by Laura Wright
At the end of the aisle, he turned to head toward the back of the store. He got about three feet when a little boy nearly crashed into him. He was running hard, looking behind himself. Instead of letting him fall backward, James caught him.
“Walker!” a woman called. She sounded like she was one aisle over. “Walker Days! Where are you?” She came rushing around the corner, a baby in her arms. When she saw James holding on to her boy, some of her panic receded. She ran over to him. “Don’t do that again.” Then she looked up at James. “Sorry about that,” she said. “He just takes off these days.”
Fingers of tension curled up James’s back, and he fought for control. “S’okay.” He came down to one knee and turned the boy to look at him. “You stay with your mama, y’hear?”
The little boy, who probably was no more than five, gave James a big nod, his brown eyes wide with dread.
“She loves you,” James continued, “and she doesn’t want to lose you. It would make her very sad. Understand me, little man?”
Again the boy nodded.
James stood up, gave the mother a smile and a nod.
Looking at him a little strangely, as if she thought she recognized him, the boy’s mother offered him a quick thank-you, then took her boy’s hand and led him away.
As James continued down the aisle, every inch of him from muscle to skin to blood was on edge. He felt like a rubber band that had been pulled back too far and never released. When he reached the wall where ropes of different sizes hung, he stopped and fingered the nonbraided nylon.
“Why’d you want to meet here?”
He turned to face the woman. She was dressed simply, in a sweatshirt and jeans, her glossy black hair back in a ponytail. “My brother saw us together yesterday at the diner. I’m not ready to discuss this with him yet.” And he’s not ready to hear it.
“You could’ve come by my veterinary clinic,” she said quietly, glancing around the store.
“I think this is better, and easier to explain. A chance meeting.” He raised a brow at her and lowered his voice. “Do you have something for me, Dr. Hunter?”
The woman’s pale green eyes filled with sadness. “I called my dad last night, after I ran into you and your brothers at the bar. I wanted to see if he’d talk to me.”
“And did he?”
She nodded.
James’s chest tightened. “What did the ex-sheriff here in River Black have to say?”
Once again, she looked around them for anyone lurking near. When she turned back, she whispered, “You’ve got to understand. He’s very ill. I don’t know if what he’s saying is true or . . . not.”
“What did he say, Dr. Hunter?” James repeated, his voice so low and dark it sounded almost otherworldly.
“That the man they said didn’t exist . . .”
“The suspect?” he interrupted. The one Cass had called “Sweet.” At least, that’s the name his sister had mentioned to Mackenzie a few weeks before she was taken.
The woman nodded. “He may have been real after all.”
Tiny electric shocks pelted James’s insides. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. It wasn’t possible. The police had assured them that they’d exhausted every avenue, swore there was no Sweet and that Cass had probably made him up in that diary of hers. The diary that was never found.
He stared at the woman who’d contacted him a few days after Everett’s death. The woman who’d told him that her father was none other than Sheriff Hunter, the man who’d headed up the investigation in River Black twelve years ago. The man who had knocked on their door twice: once with the news that their sister’s body had been found and a second time to tell them that the case had gone cold, that unless any new leads came in, there was nothing they could do.
“Did your father say where this man is, Dr. Hunter?” he asked through nearly gritted teeth. “Did he say why this man got away? How he got away?”
Her eyes filled with grief and confusion. “No. He wouldn’t tell me anything more.” She shook her head. “When I pressed him on it, he got really upset. His health is bad, as I told you, and I’m not entirely sure if what he’s saying is true or just the ramblings of . . .”
“I understand,” James said calmly, though inside him a bomb was going off. “But I need you to find out.” He leaned in. “Because if you don’t, I’ll have to go see your father myself.”
Her eyes went wide, fearful. “No. That wouldn’t be good. I’ll talk to him.”
A customer was being led over to where they were. They needed to call this, and James needed some air in his compressed lungs.
He gave the woman a tight nod. “I’ll be in touch, Dr. Hunter.”
