by Maggie Ryan
“We didn’t order bread—”
“Don’t need to. Bread is a staple; you’ll use it to soak up all those juices and sauce. Here, try a corn muffin first.” He placed a golden yellow muffin on her plate. “I warn you, you might find it a bit spicy as there are jalapeños inside but man, they are great, especially with some whipped butter and local honey.” He placed two small bowls containing butter and honey next to her plate as well.
Zoya shook her head at the next plate he put before her. It wasn’t even large enough to hold the rack of ribs as they hung over the edge. “If this is how you boys eat, I don’t blame Jennie one bit for controlling you. This looks like the butcher slaughtered every animal on the farm!” Her angelic laugh made Stryder smile. She unwrapped her silverware and began to put the napkin in her lap.
“No, not like that,” Stryder said, “like this.” He took the oversized napkin from her and reached to tuck it into the collar of her dress. As his fingers grazed her skin, he felt his pulse jump. Get a grip, man, he told himself. Spreading the napkin out until it covered her entire front, he tried not to let his fingertips graze the rounded swells of her breasts.
After tucking his own napkin into place, Stryder rubbed his hands together in excited anticipation. “No fancy manners required. Except for the sides, fingers are the only silverware you’ll need. Ready?” At her rather bemused expression, he grinned. “Let’s dig in!”
“Jennie is probably pacing back and forth waiting for us, but man, you can’t ask a starving Texan to hurry through BBQ,” Anson said as he placed a rib to his mouth, closed his eyes, and moaned.
Chapter 8
After pulling off the fifth paper towel from the huge roll sitting on one corner of their table and wiping her sticky fingers, Zoya finally gave up. She’d been shocked seeing how the two brothers took care of the sauce that clung to their fingers, but with a grin, she finally followed suit and stuck her fingers into her mouth. It was certainly not the best in table manners, but she couldn’t deny it did the job. She gave her finger a final suck and happened to look up to see Stryder, a rib halfway to his lips, staring at her. Feeling her face flush, she yanked her finger from her mouth, grabbing another paper towel.
“I’m sorry—”
“Don’t be,” Stryder said, the corner of his mouth curling up. “I’m just happy to see you enjoying your meal.” He finished lifting the rib, and she watched as his teeth tore the meat from the bone. Well, in all fairness, tear was a misnomer. He’d explained that the epitome of a great rib was if the meat practically fell from the bone. She didn’t even have to cut a rib from the rack on her plate. A simple tug and the individual ribs separated from their mates. As Stryder reached for another, only to realize only naked bones remained on his plate, she smiled.
“Here, have the rest of mine.”
“Are you sure? You didn’t eat but a couple. Don’t you like them?” Stryder asked with what sounded like genuine concern. Then again, why should that surprise her? He’d been concerned about her from the moment they’d met. Forcing the circumstances of their actual meeting from her head, she nodded.
“They are delicious, but honestly, between them, the onion rings, the sandwich, the bread and beans and slaw…” She paused, her head shaking as she considered the ton of food the three were still plowing through. “If I eat another bite, I’m going to explode.”
“Well, we can’t take it with us,” Anson said, reaching for the remainder of her brisket sandwich. “The best way to hide the evidence is to consume it.”
Zoya smiled. It was truly amazing watching the amount of food disappear. When she’d first picked up the Squealing Pig sandwich, she’d barely been able to wrap her hands around the bun, there were so many slices of brisket piled inside, and sauce splattered down onto her plate with every bite. When she’d mentioned the size of the sandwich, she’d learned that when Stryder ordered “meat over the top” it hadn’t referred to the amount of thick, sauce dripping slices of brisket, but actually indicated what portion of the brisket slab they’d been cut from.
“Those darkened bits around the edges are the best,” Stryder had explained. “‘Top’ just means you get what are referred to as ‘burnt ends.’ They might look burned but they’re not really.” Sipping her beer, she had to admit it had been just as much an adventure as it had been a meal. A few minutes later, every plate and bowl empty, the men licked their fingers clean one last time.
