High-Stakes Loving [King's Bluff, Wyoming 2] (Siren Publishing Ménage Amour)

by Fiona Archer

  “Neither of us knows a damn thing about gardening,” Quinn muttered.

  “No, but Reagan does. She’d make it a veritable Garden of Eden. Plant veggies, maybe some flowers in pots and hang them on the porches.”

  If she was around.

  Quinn grabbed another log and then lined it up, conscious the whole time of Mike standing there silent and watchful.

  Crack.

  “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong or do I have to resort to twenty questions?” Mike asked.

  “What are you talking about?” He looked Mike in the face, saw the hard set of his jaw.

  Christ on a stick, this wasn’t going to end pretty.

  “Yesterday we had an agreed mission—apologize for being assholes and hope she didn’t turn us away when we asked if she still wanted a future together. Check. Kidnap her. Check. Gain a confession on what happened at the diner, followed up with a night of claiming our sub. Check. And check.” Mike ticked each point off on his fingers.

  But he was just getting started. “Now, everything’s turned on its head. You’ve backed away from Reagan like she’s just confessed to being a fan of One Direction.”

  Quinn blinked. “Who the fuck’s One Direction?”

  “I’ll tell the teenage girls at the Youth Café to fill you in. It will be a blast, trust me.” Mike dragged a hand through his hair, leaving deep ridges. “Listen, something happened to you when we claimed Reagan. You had some kind of fucked up epiphany. And then this morning you try to impersonate Paul Bunyan and chop a cord of wood before lunch time.” He folded his arms across his chest. “Let’s cut the bullshit. Do you love Reagan?”

  Crazy as it sounded, this was the first time they’d actually mentioned the words “love” and “Reagan” in the same sentence.

  Slowly, carefully, Quinn rested the tip of the ax blade in the stump. He moved over to the porch steps and for the first time in hours, sat. The muscles in his back and shoulders ached, proof of how hard he’d driven himself this morning.

  Clasping his hands in front of him, he gazed over at his friend, the one man he would ever consider calling a brother.

  “Yes, I do.” He shrugged, his sweat-stained T-shirt sticking to his back under the movement. “I think I’ve been falling in love with her from the first meeting.”

  She had stood behind that library counter, a blush sweeping over her face, unable to look away. And he’d known that he had to claim the little cutie. Make her theirs.

  Mike walked over to sit beside him. He didn’t speak, just stared ahead of him.

  Seconds ticked out, scratching at Quinn’s patience. “Say something for Christ’s sake.”

  “I told Reagan I’m falling in love with her. Spelled it out nice and clear so there’s no ambiguity, including the fact I want her to live with us.”

  Quinn could only stare. Mr. Admit-his-feelings-only-under-torture had told Reagan he loved her? “And her reply?”

  “She feels the same.” A faint smile graced Mike’s face. “And she’s nervous as hell. Doesn’t know how we’ll work out the logistics but she’s willing to test things out on a more permanent basis.”

  Quinn’s body felt lighter, his muscles no longer aching. Joy pumped through his veins, sending his heart beating faster. There it was. The sign they’d been waiting for.

  “Did she say anything about me?” He groaned, rubbing his hands over his face. “Jesus, forget that, I sound like a fucking teenager.”

  Mike chuckled and punched him in the shoulder, a tad harder than justified in his opinion. Judging by the spark in Mike’s eyes, it wasn’t by accident.

  “She did, in fact, ask where you stood on the matter. I told her I guessed along the same lines as me but that she needed to ask you herself.”

  “I don’t have a problem telling her how I feel. I love her. I want to tell her.”

  “What’s stopping you?”

  Here goes nothing. “Think about it. What if we do find, according to the evidence available, that her dad is guilty?”

  Mike shrugged. “Then that’s how it rolls. We can only do what she hired us to do. Try to prove her father’s innocence. If we can’t do that conclusively, then we’re left with whatever the facts show.”

  “Exactly.” He pointed a finger, stabbing into the air. “The facts will show the story regardless of emotions and loyalty. And as much as I want to see things her way, value her memories and experiences, it won’t change the evidence, whichever way it leads. We could end up as the bastards that destroy her father’s reputation. How much do you think she’d love us then?”

