The Wicked Horse Boxed Set (The Wicked Horse Series)

by Sawyer Bennett

  Rand shakes his head and stands from the table. I get a flash of the golden skin covered in coarse hair on his thigh with rippling muscle, and for the first time, I notice scars on his right knee.

  “Wasn’t the first time I injured that knee. I competed in the 2006 Games when I was nineteen. Took a bad spill on my first run on the Super G. Knocked me out completely. So I had surgery to repair the damage and built myself up for the 2010 Games. Luckily, my knee held strong and I picked up a few medals along the way.”

  I stand up from the table as well, taking my plate and following Rand to the kitchen sink. Before he can start to rinse his own, I take it from his hands and say, “I’ll clean up. You go get ready for work.”

  Our fingers touch as he gives up the plate and I swear I can feel the touch down to my toes. So innocent yet so powerful. When Rand turns toward his bedroom, I can’t help but ask, “You don’t seem all that bitter about losing out on those opportunities.”

  He turns to me with a wide grin. “Yeah, well, I guess I choose to focus on the successes I had while I was competing. And I always knew it was a fleeting career that could be cut short at any time. It’s too dangerous and was bound to happen anyway.”

  “Do you still ski?” I ask, even more curious about this man.

  He nods. “Sure I do… for pleasure only. And I don’t get crazy or anything. You stick around when the snow starts falling and I’ll take you out. You ski?”

  I shake my head. “Never been.”

  “Then we’ll have to do it,” he says, and it almost makes me believe he means that. As if he expects me to be sticking around long enough to see the snow. Granted, the weather is getting colder and there have even been some scattered flurries, so it won’t be long, but I have no clue where I’ll be come wintertime.

  In fact, I know absolutely nothing and it scares the shit out of me.

  “I don’t even know your last name,” I murmur, pathetically aware that I know Rand is an Olympic medalist, but I don’t know something as intimate as his complete name. I’ve let this man fuck me and I’ve sucked his cock, but I have no clue what his last name is. That makes me feel small and filthy.

  “Bishop,” he says softly, his head tilted to the side. “Rand Bishop. It’s a pleasure to formally meet you, Cat Vaughn.”

  Shaking my head, I correct him. “Lyons.”

  “Lyons?”

  “My maiden name. It’s Lyons. I’d prefer not to have Samuel’s last name attached to me anymore.”

  He nods with an understanding smile. “Cat Lyons. There’s a redundant name for you, right?”

  The small laugh that pops out of my mouth is unbidden and feels strange. It makes me realize I haven’t had a genuine laugh in quite some time.

  Without another word, Rand turns toward his bedroom and shuts the door behind him. I’ve seen him naked many times, but it doesn’t feel weird for him to seek privacy to get dressed either. I use the opportunity to riffle through my bags where I find a pair of clean underwear, a bra, and a pair of jeans, as well as a lightweight cashmere sweater. Standing up with the items in my hand, I take two steps toward the bathroom, and then change my mind. If I’m going to see the attorney who has this supposed will that kicked me out of my home, I need to look more like the wife of a dead billionaire.

  I go back through my clothes, choosing a black wool pantsuit with flared legs and double-notched collar on the jacket. Grabbing a pale blue silk blouse to wear underneath, I leave my black Louboutins in the duffle bag. I’ll grab those before leaving.

  In the bathroom, I’m momentarily shocked by my reflection in the mirror. My hair is a disaster, and I look like a raccoon with the mascara ringing my eyes. I have to laugh at myself. A silent laugh that I’d dare let anyone see me looking so wretched. Samuel always demanded I appear my best, even insisting I attend to my beauty ritual before I came downstairs to the kitchen for a morning cup of coffee. This meant shower, shave, full-blown makeup, and artful hair designs, as well as my designer clothing with the appropriate accessorized jewelry in place. It was the only way I was allowed in his presence.