“You missed a spot.”
“What? Where?” Zoya asked, looking down at her hands.
“I’ve got it,” Stryder said, dipping another paper towel into his glass of water. Cupping the back of her head, he dabbed the makeshift washcloth on the tip of her nose. Evidently, he could sense her shock at her messiness as he chuckled. “Don’t be embarrassed,” he said, moving the towel to her cheek and giving a little rub. “Eating BBQ is an art. Any artist worth their salt will always have a dribble or two of paint missed in clean up. That’s what separates them from the fakers.” He finished by wiping the corner of her mouth and tossed the paper towel to the table, reaching for the napkin that had kept her dress from becoming a sauce-splotched mess. Pulling it away, he used one end to dry the areas he’d wet. “All signs that you, my little kukolka, are now an honorary Texan. Ready?”
It took her a moment to move from his calling her “baby doll” to understanding he was asking if she were ready to leave. “Oh, yes, sorry.”
“You need to stop apologizing,” Stryder said, helping her from the bench. “You’ve done nothing wrong.”
Swinging her legs over the bench wasn’t the most modest way to get her legs out from beneath the table, but it was the most efficient. Still, feeling self-conscious as his eyes seemed to be sliding from her ankles up to her thighs, far too much skin visible due to the dress hiking up, she felt flustered. “Do you like art?”
“Art?”
God, she sounded like an idiot but plowed ahead. “I mean, you were talking about artists, and I was just wondering if you are one.”
He didn’t immediately answer as he pulled bills from his wallet and laid them down to pay for their meal. When he looked up, his eyes appeared at least a shade darker than before… not in anger but in something akin to… pleasure? “I guess that depends on what medium you are talking about. It doesn’t always take paint and canvas but I do appreciate the talent required to produce a version of what I’d consider a masterpiece.” He placed the flat of his hand against her lower back and guided her effortlessly through the crowded tables. “And you? What sorts of things do you enjoy?”
Trying not to think about how his palm touching her reminded her of the first time… the night of the auction, and then again in the shower when he’d bathed her, and now how it felt just right having it pressed against her back again, she forced herself to push the questions aside. She didn’t really want to consider the myriad of emotions that were clouding her head. Realizing she hadn’t answered his question, she said, “Run.”
The press of his hand disappeared a moment as she took a step and he didn’t mimic the move. Turning her head slightly back, she saw his eyes change again. A shudder ran through her as a flash of what she couldn’t think of being anything other than anger, flared for a moment. What had she said? Understanding came and she shook her head.
“I don’t mean run from… anything. I mean run… outside?” When his eyes cleared and he grinned, she felt tension that had held her frozen seep away.
“Jog?” he clarified, taking the step necessary to reconnect them. “Like marathons?”
“Oh, no. I just find it relaxes me. Running gives me time to think about things. I also enjoy gardening…”
Anson’s laugh had her pausing as he unlocked the truck door, pulling it open so that Stryder could help her climb up. “Jennie is gonna love you, Zoya. Though she prefers to get her exercise by communing with nature and dancing, she is artistic, and God knows what she’d be feeding us if she didn’t keep that huge garden going.”
>
From her seat, Zoya said, “I’d be glad to help her.”
“Just remember, you’ll be helping us as well. We’re gonna need all the intel you can provide on Poplov.”
Forget the last hour. The audible click of her seatbelt that he’d snapped into place seemed to be an emphasis on his statement, reminding her of why she was in Texas. Reaching for the blanket she’d used earlier, she pulled it up. “I remember,” she said softly. She didn’t want to think about the softness that appeared in his eyes with her words. She wanted nothing more than not to remember. Closing her eyes, she leaned her head against the door once Stryder had closed it and climbed into the front seat next to his brother. It wasn’t long before they were back on the highway, leaving The Flying Pig behind.
