura outside the bookstore caught her attention. The beautiful golden color indicated a person who was charming, gregarious, artistic, and generous. Rebecca Hunt.

  Smiling in delight, Mallory crossed the street toward the artist. Becca and her husband owned a wilderness lodge. When Mallory had remodeled the lodge’s second floor, they’d become friends.

  “Hey, Becca. Where’s my favorite baby?”

  “Hi, girl. Logan took Ansel so I could grab some reading material.” Tall, lushly curved, and redheaded, Becca tucked an arm around Mallory for a quick squeeze before holding up a stack of paperback books. “Look at what Mrs. Reed has on sale.”

  Mallory glanced at the paperbacks and tried not to react, but…

  “Your face!” Becca sputtered a laugh. “Haven’t you ever seen a BDSM romance before?”

  “Ah, I read mostly fantasy, and I don’t think Aragorn is into bondage.”

  Becca blinked. “Oh, wow. Roleplaying The Lord of the Rings? How fun would that be? Especially with those horse lords. What was the bossy one’s name?”

  “Éomer?” What was roleplaying?

  “Yes, him. Maybe he finds a pretty elf maiden on his lands and gets upset. Mmm. Yes, your rider of Rohan would get very upset with a trespasser. Plus, he has rope.”

  Mallory choked. “You can’t turn Éomer into some pervert.”

  “Not a pervert, honey. Just a cranky, bossy, fighting man with a really big…sword.”

  The vision of Éomer getting all sexual and…bossy…made Mallory flush. What would he do with the rope? Maybe it would be fun to find a horse lord. A bossy one. “You’re so twisted. Now, I’m going to have Éomer fantasies every time I read Tolkien.”

  Becca laughed. “Mal, you wouldn’t have to daydream about him if you came to the BDSM parties here.”

  Mallory would have accused Rebecca of corrupting their little town, except the Hunt brothers’ kinky parties had been a well-known “secret” long before the city girl had arrived. “I don’t think so.”

  Sure Mallory had indulged in a few fantasies about kinky stuff. Even so, attending a BDSM party was a whole different box of tools. “I’m not much of a party girl.”

  “No? How come?”

  Mallory laughed, although a trickle of wistfulness ran through her. �
�Get real, Becca. I’m quiet. No flash, no witty conversation.”

  “You’re not shy, though.” Becca studied her for a minute. “Although I’ve never heard you mention a guy. When’s the last time you had a date?”

  “It’s been a while. Bear Flat is pretty small.” Interesting, intelligent, kind men weren’t plentiful here—let alone powerful, confident ones. And a real hero? He wouldn’t even notice her.

  She wasn’t ugly, just…average. Her green eyes were pretty enough, but her face was a bit too long for beauty. Her hair was plain—long, straight, and brown. Working construction meant she rarely wore makeup or sexy attire.

  Becca linked arms with her as they strolled down the boardwalk. “Hmm. Well, what about that cowboy in front of Vanessa’s Antiques? He’s cute.”

  Cute? So not her turn-on and never had been, even during her teenage years. Mallory followed Becca’s gaze. “Oh, Eddie Nilsson.” His orange aura said he was intelligent. Unfortunately, a brownish tinge revealed his laziness, as well. “When there’s trouble on his ranch, he sends his hands out while he stays warm in bed.”

  “A slug, huh? Forget him, then. You can do much better.”

  Mallory rather doubted it. “I think my standards might be too high. My mom raised me on children’s fantasy books—like Narnia—full of strong, save-the-damsel champions. I grew up wanting a hero, and I don’t think they exist.”

  “Well, actually, they do,” Becca said thoughtfully. “I married one, after all. And what about how Atticus rescued Gin after the prison break? And there’s also his brother Sawyer.”

  The prison break had ended in a ghastly bloodbath. “You’re right. I guess even Wyatt and Morgan Masterson deserve hero labels.” Too bad she considered them the same as family.

  “Exactly.”

  As they passed Eddie Nilsson, he glanced at Mallory, dismissed her, and gave Becca a long, appreciative stare with a wink.

  Once past him, Mallory snorted. “See? Guys don’t think of me as female.” She glanced down at her attire and grinned. Jeans, blue short-sleeved work shirt, and boots. “You think it might be the work boots?”

  “More like they’re terrified of a female whose favorite toy is a power tool.” Laughing, Becca steered them around a cluster of teenagers. “Now, listen to Mama Becca. You’re an attractive woman, and the right guy is out there. When you do spot a hero, stop being all quiet and grab him.”

  Mallory broke out laughing. “You’re talking to the wrong woman. I don’t even know how to flirt.”

  “That is just so wrong.” Becca pursed her lips. “Fine. If you can’t manage to talk to him, screw his brains out instead. The rest will follow.”

  “You… I always think of you as so proper, then you say stuff like that.”

  Becca smirked and shoved a book into Mallory’s hands. “While you’re searching, give this story a try. It’s super hot. And now, I need to go claim my champion.” She hurried over to where Logan strolled with their son in his arms.

  Yes, Logan Hunt was a walking, talking figure of a superman. Tall and muscular, hard-faced, gravel-voiced. Scary…but also an adorable softy with his one-year-old son. Becca was a lucky woman. Of course, Logan was pretty lucky, too. The two were incredible together.

  That’s what Mallory wanted—a strong, confident, protective man like Becca had.

  Mallory sure didn’t want to end up with losers like those her mother had found. Mom had been a sculptor, a Wiccan, seeing only the good in people—and far too trusting. Like aphids on broccoli, weak men had overrun her mother. “Hey, Evelyn, got a few bucks to tide me over till payday?” “Evelyn, I got turned out of my place. S’okay if I crash here for a while?” Financially and emotionally, Mom had supported boyfriend after boyfriend—and been dumped the minute each was stable.

