If he thought his itchy dissatisfaction would disappear with this final decision, he was dreaming. He’d scratched until he bled for years. He could numb it a little with his old friend Jack D. He could make it fade by existing only in shadows. But it was there. Even now.
He wasn’t crawling back to his family just to make his mother happy. Still he wasn’t ready to fade entirely away. There must be something else out there.
He gunned the bike onto the highway, west toward Fallon. He could embrace the shadow later. There were shabby motels in Fallon, too. But right now maybe he’d try out being interested in something. Like a mustang sale. Like a nothing-special little firebrand who rode bulls and made him want her with an intensity he hadn’t felt in a long time. Maybe ever.
*****
“What is it?” the hoarse voice whispered through the phone.
Jason ran a handkerchief over his neck. He’d located the Tremaine kids. But most of them lived at The Breakers, the Tremaine estate. The oldest girl went to Brown, but she was home for the summer. There was only one who was vulnerable.
“Good news,” he said, trying to sound as confident as usual. “Second son has been wandering around the country, totally unprotected. He’s living off the grid. But he’s got a phone with a GPS he bought under another name. Got a hacker kid to track him. He’s in Austin, Nevada. Middle of nowhere.”
There was a short silence. He could feel her suppressed excitement. More life in her than he’d heard in a long time. Good, because that meant he was useful to her. Bad, because at this rate she’d live forever. “Then you know what to do.”
Actually, he didn’t. “You want him brought in?”
“They’re Trevellyans, even though they call themselves Tremaines. They’ll never join us.”
Oh. What she wasn’t saying was that the Clan couldn’t afford a rival faction vying for power and these Talisman things she was always on about.
“Make it look accidental,” she wheezed. “I don’t want to alert Tremaine to our presence.”
“My pleasure.” He was on his way to the middle of nowhere.
CHAPTER TWO
Tris still had to stop and ask directions to the Indian River Ranch because the GPS hadn’t registered the final dirt road. According to its website, the ranch was a holding facility for mustangs rounded up by the Bureau of Land Management to keep the horse population at a sustainable level. The horses were given veterinary care and put up for adoption.
He felt strangely light, almost outside himself and reckless. It was like coming up for air when you’d almost drowned in the ocean at night. The pain wasn’t gone, but maybe someday it would be. Anything seemed possible.
He was late to the sale. The dirt lot in front of the big barn was filled with trucks and trailers. One huge rig pulled by a big Peterbilt edged out into the road. Scruffy-looking animals were being loaded into several others. He looked around for her trailer. There it was, jammed in between the barn and a corral. He dismounted and leaned his bike on the kickstand.
The place was pretty desolate. The ever-present sage and tumbleweed stretched away toward mountains a bruised shade of purple in the distance. The high desert wind hit him, warm today at least. A maze of corrals, some with plywood windbreaks, spread out from the barn. The scent of hay and manure mingled with the smell of diesel. A group, mostly men, followed an auctioneer down the rows of corrals, listening to his rhythmic patter. The horses were shaggy and smallish with long manes and tight hooves. Some had gray, leathery scars on their hides. It figured a girl like that would be attracted to these horse delinquents.
When he didn’t see her in the clot of buyers around the auctioneer, he strode over to the metal barn. The wide doorway opened on a dim aisle. Two figures were outlined against the bright square of the open door on the far side. Tris recognized her silhouette. She wore a battered cowboy hat. A tangled bunch of halters and lead ropes hung over her shoulder. The other figure was a rangy guy past middle age with an honest-to-God handlebar mustache.
“You gonna make me wait around until you can’t sell ’em, Dillon?” He’d recognize that voice anywhere. His little brother would know right away what her singing voice was like. Maybe alto? Like there was a warm purr in there someplace she didn’t want to let out.
“You know the BLM has rules, Maggie. Everybody gets a chance to look at the stock.”
“And who’s gonna bid on the ones in the back lot except scum like Ferris? He drugs ‘em stupid to get ‘em in the trailer. He doesn’t care if they fall. Then they go for meat.”