Zoya couldn’t find escape in sleep as she’d done on the airplane. While the brothers had evidently thought she’d again been sleeping earlier in the truck, she’d only been dozing. As they sped along the highway again, she considered what she’d overheard. Her heart had ached listening to them discuss Natalia as well as the other women, and yet she found hope in the fact that even in what they thought was a private conversation, they’d both assured the other that they would not consider their mission complete or successful until Poplov not only paid for his crimes, but the women he’d kidnapped and sold were freed. It wasn’t hard to acknowledge that though she was thousands of miles away from her home, out of all the women on that stage, she had been the lucky one.
She’d listened as Anson complimented his brother on his performance. Both his words and the tone of voice in which they were delivered testified to the fact that he considered Stryder something of an expert with the whip. Being ignorant that anyone could wield something Poplov had used to terrify the women in a way that sounded so awful and yet didn’t flay the subject alive, she had to admit that unless she consciously thought about what had happened, her body wasn’t throbbing in pain, nor had she broken under the implement. It had taken the word “dungeon” to cause her stomach to flutter and her fingers to grasp the flannel blanket tighter. It had taken everything she had in order not to panic thinking these two men talked so easily about such a place.
What had kept her quiet had been hearing Stryder’s voice as he talked about how he’d have to retire what appeared to have been his favorite… what? Weapon? No—though she had no doubt that the whip could do a great deal of damage if desired, he hadn’t wielded it as such. Tool? No, that word didn’t fit either. Plaything? Her heart skipped a beat as she suddenly could see it as such. He obviously had taken the time to become not only confident with a whip, but an expert. Yes, plaything could be right. And if she were totally honest with herself, would she, as his softly spoken words predicted, never desire to experience it again? Remembering how she’d been shocked at the sensations each stroke produced, and further confused at how Anson had needed to remind her to “scream,” she wondered what Stryder would think if he knew that the biggest question in her mind once it was over was why the throbbing in her sex rivaled that of her back and buttocks and why her inner thighs had been moist. Hearing the men talking with such ease had her wishing desperately that she had someone to confide in, to ask these sorts of questions. Knowing she had no one, she opened her eyes, giving up any pretense of sleep. Instead, she looked out the window as endless fields streaked past. She could see various crops growing and gave a soft smile. Perhaps the world wasn’t such a large place after all. Growing up on a farm, she understood how you planted in the spring, hoping that the weather would cooperate and allow the seeds dropped into the soil to grow.
Jenny sounded both a bit frightening and fun. While sure they’d never be true friends, since Zoya didn’t plan on being on the ranch that long, she did look forward to working in the garden. It wouldn’t be much in the way of repaying Stryder and Anson for saving her from what could have been a fate worse than death, but it was all she could offer.
No, not all, I can make myself remember every little detail from the moment I stepped off that train. No matter how embarrassing it will be to have to confess that I was so incredibly stupid, I will confess it all. Natalia, Anya, the others… they weren’t bought by a Steele. I am their only hope.
Pushing the blanket aside, Zoya uncurled her legs from the seat and sat up, waiting for a break in the brother’s conversation. When it came, she said, “I paint.”
Stryder turned around to look at her. “Paint?”
Feeling her face flush, she could understand his confused look. She hadn’t mentioned it earlier when he’d asked what she enjoyed because… well, his explanation about how he viewed art had thrown her. She’d instantly began to wonder what exactly he meant by other varieties of art… of creating masterpieces. He probably thought she was totally scatterbrained but still, she was telling the truth.
“I mean that I’m an artist… a pretty good one. I can not only paint landscapes or abstracts, but I do portraits.” His brow was still furrowed and she sighed, sitting forward a bit. “What I’m trying to say is that I can draw the men I saw at that warehouse, as well as the women who helped them…”
“There were women involved?” Stryder asked, his brow smoothing as he shot a quick glance towards his brother.