Then he headed past the customer and out the door of the hardware store.
• • •
“We’re all here, Mac. What’s this about?”
Standing on about a half dozen bales of hay, Mac took in the sight she’d managed to put together in barely three hours. Gathered inside Ben Shiver’s barn just outside of town, the crowd of fifty or so townsfolk stared up at her expectantly while they ate the sandwiches and cake she’d brought in.
“As some of you are aware,” she began, “well, those who were at the funeral anyway, Deacon Cavanaugh wants to destroy the Triple C.”
There was a quick and loud response, everybody talking at once, discussing what they knew and what they’d heard. She hated to do it this way, go behind Deacon’s back, but she told him she’d be fighting. And when he’d gone up to that pulpit and declared his intentions, well, he was asking for a grand push back.
Stepping to the front of the crowd, Ben Shiver put up his hands and called for quiet, then turned back to Mac. “We do know. What we don’t know is why.”
“It’s about Cass, I reckon,” Mrs. Remus piped up from over by the food table before picking up another sandwich.
“Who’s Cass?” someone near the barn doors asked.
“His sister,” Mrs. Remus said through a bite of sandwich.
“Poor girl,” Jody Pickens said with wide eyes and a grave expression. “Stolen from the movie theater when she was just thirteen years old. Those boys were supposed to be minding her.”
“I heard they were too caught up in some action movie and didn’t want to go with her when she asked to go to the bathroom,” Mrs. Remus said.
“Stop!” Mac interrupted sharply, wanting to yell at them that Deac and James and Cole had been just kids themselves. But she needed to keep herself calm, and she needed their help. “Please. This isn’t about what was; it’s about what is.” With a deep breath, she forced the conversation back to its true path. “Listen, y’all, the reasons why Deacon wants to destroy the Triple C don’t matter. The fact is, he’s hell-bent on doing it, and we need to stop him.”
“But how can he?” Ben asked. “As I hear it, there are four owners of the Triple C now.”
“Four?” someone called out. “Who’s the fourth?”
“Blue Perez,” Ben said in a wary tone. “Supposedly, he’s Everett’s son.”
Several people gasped at this news, and Mac wondered just who the hell had let that cat out of the bag already. Damn small town.
“Gossip all you want about this later,” she said sternly. “The truth is Blue might sell to Deacon, and if he does, he’ll have controlling interest.”
Ben shook his head. “If he really is hell-bent on taking it down, Mac, what can someone like me do about it?”
Mac bit her lip. This was it. The call to action. After last night, all she’d wanted was for Deacon to crawl back into bed with her, eat brownies with her, spoon with her, wake up and make love to her. Maybe afterward tell her what was really motivating him, what was consuming him, what the hell had happened after Cass’s death. And that he wasn’t going to try to destroy the one thing in her life that gave her joy. But she knew that the very thing that gave her joy was obviously the thing that tormented him. And he wasn’t giving up.
“That’s why I’ve c
alled this meeting,” she told Ben and everyone else who was listening. “To talk about ways to stop Deacon, fight him. Not alone, mind you. Alone, none of us stands a chance, but together . . .”
“The man’s worth billions, Mac,” Ben said.
“This fight isn’t going to be about money,” she told them, seeing that for the first time each person was quiet and listening. “It’s going to be about heart. Introducing him to this town all over again, reminding him of what used to be before everything went to hell. Getting Cole and James on our side. And most of all, showing him who we are and how much the Triple C means to us.”
For a few seconds, no one spoke. The barn was eerily quiet, folks thinking things over, wondering if it was all worth it. Then, from the refreshment table, Mrs. Remus cleared her throat.
“All right, gal,” she said, putting down her plate and eyeing Mac. “What did you have in mind?”
Mac smiled with relief, then addressed the crowd once again. “First, does anyone have a connection with the Bureau of Land Management?”