  I take a moment to appreciate that I just sat through breakfast with Rand, probably looking my worst, and yet not once did he even seem to notice. In fact, several times when he gazed at me, I could see that look in his eyes that he liked what he saw. I didn’t miss the hard-on he was sporting either. I wanted to do something about that, yet for some reason, it seemed important to Rand that I not feel beholden, and it was equally as important to me that it not feel like a job. He knew that about me even before I did, and I appreciate it more than he’ll ever know.

  Sadly, my beauty ritual takes an extraordinarily long time. While I think I have a great body and amazing bone structure, it still takes a lot of work to apply the perfect makeup and dry my thick hair before curling or flat ironing it to get the crazy frizz out. By the time I’m polished and groomed, stepping out of the bathroom in a mild cloud of designer perfume Samuel gave me last Christmas, the apartment is silent and empty but for me.

  My eyes drop to my purse on the table, taking in the white note sitting on top. I grab it and read, squinting and even stumbling over Rand’s messy scrawl. I think it says:

  Cat,

  After you get a copy of the will from the attorney, come see me at the shop, Westward Ink. It’s at the corner of Cache and Pearl. I want to see what it says.

  Rand

  Several things about this note hit me at once.

  Rand works at a tattoo shop? By the name alone, it could be a print shop, but I know it’s a tattoo shop because I’ve walked by it several times. It sits right in the heart of town, just a few blocks off the main square. Whenever Samuel brought me to Jackson so he could get his rocks off by watching me in The Silo, I’d have plenty of free time in which I was desperate to escape the house and proximity to his cold, leering eyes. So I wandered around Jackson and came to know a great deal about all the shops here.

  I’m having a hard time wrapping my mind around this. Does Rand run the tattoo shop? Or does he just work there? And why? How come he doesn’t work in the ski industry, which is absolutely booming around here in the snow months?

  The other thing that hits me—almost with a warm, tingly sensation in my belly—is that he wants to see the will. That means his interest is deeper than just letting me crash on his couch, and the warm, tingly sensation flares a bit. I can’t remember the last time someone took care of me or wanted to see me safe and secure. In fact, outside of the initial illusions Samuel gave me when we first got married—that he was my salvation, ha!—there’s never been another person in my life who worried about my welfare.

  I’m inherently distrustful nowadays, especially after Samuel roped me into a sham marriage and abused me in every way possible. This was only fortified when I was kicked out of the Jackson home and turned out in the street.

  It would be very easy for me to suspect Rand’s motivations, yet for the life of me, I can’t help but believe he’s a genuine person. As such, after I visit the attorney, I intend to visit him at his shop and let him read the will with me.

  Chapter 3

  Rand

  I got into work right at ten, which is what time the doors are supposed to open at Westward Ink. I’m not a tattoo artist. My reasons for working here are varied, in no particular order, and really don’t define who I am.

  After getting knocked out of competitive skiing two years ago, I decided to make Jackson my permanent home. I’d spent a great deal of time here, skiing the double-black diamond slopes as part of my training. I liked the locals and the atmosphere. I also liked the powder that was always in abundant supply. In addition, Jake Gearhart, one of my closest friends, made this his permanent home and opened up a ski shop, so I figured… why the fuck not? This was as good a place as any to settle down.

  What I did not want to do was work in or around the ski industry. It’s not from sour apples or bitterness over my injuries and the early end to my career. I wasn’t lyi
ng to Cat this morning. I choose to glory in the fact that I had a great career while it lasted. She didn’t ask about it, but there’s more to competitive skiing than just winning races. And I’m really talking about endorsement deals and sponsorships. Like I said before, I could afford much bigger and better than the tiny apartment where I live as I made a fuck of a lot of money during my heyday. But I don’t need more, so my money is banked, along with my gold and silver medals, in a secure lockbox. I spend my money if I want something, and I still buy my mom Louis Vuitton and my dad expensive cigars.