  Mike sighed. “Why are you automatically assuming we’ll find her father guilty? All those sterling character references help. They give us reasons to search harder, deeper, for other scenarios.”

  That’s right. Make him the bad cop. “I’m not saying he’s guilty. Everything so far is circumstantial. Hell, I’ll dig as deep as I can, but you can’t deny it’s not looking good for Sam Edwards.” Impatience hardened his tone. “We’re approaching this differently. You’ve softened your view because of Reagan. I’m trying to stay focused, professional.”

  “You’re talking out of your ass.” Mike scowled at Quinn, his voice harsh. “No, let me clarify my point. You’re talking out of your twelve-year-old-boy ass.”

  Quinn jumped up and then moved off the stairs to glare at his accuser. “What the fuck does that mean?”

  Mike rose with an almost tired air and then walked down the three steps to stand in front of him.

  “This isn’t about Reagan or her father, or anything to do with this current investigation. It’s about Sherri. What happened to her has poisoned your viewpoint and this current investigation.”

  Quinn stepped forward, crossing that invisible line between two men’s personal space. “You leave my sister out of this.” Each word formed a fist of barbed wire, shredding his insides, leaving him bloody and raw.

  Mike stared back, ignoring Quinn’s crowding tactics. “Why should I when it’s stopping you from moving on and seeing things clearly?”

  Oh, now that was too much.

  Quinn fisted the front of Mike’s T-shirt, dragging the man up close. “Moving on? You’ve got the balls to lecture me about moving on. The man who for the last nine months hasn’t been able to accept the fact he’s no longer a SEAL?” Harsh but true. “I gave you space, probably too much of it. But I didn’t want to push too hard too soon. Well here’s your own lesson in tough love. Your inability to accept you’re no longer a sniper has stood in the way of you being fully committed to our business.”

  He shoved his friend away, took a step back, then another. He was close, so fucking close, to slamming his fist into Mike’s jaw.

  And the bastard just stood there. Calm as could be.

  “You’re wrong.” Mike held up a hand as Quinn opened his mouth. “Not about me struggling with my discharge from the SEALs. You’re wrong about why I’m not committed to the business.” He jammed his hands in the back pockets of his jeans and rested his weight on his good leg, his right bent at the knee. His whole demeanor said contemplative, not combative.

  “Everything’s changed for me. No more chasing a target down an alley. Bastard would outrun me. Sure, you never rubbed that in my face, but that doesn’t change the fact my contribution is limited.” His smile seemed rueful. “Man, I can’t watch from the sidelines. That fucking kills me.” Mike shrugged. “I need to find something different from my previous life.”

  Jesus, he should have known. At least guessed. The too-hot air that had threatened to burn the lining of his chest slowly deflated out of his body. “You want to sell your stake in the business?”

  Mike shook his head. “No, I’m thinking I’d stay on as silent partner. And our split of earnings would reflect that.”

  So he wasn’t leaving. Not entirely. The fact comforted him. “What will you do?”

  “I’m intrigued by Flynn’s suggestion of working with the kids at the Youth Café. He and I have
talked some since my visit last week.” Mike wore a sheepish expression. “Within two hours of your arrival home from Seattle, we were at Reagan’s front door. That didn’t leave us much time to catch up on anything more than our plans for her.”

  True. So he shouldn’t act an ass and beat up on Flynn. It was just such a shock. “Obviously the experience at the café struck a chord with you. When do you think you’ll start?”

  “There’s no hurry. My investments provide a good income. I won’t starve. Flynn’s looking to spend more time working with Noah on their plans for growing the town. He’ll need someone at the café in his place. So the mentor thing might stretch into something else. It’s one of the options we’ve discussed.”

  Mike could try to play it cool all he liked, but there was no hiding the spark of excitement that flared in his eyes. He wanted this.

  And after watching his friend struggle so hard with the reality of his new life, that was enough reassurance for Quinn. “If this is what fires your belly, then you need to grab it with both hands.”

  “It leaves you shorthanded. I can—”

  “We’ll sort that shit out later.” He held out his hand. “I’m happy for you, brother.”