“He ain’t allowed to buy here no more.”
“He should be in jail.” She sounded disgusted. “But that means I’ve got no competition.” She heaved the halters higher on her shoulder. “Face it. It’s me or you put ’em down. I got a long day ahead, so I’d like to get started.”
Tris could hear the guy sigh. “Go on then. I got maybe fifteen out there right now.”
Now that his eyes had grown accustomed to the dim light he saw her frown. “I can only take eight.”
“Then that’s half I don’t have to have put down. Take your pick.”
She nodded. “Fifty bucks over meat price each.” She headed out the back door.
Dillon shook his head. When he turned, he saw Tris. “What can I do you for?”
Tris didn’t know the answer to that question. “So how’s she get ’em in the trailer?”
“Damned if I know and I seen her do it twice a year for three years running.”
“Horse whisperer?”
Dillon rubbed his chin. “She don’t work nothin’ like Monty Roberts. Those horses are the meanest sons of bitches in the Calico Complex. Complex is 540,000 acres. That’s a lotta mean.”
“Might be worth watching.” Tris started after Maggie.
“Let me know if you see anything,” Dillon grumbled behind him.
If Tris were smart, he’d hang back. She might not be glad he’d followed her out to the sale. And he didn’t want to risk another reaction to her like he’d had in the diner. It wasn’t like he could help. He knew jack about horses. If Dillon was wrong and she got hurt.... A nervous irritation or something lodged at the base of his spine. He found himself clenching his jaw.
His stride extended all by itself to catch up with her. Never had been the smart Tremaine brother. That was Kemble’s territory.
She glanced over her shoulder at his approach, and the way her expression streaked through disbelief and outrage to wariness was almost funny. It kinda did something to him. More than just the shot of sensation to his groin.
She turned and strode down the aisle of corrals. “What are you doing here? Stalking?”
Tris slouched into step beside her. She had several red ribbons in her back jeans pocket. Accentuated her bottom in a way he didn’t need right now. He shoved his hands in his pockets to keep them from doing anything that would embarrass him. “I’m interested in horses,” he lied.
She actually snorted. “You wouldn’t know a mustang from a Hanoverian.”
She had him there. But he wasn’t a quitter. Hanoverian must be the kind of horse rich people bought. Probably the kind his kid sister Tammy had. “Mustangs are scruffier.”
His effort was rewarded not with a grin but a glare. She rolled her eyes. “You do realize I don’t want you here.”
Like that was going to stop him when he was finally interested in something. “Yep.”
“I can wait you out.”
“I’m good for a lot of waiting. Days, even.” He sure as hell had nothing else going.
She puffed out an angry little breath, gray-green eyes snapping. It made him want to grin, but he didn’t. “Fine. Just keep quiet and try, uh, try not to loom.”
Loom? Well, at six-four, maybe he did loom. “Deal.”
She turned and strode out past the corrals. The eight faded red and blue halters and the lead ropes that might once have been a natural cotton color looked heavy.
“You want me to take
those?”
She just glared at him.
“That would be a ‘No thank you, Tris, I’m good,’ I guess,” he said.
She glanced up, a little abashed. But she didn’t slow down.
As they came to the last of the corrals, many now empty, Tris realized that the open area ahead was enclosed with wire mesh fencing. Over at the far end, small with distance, a multicolored herd of horses milled and lipped the ground. Maggie tossed all but one of the halters and leads to the ground and opened the gate.
“Stay back and don’t move. Don’t make a sound. Understand?”
“Loud and clear.” God but she was sexy when she frowned like that. He felt that frown right down to the button fly of his jeans.
She gave a little humph and opened the gate. At the far end of the huge enclosure two of the horses, a beige one and a brown one, squealed and squared off against each other, teeth bared. She stepped inside like she didn’t notice and carefully rechained the gate. The two horses reared, hooves flailing, while the others circled nervously. She walked forward, bringing her fingers to her lips to give a piercing whistle. The two antagonists dropped their forelegs to the ground. All heads turned to the girl at the gate. He glanced to Maggie and saw her go, well, soft. That was the only way he could explain it. The prickly attitude she’d been wearing like armor just vanished. She exuded calm.