  Most of my early training was done on the East Coast, as I’m a native Vermonter. I attended prep school with Jake at the famous Carrabassett Valley, which is a private alpine skiing, snowboarding, and freestyle academy that has produced many Olympic and World Cup champions. It sits at the base of Sugarloaf and I cut my teeth there, but after I turned eighteen, I moved to Park City, Utah to train with the U.S. Ski Team. In between training for competitions and recovery of my injuries, I lived a great deal of time in places like Tahoe and Jackson where I’d spend weeks, sometimes months, working my way back up to championship level.

  I met my buddy and Westward Ink owner, Pish Malden, here in Jackson when I got my first ink during one of my numerous stays in the area. He was someone I’d grown close to over the years. After I moved into the apartment above Jake’s garage, Pish and I were casually talking one day as he was working on some ink on my arm and he ended up offering me a job. Not as a tattoo artist, mind you, but really just helping to run the shop to start out. I also took a part-time job bartending at The Wicked Horse last year, which then earned me a one-way ticket to my role as a Fantasy Maker at The Silo, but I’m content helping Pish out here for now. It keeps me busy and I like busy.

  While I’m not a tattoo artist, I am an artist of sorts. In fact, in my late teens, my parents were proud to see I excelled at two things. Skiing and drawing. I had mad skills at both. But they gently pushed me toward skiing, since honestly, there was just more opportunity there. So I became a competitive alpine skier who drew and painted in my spare time. When Pish learned this about me, he would often take some of my doodles and designs and put them in his tattoo template book. So yeah… I might not actually do the ink, but there are many people who walk around with one of my designs on their bodies.

  Pish offered to teach me how to tattoo, but I’m just not interested. For one, it takes a long time to get good at it and, honestly, I don’t know what I want to do with my life. I’m pretty sure it’s not working at a tattoo shop forever. Besides, I end up spending a lot of time at The Silo and I’m not interested in working more hours at Westward. So Pish settled on me being sort of a manager of the shop, coordinating schedules of the other artists and keeping things running smoothly. I’m in charge of opening every day except on weekends.

  In his spare time, he taught me how to do piercings. That isn’t hard at all and while Pish did my tongue, I’m proud to say I did my own nose and eyebrow. So if someone walks in and wants a piercing and the other artists are busy, I can do that in a pinch.

  Right now, however, the shop is dead. Pish is off today and the other artist, Josh, is finishing up a small piece at his station. He’ll head out to a late lunch after, and I’ll hang here until he gets back to handle any walk-ins. I’m scheduled to work all day today, but if it’s really slow in the afternoon, Pish won’t care if I take off a bit early.

  About every five minutes, I’ve been looking at the front glass windows and door of the shop that look out over Pearl Street, expecting Cat to come walking in any moment. It’s nearly two and I haven’t heard a word from her. I don’t even have her fucking phone number as it wasn’t something I thought to get before I rushed out this morning. I just assume she saw my note, got dressed, and went to the attorney’s office. Frankly, I expected it to take no more than a few minutes to obtain a copy and then she would come to the shop. I thought she’d be here a long time ago, and I’m wondering if she packed her stuff up and left.

  It’s a possibility I’m not liking at all.

  I hear Josh’s southern twang as he walks out of his cubicle. He’s a transplanted southerner who came out this way about ten years ago to work at Yellowstone and never left. Josh is giving his customer post-care instructions, and then he’s walking out the door to lunch while I handle the payment. Just as I’m counting out change, the front door opens with the clang of a large cowbell, and I see Cat walking in.

  She’s a stunning vision of elegant wealth. It’s how I know she probably dressed most days of her married life to Samuel—in designer clothes and expensive jewelry. I’ve never seen her this way because whenever Samuel brought to her The Silo, she was dressed in leather, vinyl, or hardly anything at all. It didn’t really matter what she wore through the doors, she was usually naked not long after that. Looking at her now as she walks toward me with a large, black purse slung over her shoulder and her sunglasses perched on top of her head, I’m having a hard time even imagining that this woman and I have ever fucked. Or done some of the really fucking dirty stuff we’ve done together. It’s almost surreal.

  She waits patiently while I finish with the customer, her arms casually folded in front of her and looking at some of the design options framed on the wall. Once the dude leaves complete with his bandaged biceps because he had barbed wire inked around his pale, skinny arms, Cat turns to me.