“You’re not talking about the other women being sold as… um, at the auction?” Anson asked, meeting her eyes in the rearview mirror.
“Sex slaves,” Zoya provided, not allowing the admission to cause her to cringe but to let it make her remember her anger, let it fuel her strength. “No, I can draw them, as well, but I’m talking about the women Poplov uses to get to their victims. Women like Katarina. Women who for some reason are either as evil and depraved as Poplov and his minions, or women who are terrified that if they don’t do as ordered, they’ll find themselves on that fucking stage and sold or their families murdered.”
“Murdered?” Anson asked.
“That’s how Vasily keeps his victims in line isn’t it?” Stryder added.
Zoya kept her eyes on his, her anger growing. “Yes. Though we… me and the other women might be willing to die rather than face the hell we all knew we’d be thrown into, none were willing to have their families annihilated because of our stupidity. We were told that if we didn’t behave, if we caused trouble, it wouldn’t be us that paid the price… it would be our families.”
“The fucking bastard! Of course he uses that threat,” Stryder said. “It’s his modus operandi after all. I swear to God, I’m gonna enjoy killing that son of a bitch!”
“Stand in line,” Anson said, “you’re gonna have to go through not only me but Maddox.”
Instead of responding to his brother, Stryder returned his gaze to her. It wasn’t until she noticed he was holding out a handkerchief that she realized she was crying.
“As long as the man is no longer breathing, I’ll not care if it’s one or all of us, but Zoya, I swear on my life, Poplov will pay.”
Taking the cloth, she wiped her eyes and shook her head. “I don’t want you or your family to risk your lives for me…”
“Too late,” Anson said, his eyes flicking to hers again. “That’s a choice that isn’t yours to make. It’s ours and we’ve already signed up. Between us, all of us, we’ll send Poplov straight to hell.”
Zoya wanted to believe him with every fiber of her being. She knew that the “good” part of herself should protest. The right thing to do would be to allow the law to handle Poplov. But the part of her that was her very essence, her soul, could barely wait until the day Vasily was no longer a presence in this world.
“Between your artistic skills and Anson’s photographic memory, we should be able to have a good idea of who is involved,” Stryder said. Giving her a soft smile, he added, “I know Jenny does those knotted things and other crafts, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen her paint. What sort of stuff do you need?”
“Oh, not much,” Zoya said, a list already forming in her head. “Paper and a pencil is enough but colored pencils would help for ey
e, skin, and hair color—”
“We’ll get you whatever you need.” Turning back to his brother, Stryder said, “Stop at Wal-Mart. I want Zoya to get started as quickly as possible.” Turning again, he said, “Whatever you can’t find in Wal-Mart, we’ll order off the internet and have it delivered.”
Zoya could only nod, thinking how he didn’t question her skills, he simply worked out how to get the action started. It made her determined to do everything to help. If Poplov did indeed wind up in hell where he belonged, she wanted to make damn sure she’d given him a few kicks herself to send him on his way.
After an hour spent in the gigantic superstore, she not only had a bag full of art supplies, she had also changed out of the dress and into a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. Though she’d assured him that she didn’t need him to spend more money, when he’d led her into the shoe department, she’d almost cried again. Kicking off the high heels, she’d slipped into a pair of tennis shoes. With her feet practically singing for joy, she could easily overlook the fact that they were neon pink and a very bright lime green. When she’d stood, leaving the heels where they were, he’d glanced down at them and simply nodded, his hand going to the small of her back as he guided her to the checkout line.
When Anson turned off the main highway, Zoya gasped. Fences lined both sides of the drive, and some of the biggest horses she’d ever seen were running through the green grasses.
“I’ve never seen so many horses,” she said, her head swiveling between the two windows.
“These are just a few,” Stryder said, a touch of pride evident in his voice. “Wait until you see the stallions Maddox and Pops brought home from Dubai. They are truly magnificent animals. One day we’ll go riding, and I’ll show you the rest of the ranch.”