  Mike grabbed his hand, giving it a hearty shake. Slinging his free arm around Quinn’s shoulders, he slapped him on the back.

  When they broke apart, a wary light had entered Mike’s gaze. Shit. Quinn braced himself.

  Mike said, “At the risk of having you grab my T-shirt again, along with a fair amount of my precious chest hair, I’m going to offer you one piece of advice.”

  Great. “Spit it out.”

  “Tell Reagan about Sherri. If only so that she can see where you’re coming from and understand you’re not a total bastard who refuses to see things from all angles.”

  “Jesus, Mike, she doesn’t need to hear that yet.”

  “Yes, she does.” Reagan’s voice sliced through the air.

  Both men turned toward the back porch.

  She stood near the steps, barefoot and wearing one of Mike’s flannel-checked shirts, her hair slightly mussed, and all over an adorable armful of woman.

  The sun kissed her face as she raised her chin. But it was the boldness of her stare that both excited and terrified him.

  “Sugar, it’s not—”

  “Either you tell me about this woman Sherri or all bets are off. And that includes my staying here in any capacity.” Her voice came over clear, strong. No anger, just…resolute. She headed back inside, pausing at the doorway to look back over her shoulder. “I’ll be waiting inside for five minutes before I call Chloe. The choice is yours, Quinn.” Then she was gone.

  And, dammit, he was left with no way out.

  * * * *

  Reagan’s hands shook as she poured the glasses of iced tea. Toughen up, girl. She set the drinks on a tray and then grabbed a small bowl from the counter. It would do for the pretzels she’d found earlier when she’d hunted down a snack and had caught snippets of Mike’s raised voice through the open kitchen window. This isn’t about Reagan. Poisoned your viewpoint.

  She had scrambled to the back screen door in time to see Quinn shove Mike away. There she had stayed hidden, ignoring the stabs of guilt over eavesdropping. She’d listened in the shadows of the porch until finally speaking up. But what had prompted Mike to say those things in the first place?

  The tinkle of the snacks hitting the glass bowl was the only noise in the house. What if Quinn didn’t come in? Would they call her bluff? She bit her lip. Don’t think about that. Just move, get over to the couch. Be ready.

  She’d just set the tray down on the coffee table when Mike appeared in the doorway that led to the back of the cabin.

  There was no sign of Quinn.

  Her muscles in her stomach clenched.

  Mike face softened. “Quinn’s washing up. He’ll be here in a second.” He leaned in to kiss her gently on the lips.

  She nodded, too nervous to speak. Anger and frustration had fired up her earlier bravado. Now, she was standing next to a man a foot taller than her and one who’d already mastered her, mind and body, on more than one occasion.

  “Relax, sweetness. I’m on your side.”

  “But you’re not going to tell me who this woman is and why her story matters so much, are you?”

  “Nope. That’s Quinn’s job.” He grabbed a glass of iced tea and then settled down on one of the big chairs angled to the side of the couch. “Just go easy on him, Reagan. He’s been carrying this shit around for a few years now and it’s not an easy tale.”

  Heavy footfalls echoed out to the main room a few seconds before Quinn entered wearing a clean navy-colored T-shirt. He caught sight of her as she stood there, staring, willing him to come close and fold her in his arms. Instead, he kept the closed expression on his face as he sat on the couch.

  He resented her ultimatum. Well, too bad. She’d give him a minute to warm up to the idea before she pushed further. Getting a man to talk, share his feelings, was a war of attrition, and she was battling a hardened warrior.

  The big lug was worth it. Both men were. She loved them. These two alphas had torn her away from her safe, pale existence and in their dominance had set her free to learn so much about herself.

  The whole concept of what constituted her reality had been shaken on its head like a snow globe in the hands of a tourist. The snowy flakes, her new parameters, would settle once again but not in the exact same places as before. Everything had changed for the better.

  She just had to fight for it.

  “You look thirsty.” She offered Quinn a glass of the iced tea.