The herd, far away as they were, stared at her, not moving now. Maggie lifted her hands, palms up, and a small smile touched her lips. The beige horse who’d been fighting a moment before broke from the herd and thundered toward the gate. Maggie closed her eyes. The others followed, crashing through the sparse sagebrush. They flowed across the huge enclosure like a living stream. It was beautiful.
And then it wasn’t. Hooves churned up the sandy dirt. Flaring nostrils showed red. Tris’s pulse surged. Those hooves would be lethal. Closer. Would they trample the tiny figure standing with her hands out to them? The urge to rip open the gate and yank her to safety washed over him. Protect her….
He gritted his teeth to keep from moving. She does it twice a year. The horses closed on her. She’ll tear you limb from limb if you screw this up for her.
And you’ll never have a chance with her.
Where the hell did that come from?
The horses came on, full throttle. Twenty feet. Can’t just stand here. He lunged for the gate just as the herd broke to a trot and milled around her. He caught himself and rooted his feet to the ground. Several horses eyed him, blowing and snuffling. She hadn’t moved a muscle.
The head mustang had a scarred beige/dun hide and black mane and tail. Did you call that buckskin? Maybe. The horse reached a wary nose to her hand and blew in it. A calm smile touched her lips. Without opening her eyes, she slowly curved her hand around until she was rubbing the horse’s nose. Then she scratched with her fingernails up toward his forehead. The horse tossed his head, but only to help her scratch him. Several others nudged and poked at her and her grin grew.
How did she do that? He didn’t know. But one thing was clear. Here was a woman who knew who she was and what she wanted. Envy made him grit his teeth. She put her hand flat on the dun horse’s forehead. The horse went still. The others stopped their poking.
She crooned some song that sounded like a folk tune. The dun horse took a big breath and sighed it out. His eyes drooped shut in slow blinks. At last she lifted her hand from his forehead. They stood, face to face, staring at each other until Maggie went round to his side and held up the halter. He stuck his nose into it as though he’d been doing it his whole life. She slung the halter strap up behind his ears and fastened the buckle at this throat. Then she gave his neck a pat and led him to the gate.
“Now you can make yourself useful,” she called to Tris. “Hold Buck here for me, while I get one of his friends.” She handed Tris the lead rope. She must have seen the wary look in his eyes. “He won’t give you any trouble.”
“That was some kind of horse whispering.” He took the very end of the lead gingerly.
“Some kind,” she agreed, shrugging, and walked back into the pen.
*****
Kemble Tremaine heard his mother gasp through the open window. He jerked to his feet so fast he pushed his chair over and strode to the French doors out to the flagstone patio. She was sitting at a table made of teak weathered to silver-gray, staring out across the sloping lawn to cliffs over the Pacific. Catalina Island floated like a blue dream on the horizon. The scent of roses hung in the air. Her hair was still black, wound in an elegant chignon. Her slender shoulders were rigid under the light sweater she wore against the onshore breeze.
“What’s wrong?” he asked. That’s when he saw the tarot cards laid out in front of her. He sighed. Her latest hobby. She’d been consumed by it for months, and showed no signs of recovery. How could an otherwise brilliant and sensible woman fall for that drivel?
“Yes. Just the tarot,” his mother said in that throaty contralto that usually felt as though it was just on the edge of laughter. There was no laughter in her voice now.
He came to stand over her. The card that had the Grim Reaper on it stared up at him.
“I was casting for Tristram.”
Damn his brother. “Uh, the death card—that’s new?”
She nodded, her brow furrowed. “It isn’t necessarily death. He could be in danger.”
“Mother.…” he started to protest, but she didn’t seem to hear him. Tris was always in trouble. Had been since he was eight.
