Buckled

by Pam Godwin

  Walking from one end of our eight-thousand-square-foot estate to the other, I enter the Cassidy wing. Jake completely renovated this space with his bare hands. He rebuilt it for him and Conor, knowing full well he may have lost her for good.

  I find him in the master suite, staring at the mural that represents the horse impressionist paintings Conor collected as a child.

  “Will he give us trouble?” Jake asks, without moving his eyes from the wall.

  “Not sure.” I lower onto the bed behind him. “He knows we did him a favor by erasing his debts, and he gains nothing by going after us.”

  “Except revenge.”

  “Maybe. But I think he’s too tired to take us on. He’s not the same man who raised us.”

  “We’re not the same, either.” He reaches out and traces a brush stroke along one of the painted stallions. “I used to be worthy of Conor. I was a proud, dependable man with a lot to offer her. But not anymore. Even if she returns—”

  “You’re still that man, Jake. And she will return.”

  “For the blood oath. She won’t come back for me. Not that I blame her. I chased her away, as effectively as possible. And now… If she’s happy with that fucking professor…” His shoulders tense, and he grips his brow as if in pain. “If she’s truly happy, I won’t interfere. I’ve caused her enough heartbreak.”

  “Will you tell her about that night in the barn?”

  “I’ll tell her everything. She deserves to know.”

  My lovesick brother waited years to have sex, just so he could give her his virginity. Since it was anonymous, in the darkness of an abandoned barn, Conor doesn’t know it was him. He gave himself to her, and she thinks she had sex with a stranger. He won’t admit it, but I know that hurts him more than anything.

  He lowers his arms, flexing his hands at his sides. Then he slides down the wall and pulls his knees to his brow.

  Every tense inch of him radiates misery and loneliness. He’s been watching Conor from afar for the past few years. The moment she began dating Miles York, Jake lost parts of himself he’ll never get back.

  He started fucking a lot of women, night after night, treating them in ways I didn’t think he was capable. He used them to channel his rage. His grief. But it only heightened his guilt over the wrongs that were done to Conor.

  Over the past month, he’s returned to celibacy, and frankly, it makes him unbearable to be around.

  “You need to go out and get laid.” I rise from the bed and approach him slowly.

  “I can’t.” He removes his hat and tilts his head back against the wall, revealing the dampness in his eyes. “I miss her so fucking much she’s all I see.”

  “I miss her, too.” I sit beside him and stare at the leather cuff on his wrist. He hasn’t removed it since Conor left it for him on her eighteenth birthday.

  I don’t have a sister, but she fills that space. The ranch is dull and meaningless without her.

  Now that Dad and Rogan Schroeder are dealt with, Jake could bring her home. He could drive to OSU this very minute and force her back to the ranch. Screaming and kicking, if necessary. But he won’t. He would never disrupt the life she’s built for herself. Not if she’s happy.

  “I asked the private investigator to tail her boyfriend.” Jake rubs a thumb over the leather cuff. “If he finds anything that Conor wouldn’t approve of…”

  “All bets are off.”

  “Damn straight.”

  We ebb into a span of silent minutes, lost in our thoughts. I wonder if Dad is packing. I wonder if he was a better man when our mother married him. I wonder what she would think about the choices Jake and I have made.

  Jake cuts his eyes at me. “When are you going to scoop out your heart for a woman? You’re missing out on a lifetime of pain.”

  “Well, when you put it like that…”

  “The happiness that comes before the hurt is the best feeling in the world.” He closes his eyes, his whisper riding on a shredded breath. “It’s worth it.”

  “I’m all for self-destruction. I just haven’t found my own Conor to lay it all on the line for.”

  “She’s one of a kind.” His lips pull into a sad smile. “I was a lucky son of a bitch. I still am. I had her for sixteen years.”

  During those years, I had a front row seat to the evolving relationship between him and Conor. I watched in awe and envy as their love forged into something legendary. Something so bright and powerful it eclipsed everything around them.

  Jake’s a good guy, but Conor Cassidy sets the bar. I’ve been with countless women, and no one comes close to the contagious passion and soulful strength that Conor possesses. I suspect no one ever will.

  Fuck it all if I find that person. I’ll latch on so tightly she won’t stand a chance.

  I’ll move mountains.

  Stake my claim.

  Piss all over my territory.

  Rearrange my entire existence until we buckle together beneath the intensity.

  I want what Jake had with Conor. I fucking crave it.

  He and I might be different in many ways, but we share one thing in common.

  We don’t just love.

  We love hard, with every bone, sinew, and breath in our bodies.

  The Big Sugar is the biggest bar in Sandbank, Oklahoma. Actually, it’s the only bar in this godforsaken town. I don’t belong here, and every boot-scuffing, flannel-wearing redneck in the joint knows it.

  These people have a deafening way of judging and accusing without opening their mouths. They watch me without staring. Avoid me without moving out of the way. Insult me without uttering a sound from the pinched lines of their lips.

  To say I’m not welcome here is an understatement.

  Do they give all out-of-towners the same treatment? Or just the ones wearing ill-chosen high heels to a bar littered with peanut shells?

  I teeter over the mess on the floor, certain I’ll break an ankle. When I sink onto the first available stool at the counter, I heave a sigh of relief.

  The bartender ignores me. Just as well. I don’t drink when I’m working.

  I call it work. This assignment is officially unofficial.

  In Chicago, I write for a few beauty and fashion columns under different pen names. Horribly boring and uneventful, but it pays the bills. Or rather, it paid.

  I lost those jobs. Over the past six months, I lost everything. Which is why I’m here. Trying to put my life back together.