  Mallory shook her head. Despite her intelligence, her mother had a blind spot when it came to men. Look how her high school boyfriend had fled upon learning she was pregnant.

  Of course, Gramps hadn’t helped matters by losing his temper. After the blow-up, Mom had run off to a San Francisco commune and stayed away for over a decade…right up until she’d learned she had hepatitis. Back then, it was often a death sentence, and Mom had wanted more family for eleven-year-old Mallory than the transient commune members. For the five years until Mom died, Mallory had spent every summer with Gramps and Gramma.

  At eleven, Mallory had barely understood the light she saw around each person. The strength and protectiveness in Gramps’s aura had been a revelation.

  She wanted a man like Gramps…like Logan. Sadly, men like them didn’t chase after women like her. If she followed Becca’s orders, would a man notice her? “Screw his brains out.”

  Oh, please. Her friend was crazy.

  Grinning, Mallory glanced at the book Becca had given her.

  And choked. The woman on the cover was naked. Rope was twined around her wrists, her arms pulled up over her head.

  Flushing, Mallory shoved the book into her purse before anyone could see what she held. She glanced back at the little bookstore. Obviously, she’d been browsing the wrong shelves.

  *

  A short time later, finished with errands, Mallory drove her pickup up her winding mountain road. As the tall evergreens cast shadows over the darkening road, loneliness trickled through her.

  Seeing Becca had reminded her of Serena and Missy, her besties who’d moved to San Francisco earlier in the summer. When she’d spoken to them last night, she’d realized they loved living in the city—and weren’t coming back. She had other friends, but she missed the ones she’d had for years.

  And she was returning to a dark, empty house…because Gramps had died last year.

  She sighed. Her life wasn’t the same without him in it. The aching grief she’d anticipated, but not how often a missing sound or habit would stab at her heart. There was no longer a hoarse, raspy laugh in response to the cat’s antics. There were no grumbles before a cup of coffee had cheered Gramps up. After work, she’d automatically check the cookie jar…and it hurt to see the container still full.

  Her first summer in Bear Flat, he’d taught her how to hammer nails, saw boards, and…had taken the place of her nonexistent father.

  Why did you have to die, Gramps? She pined for him the way a person longed for sunshine at winter’s end. Only with death, the warmth was gone forever.

  She wished he hadn’t fretted so much about her before he’d passed on. He’d been proud she’d taken over his construction company, but he’d also wanted her to have the joy of sharing her life with someone.

  Yes, Gramps, it would be nice to have a husband and children. To have someone to laugh—and grumble—with. Someone to cuddle her during the long snowy winters and to point out the first daffodils in spring.

  But she didn’t see a loving relationship in her future.

  The last man she’d dated hadn’t lasted a month. She’d overheard him tell a friend, “She’s nice—and as boring as watching paint dry. I want to get smashed on weekends; she wants to garden. To hell with that.”

  Slowing for a curve, she huffed a laugh. Life was a balance, now wasn’t it? Maybe she wasn’t flashy, but she had plenty of friends. She loved her work—and loved making her clients happy. She liked who she was and wasn’t about to twist herself up, trying to look all eye-catchingly feminine.

  However…

  She grinned, thinking of Becca’s advice. “…screw his brains out.” Considering she’d turn thirty in a couple of months, she was quite old enough for a fling, right?

  Missy and Serena occasionally indulged in one-night stands they half regretted and half boasted about. “I knew it wouldn’t go anywhere, but he was just too hot to ignore,” Serena had said on the phone last week. “Oooh, girl, the sex was worth it.”

  What would a one-night stand be like?

  Sex wasn’t something she obsessed about. She did just fine with her own hand. Although she could climax if a man was talented with his fingers or mouth, it
seemed a lot of effort for a mild orgasm. Especially since she took so long. Guys could pump a few times and be done. And boy, when they were finished, they were finished.

  Each of her three lovers had been a friend first—and each had returned to being a friend after the fleeting romance. Steamy sex? It just wasn’t in her DNA.

  Would a one-night stand be different since she’d know she’d never see the man again? Would it be more exciting?

  Hmm.

  Mallory slowed the truck for the next sharp curve. Deer browsing at twilight would often dash across the road unexpectedly. As the road straightened, she spotted a couple of cars pulled off on the turnout.

  Trunk open, one vehicle was jacked up with a tire off—and looked like young Zoe Larson’s car. The teenager had just gotten her license last month. She might need help—or a ride home.

  Mallory braked, parked in front of the jacked up car, and hopped out.

  No one was working on the flat tire.

  The encroaching forest stood in ominous darkness. As Mallory turned in a circle, trying to spot someone, uneasiness sent a shiver up her spine—and kept her from calling out. Instead, she reached into the door’s side compartment for her heavy, foot-long flashlight.

  As she walked to the other side of the cars—away from the road, a shimmer caught her attention. The flash of a bluish aura was gone too quickly to read. No, wait. Someone was upslope where the forest’s shadows reigned. Squinting, she caught a glimpse of a shiny yellow fabric.

  A man’s low voice came from there.

  Mallory hesitated. Was she interrupting a hot interlude? Well, too bad. Even if she embarrassed everyone, at least she’d know Zoe was all right.

  Moving closer, she saw a man. Tall and beefy. In his early twenties. His chin-length hair was oily and tangled. Piercings studded his lips and nose—and his murky aura was ugly.

  Zoe faced him, her yellow shirt half off.

  Saying something too low to hear, the man shoved the girl against a tree trunk and slapped her. Slapped her.

  Anger surged in Mallory, and she dashed toward them. “You bastard. Get away from her!”