  “Thanks, little one.” Despite his rancor, he had used an endearment. Warmth filled her chest. His hand brushed over hers, lingering a few seconds before he took the glass. She forced herself to let go. He had gulped down half the tea and placed the glass on the lamp table before she’d settled herself a short space down from him.

  He held himself tense, the muscle in his jaw ticking like the wings of an angry wasp. With him coiled so tight, she was afraid if a dust mite landed on his shoulder he’d spring off the couch.

  She curled her fingers against the urge to wrap him in a hug. Maybe she’d made a mistake. She could wait. Let him come to her on his own terms.

  “You know, if you—”

  “Sherri was my oldest sister. We were six years apart and I adored her.” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “When she was eighteen, Sherri was killed, murdered.”

  He turned his head to face her. The raw agony reflected in his gaze stole her breath.

  “And I let it happen.”

  * * * *

  Quinn watched as Reagan’s mouth dropped open. Her eyes widened to dominate her face. Well, she had demanded to hear his story, so he’d tell it, without any fancy softening of the edges.

  He turned to look at the rough stones of the fireplace, not wanting the distraction of tears or pity.

  “Sherri was dating the high school quarterback. You have to understand, in a small Texan town the quarterback is an adored God-like figure. Everybody loved Bobby Hagarty. The coach. The school board. Even my parents.”

  “I had stayed up late one night. It was summer. I was sitting at my bedroom window, looking out at the sky. I heard cursing. Hagarty’s pickup sat in the driveway. Sherri was up front, pushing and shoving against him.” Her favorite pink shirt had been clearly visible under the full moon.

  “When she came in, I told her I’d tell Dad.” Don’t do that, Quinn, please. All boys push for more on the second date. “She pleaded. ‘He was a great guy.’ ‘He’d never hurt her.’ How much this meant to her.” He’s giving me his jacket, Quinn. Her eyes had sparkled. Then everyone will know I’m his girl. “I gave in. Kept quiet.”

  He felt Reagan move closer. The softness of her body brushed against his side. Her hand rested on top of his thigh. She didn’t say anything, allowing him to talk without interruption. And for that he was grateful.

  “On th
e third date, I watched Hagarty as he parked in the drive. He behaved. I was reassured. Sherri had been right. All was well.”

  “By the fourth date, I didn’t keep a watch. It was the next morning, early, when there was a knock at the door. It was the chief of police.” He’d never forget the look on the man’s ashen face as he stared at Quinn’s father. Ben, I’m so sorry. “Sherri had been found lying in a ditch, bashed beyond recognition.” Her favorite pink shirt soaked with her blood as it covered her face. “My mom…” He broke off, swallowing against the tightness in his throat. “My mom screamed. Fell to her knees. My sisters half dragged her to a chair.” Quinn had stood at the base of the stairs, unable to move, watching as his dad tried to comprehend the loss of his firstborn.

  “Hagarty was found sleeping off a hangover with a teammate. He stated he and Sherri had argued when out driving. She’d gotten out of his truck, stormed off.”

  Quinn fisted his hands, squeezing and squeezing until the tops of his fingers grew numb.

  His sister never would have gotten out of a vehicle on a backcountry road at night.

  Not unless she’d had no choice.

  “His buddy swore that he’d met up with Hagarty soon after the supposed argument and long before the official time of death established by the coroner. Hagarty had no injuries to his hands or face. The coroner stated Sherri had been hit with a heavy instrument, like a tire iron. The bastard had apparently lost his a couple of weeks before.”

  And nobody could prove otherwise.

  “Of course, I then told Dad about what I’d seen on the first date. I told the cops. Fuck, I told anyone who would listen. The chief of police sat me down. He told me it was understandable that I was angry. I’d lost my sister. But not to blame it on an innocent guy who felt so guilty that he’d let Sherri out of his car to go and meet her death.” Bobby’s got his life ahead of him, Quinn. He’s gonna make state championships. “Nobody would listen. Everybody loved Bobby.”

  The silence of the cabin was almost overwhelming, threatening to crush him under its own weight. He glanced over to Mike, who sat back, his gaze watchful, fingers formed in a steeple on his chest. His friend said nothing. He didn’t have to. Quinn knew Mike would step in if needed but this one was down to him.