  “Did you get the will?” I ask.

  She reaches into her purse with a grimace. “That asshole attorney made me wait for almost two hours.”

  Cat pulls the thick document out. It is folded into thirds. She opens it as she steps up to the counter.

  I walk out from behind and ask, “Why did you have to wait so long?”

  She practically growls when she says, “I was being given the run around. At first, his secretary said he wasn’t in, but I told her that was fine. I didn’t really need to see him, just needed a copy of my late husband’s will. Then she admitted he was in and would need to approve it, but was in a meeting and I’d have to wait. When he finally came out to the lobby, a fucking hour and a half later, he admitted he didn’t have a signed copy on him. Just an unsigned copy that Kevin had given him.”

  I come to stand beside Cat at the counter as she flattens the thick document out before us. Before she starts to read, she flips to the last few pages and sure enough, there are no signatures there.

  “If it’s not signed, then it has no power, right?” I ask.

  “Supposedly, but the attorney said the signed copy’s in Vegas.”

  “And he never asked to get a signed copy before forcing you out?”

  Cat shrugs. “Guess not.”

  We stand beside each other, our shoulders touching, and lean over the document. It’s long and cumbersome, but within the first few paragraphs, we see the offending language.

  I, Samuel P. Vaughn, being of sound mind and body, do hereby will, devise, and bequeath my entire estate, including all real and personal property, in equal shares, to my sons Kevin Vaughn and Richard Vaughn, share and share alike.

  The next few paragraphs direct what do with his property if his sons predecease him, including distribution to his grandchildren as apparently, his younger son Richard has two kids. The real kick in the teeth is the next paragraph that states:

  I specifically make no provision for my wife, Catherine Lyons Vaughn, in this Last Will and Testament, other than her clothing and other personal effects accumulated throughout our marriage as well as any jewelry I have bought her through the course of said marriage.

  Cat makes a sound of disgust low in her throat and flips through the rest of the thick document. We can’t see any other provisions that really apply to her and again, the last few pages are conspicuously bare of signatures.

  “This document means nothing,” I say as I stand straight and turn to face her. “Without signatures.”

  “Agreed,” Cat says with loathing. “I’m thinking about calling Richard who lives in Vegas.
Even though he’s the youngest, he’s the more ‘reasonable’ of the two brothers.”

  “Where’s Kevin?” I ask.

  “I think at the Jackson house. That’s what the attorney said when he kicked me out. That I had to vacate because Kevin was coming to stay.”

  “So he essentially told you to leave your own home without having a valid copy of a document giving him the power to do so, probably only on the word of Kevin Vaughn telling him one had been signed?”

  “Pretty much,” Cat admits.

  “Yeah, that doesn’t fucking work for me,” I mutter as I grab the will off the counter and fold it back up. Handing it to her, I say, “Listen… you really need to hire an attorney. That’s the best thing you can do at this point.”

  Cat shakes her head, grim resignation evident. “I can’t do that, Rand. I just don’t have the money it would take. Maybe if I could get a job, I could save up or something.”

  Well, fuck. She’s between a rock and a hard place.

  Ordinarily, I’d see the damsel in distress, particularly one as lovely and alluring as Cat, and I’d step in to save the day. Jake teases me mercilessly because I have this inherent need to nurture, care for, and develop others. Not sure where that comes from, but it’s something I can take to the excess sometimes.

  I should offer to loan Cat the money to hire an attorney, or maybe take it upon myself to do that. But I don’t make those offers because, frankly, I don’t think Cat would accept. She seems to have the art of “stubborn pride” down to a science if the fight over her sleeping on the couch is any indication.

  Besides, there is something I could do that’s more behind the scenes.

  “You should feel free to go hang back at my apartment, or whatever,” I say as I lean my elbow on the counter. “I’ve got about another hour here and then I’m heading over to The Silo. If you don’t have any objections, I’m going to talk to Bridger about this and get his take on it.”