• • •
It was six o’clock on the nose when Deacon pulled up to the cottage. He’d spent most of the day on Skype working on changes to his proposal for Breyer with three of his staff and trying like hell to keep Mackenzie out of his mind. Business at the Cavanaugh Group stopped for nothing, and after years of trying and failing to get the head of Breyer Builders to sell, Deacon felt it was time to make another move. Especially now that the company’s shares had dropped substantially.
The dinner Friday night would be the perfect opportunity to see where the man’s head was at. The idea that he was bringing Pamela Monroe to the dinner irritated him. Truly, the last thing in the world he wanted right now was to have that woman at his side. But he couldn’t go alone. Breyer was a stickler for dinner companions.
A bag of groceries in one arm and some prepared food in case he failed miserably in his attempt to cook in the other, he headed toward the cottage. The one he wanted by his side was in there, waiting on him. Mackenzie. Damn, he couldn’t wait to see her. Touch her. Hold her hand and feel her mouth under his. Shit, after he’d left last night, he’d been so goddamn worked up he’d slept maybe all of an hour.
“Hey, cowboy.”
Her voice, that sexy, husky, tough-as-nails voice called out to him. It brought his head up and his eyes searched the porch for her whereabouts. He found her on the swing, and instantly, a wave of desire washed over him.
Mine, he mused dangerously, his gaze traveling over her. She was sitting there, swinging gently, in a pretty pale blue sundress and cowboy boots. Her smooth, tanned skin made his fingers itch to touch, and her thick, dark hair, which was pulled back in a ponytail, gave him all sorts of wicked ideas.
She looked like the cover of Western Living magazine, and when she stood up and walked over to the top of the stairs, grinned down at him with that heart-stealer smile of hers, he forgot all about dinner, business, Breyer, and shit, even the Triple C.
Bounding up the steps, he dropped his bags at her feet and wrapped his arms around her. “You look beautiful,” he said, pulling her close, breathing her in.
“Thank you,” she said, sinking in to him, her head dropping back. “So do you.”
He laughed and she grinned. Damn, she made him feel . . . good. Happy? He leaned in and kissed her. Nothing too hungry, though he felt that inside him. Nothing too possessive either—though he felt that, too. Just soft and sensual, maybe letting her know where his heart was at.
“I missed you today,” he whispered against her lips.
Her eyes were closed, but she smiled. “Did you, now?”
Too damn much, he wanted to say, but instead he kissed her again and wrapped his hands around her ponytail. When he came up for air, he grinned. “Honey, I think you should wear your hair like this more often.” He gave her hair a gentle tug, then took the opportunity to ravage her neck. “Oh yeah, this is good.”
When he released her, she brought her head up and laughed. “You are such a bad boy, Deacon Cavanaugh.”
You have no idea, Mackenzie Byrd. He lifted one dark brow and eyed her intensely. “Let me put this stuff inside, and then I’ll show you just how bad I can be.”
Her eyes instantly lost their heat and playfulness, and she disentangled herself from his grasp and reached down to pick up a bag. “I’ll help you,” she said, tucking it into her arm and heading toward the door. “But then we need to go.”
“Go?” He grabbed the other bag and got to the door just in time to open it for her. “I’m cooking you dinner, remember?” he said as she headed into the house. He followed her. “If this is about my cooking, don’t be afraid, darlin’. I brought a few things already made in case I screw up.”
Once inside the small kitchen, she placed the bag on the counter, then turned to face him. “See, the thing is,” she began, her gaze flickering around the room, “I sort of forgot I already had plans tonight.”
Deacon set his bag down next to hers, then placed his hands on either side of her body, his palms against the countertop. “Is that right?”
Locked in, her back against the counter, she was forced to look at him. Her eyes dragged upward until she caught his gaze. She swallowed tightly. “I have plans. But you know, you’re welcome to come along.”
She was really working herself into a state, Deacon mused, watching her. Damn, she was so adorable.
“And where would I be coming along to?” he asked.
Her eyes swept the floor. “Hmmm?”
He chuckled. He couldn’t help it. “Come on, honey, look at me.” When she did, he leaned in and planted a quick kiss on her mouth. “Now. Where are we going tonight?”