“Or there’s some transformational change in his life. Maybe he’s found himself.”
“Well, that’s not so bad then.” She meant Tris had fulfilled the destiny of the Tremaines. He’d be the first of the kids, in that case. Not likely. Kemble believed there was a Tremaine destiny. How could he not believe when he came from parents like his? But Kemble was the oldest. He’d be the first. Tris might not “find himself,” as his mother so quaintly put it, at all. His brother not only didn’t believe in the destiny, he wasn’t like the other kids. He might be right not to believe.
His mother was probably thinking that card also meant Tris would come in off the road. Kemble despaired of his brother doing anything responsible like coming back to share the load of running the family business. Though what use Tris would be he didn’t know. Kemble had a vision of grease smeared on his computer keyboard. Or worse, Tris would get the family splashed all over the front pages. That photographer had been in the hospital for weeks. If their father hadn’t bought the guy off, Tris would probably be serving ten to twenty-five by now.
His mother frowned. “You know Tris. He might refuse his gift. You know what would happen then.”
Kemble knew what his mother believed would happen. Burnt-out synapses, gibbering senility, the end of her second son as she knew him. Tris was headed that way anyway. Probably end in an overdose or alcoholic seizures that left him with dementia.
Kemble couldn’t tell his mother that, so he didn’t say anything.
His mother turned back to the cards laid out on the silvery wood. “Paired with the five of pentacles, it could mean … sickness?” She ran her fingertips lightly over a card with two people sitting outside a church with stained glass windows. She looked up at him. Her china-blue eyes made her look fragile, an impression that was false. “You’ve been tracking him, haven’t you?”
Kemble hated to admit that to her. She’d be pestering him constantly. He saw the familiar, stubborn look come into those eyes. He blew out a breath. “Trying, sometimes.”
His mother rose from the table and strode down the terrace to the French doors into his office. “Well, then, let’s have a look. If he’s sick, he’s going to need me.”
Kemble trailed after her. Damn. She stood by his toppled desk chair, looking expectant. He picked it up and sat down at his keyboard. Before he accessed the window he used to track Tris, he paused, fingers hovering.
“He’s not coming home, Mother,” he said without looking at h
er. “He’s … he’s on a hard road and it doesn’t lead back here.”
“I know.” Her voice got softer. “I just want to know he’s okay. He calls his shop once in a while. I hear about it from Drew. But we haven’t heard a peep from him in months.”
“He bought a cell phone for cash and put it under another name. That’s how much he doesn’t want to be found. The only reason he doesn’t use a disposable is that he likes all the bells and whistles.”
“But you did find him.” His mother smiled proudly.
Kemble sighed, keyed in the access code. “He needs a phony ID to work when he can’t find a job that takes bartered services or pays cash under the table. I know where you get those. And he hooked that alias to the phone.” He flipped to credit card charges but knew he wouldn’t find anything. He checked the phone records. No calls. GPS said he’d been in Nevada somewhere. He accessed a website about horses, of all things. Early today. Odd. Then immediately the GPS registered inactive. Account cancelled? Unless something happened to the phone along with Tris. He wasn’t going to tell his mother that, either. “He was in Nevada when he cut off the phone.” He said it without looking at her. He didn’t want to see her expression. “That was my only way to track him.”
“Can’t you find him some other way?”
“He’s beyond me now. Beyond you too,” he said quietly.
She turned back out to the patio, but not before he saw the tears glistening in her eyes. Back to her damned cards.
Maybe it was better if Tris was dead. Maybe then his mother could move on.
*****
“Okay, Dillon,” Maggie called. Dillon and another man in front of the barn turned toward her. She led two mustangs. The guy who’d called himself Tris led the other two behind her. At least he was good for something besides making her wet. The guy knew zilch about horses. “Here’s for the lot.” She pulled the check out of her shirt pocket. “I’ll be back for the four in the corrals marked with the red ribbons tonight.”
01 Do You Believe in Magic - The Children of Merlin Page 2