She sighed. “The Appletons’ place.”
His brows lifted. “Eli Appleton?”
She nodded, then tried to get away, but he held her tightly. He wasn’t even remotely done with this conversation.
“What are you doing, Mackenzie Byrd?”
She shrugged, her teeth tugging at her lower lip. “Playing dirty.”
This time, when her eyes lifted to meet his, he saw flashes of wicked, wicked female in her fantastic blue gaze. He growled, wrapped his arms around her, and pulled her closer. When her arms instantly encircled his neck, he covered her mouth with his own and kissed her hard and hungry. And when she moaned, he took the opportunity to slip his tongue inside and taste her. Goddamn, he thought, she tasted like heaven.
Her fingers delved into his hair and she gripped his scalp as she changed the angle of their kiss and sucked his tongue into her mouth. Tasted like heaven . . . Shit, she was heaven—his heaven.
“Can we be late, honey?” he uttered, easing his thigh between her legs, making quick contact with her warm core.
She gasped and pressed herself against him, then started moving her hips in slow but deliberate circles. Deacon groaned and shifted his thigh so she could ride him better.
“Oh, dammit,” she uttered, cursing again and disentangling herself from his grasp. Breathing heavy, her eyes dilated, she licked her lips and glared at him. “Now, what are you doin’, darlin’?” she drawled.
Though his body was screaming and his cock strained against his zipper, he grinned at her. “Playing dirtier.”
For several seconds she stared at him; then she grinned back at him and reached for his hand. “You coming with me or not, Mr. Cavanaugh?”
His eyes raked her. Damn woman. Of course he was coming. She had to know how she affected him. She had to know that there was no way he was allowing her to go to the Appletons’ or anywhere else without him tonight. They had a date, and damn, he needed to be around her, next to her, breathing in her scent and holding her hand.
Shit, he’d turned into quite the bleeding heart.
He took her hand and led her out the door and down the steps. “We’re taking my truck,” he said through slightly gritted teeth.
“If you insist.”
When he glanced back at her, her eyes sparkled
with mischief and happiness. His fingers twitched. Might have to put her over his knee later. Just the thought made his body jerk with tension.
He held the passenger door open for her.
But before she climbed in, she rose up on her tiptoes and kissed him. “Don’t look so glum, Deacon. I’ll let you get to second base on the ride home; how ’bout that?”
His jaw tightened. “Darlin’,” he said, grabbing the bouquet of sunflowers he’d brought for her from the seat and thrusting them into her hands. “If I go to this shindig with you tonight, not only will I be thoroughly enjoying each one of your bases, I’ll be roundin’ home a few times as well.”
Diary of Cassandra Cavanaugh
April 25, 2002
Dear Diary,
Today Mac and me were talking about the future. She likes to do this a lot. I don’t know why. We’re only thirteen years old for goodness’ sake. Well, a month shy for me. Anyways, I’m always saying I don’t know, I don’t know, and maybe we should paint each other’s toes now instead.
She thinks that’s silly.
But I think pretending you know what you want as a kid is silly. Superman or Cinderella. A veterinarian ’cause you like animals, or a baseball player ’cause your dad throws you a few balls in the yard. A wife and a mom when there’s not one at home and you got a crush on a boy. A boy who’s too darn old for you and barely knows you exist.
But Mac has it in her head that we should have a plan. She says the stars have one for us if we don’t. That makes my belly nervous when she says it. What does it even mean?
Should I make that boy know I exist? Is he my future?
Cole’s calling me down to supper. Better go.
Love and kisses,
Cass
Eleven
Two hours into the barbecue and Mac wanted to pull the plug on the whole thing. Her brilliant idea. She’d thought that if Deacon could interact with some of the people in town, he might gain a fresh perspective—a different perspective—on his plans to destroy the ranch. But instead of people talking to him about what a hardship it would be to lose the Triple C, how their families relied on all the jobs that filtered down from the place, they were listening.