  Jake and Jarret Holsten are going to help me with that. But first, I need to run into them. Make it look like a fluke encounter. They would be more likely to divulge personal information during a casual conversation than if I knocked on their door and demanded answers.

  “Excuse me.” I tap the shoulder of the thirty-something brunette beside me. When she turns, I plaster on my warmest smile. “Hey, there.”

  She squints at my silk button-up, starched black trousers, and cute red pumps. “You’re not from around here.”

  “I get the feeling that’s a curse in this town, as if I’m bringing in an infectious disease or something. I swear I’m current on all my shots.”

  I laugh. She doesn’t.

  Where’s the southern hospitality I always heard about? Maybe I need to wander farther south for that.

  “I was wondering…” I pat down the unruly curls around my shoulders. “Do you happen to know the Holsten family? There are two sons—”

  “The twins?” Mascara clumps in the slits of her eyes. “What of them?”

  The only photo I found of them was a grainy black-and-white snapshot in the newspaper. I had to visit the local library to dig up that one, and I still don’t have a clear idea what they look like.

  “Do you know where they hang out?” What I really want to ask is if they’re here in the bar tonight, but I don’t want to look stupid.

  “I don’t know who you are or where you come from, but your interest in those boys is a waste of time. They ain’t friendly with outside
rs.”

  “I just need a few minutes—”

  “No single gal wants just a few minutes with them.” She scowls at my ringless left hand and lifts her chin. “I hear Jake is off the market, but don’t go getting your hopes up about Jarret. He’ll settle down with one of our own before he marries the likes of you.”

  “Marriage?”

  “He won’t take kindly to you asking about them, neither.”

  I can’t even wrap my mind around this conversation.

  Her eyes dart to the front entryway, and a hitch cuts her breath.

  I follow her line of sight and stifle my own gasp.

  Good God Almighty. Cowboys do nothing for me, but the two men who just strolled in redefine my preconceived notions of rugged ranchers.

  Maybe I’ve watched too many old westerns, but I expected sweat-soaked dirt rings around the collar, unwashed and overlong hair, iconic mustaches, and rotten teeth. Most of the guys in this bar fit that description. But not these two.

  They’re definitely twins, but not identical. One has a narrower face, paler eyes, and a darker hairline beneath the wide brim of his hat. His almost-smile is far more personable than the almost-scowl the other one wears. He exudes charisma, which makes him the most attractive of the two.

  And the most dangerous.

  Finely-honed brawn bunches and contracts as they move through the bar. Sculpted biceps and pectorals, flat stomachs, and powerful thighs—they’re built the same, as if carved from a single hunk of testosterone-infused stone.

  Golden complexions. Six-foot-and-several-intimidating-inches tall. Clean-shaved faces. Squared jaw lines. Broad, sloping shoulders. Well-worn denim encases well-endowed packages that draw the eye. There’s so much to take in.

  Holy hell, I’m staring, and I can’t stop.

  It isn’t just their hotter-than-hot surface area that compels me. There’s an air about them, a confidence, an authoritative intensity that grabs a woman by the ovaries and reduces her to her most primitive core. It’s the same instinct that drives females of any species to mate with the strongest male, to birth the fittest, most viable offspring.

  Jesus. I’m not even interested in that. I’m so fucking done with men, especially the good-looking ones. Yet here I am, slurping back drool as it leaks from my gaping mouth.

  I’m here for the Holsten twins, to learn about them, and hopefully, to get answers. If I wasn’t already certain I found them, the petite redhead between them would be a dead giveaway.

  Conor Cassidy.

  One doesn’t need to be a journalist to know her story. A simple online search on Sandbank brings up dozens of results related to the brutal attack on her six years ago. What the articles don’t mention is the Holsten family’s involvement that night.

  I didn’t expect her to be in town. Last time I checked, she was still at OSU. I certainly didn’t expect to see her all cozy with the family who caused her so much pain.

  The one with the darker eyes and the arm hooked around her shoulders must be Jake. Rumor has it they were the sweethearts of Sandbank, right up until the attack.

  Her brother, Lorne Cassidy, went to prison for killing the wrong man, and her father moved her to Chicago. To my hometown. She doesn’t have a clue who I am or how we’re connected, and I hope to God I never have to be the person to tell her.

  I drag my eyes away from the magnetic trio as they sit around a nearby high-top table. That’s when I notice that every woman in the bar is caught in their spell.

  Conor stands out with her outrageous beauty and colorful sleeves of tattoos, but it’s the Holstens who coax the far-away looks beneath the feminine lashes around me. Not to mention, the irritated scowls of their male companions.

  Jake and Conor share a few whispered words. Then he makes his way to the bar and orders drinks.

  I glance back at the table and find the other brother, Jarret, staring right at me.

  Shit. I look away and curse myself for flinching. I won’t be unnerved by him, no matter how goddamn sexy he is.

  I force my gaze back to his.

  He’s still staring, and the effect that has on me is bizarre. It feels like victory, like I just won a competition against every female in the bar. There are thirty or forty women he can stare at, but he’s looking at me. An unwavering, potent look from the most potent man I’ve ever seen.

  I may not be accustomed to this kind of scrutiny, but if I don’t get a grip on my headspace—and other hungrier spaces inside me—he’ll eat me alive before I spit out two words.

  Conor speaks to him, and he touches her hand on her lap, keeping his eyes on me.

  That stare… Fuck me, it’s too much. I turn my focus to Jake at the counter. He would be easier to approach. He hasn’t glanced at me or any other woman since he walked in here.

  I slide a hand over my hair, pressing down the blond disaster. The humidity is a nightmare on natural curls. I hate the frizz when it’s this long. I hate it more when it’s short. I really hate that I can’t stop touching the tangles when I’m anxious.

  The bartender turns toward Jake with his beers, and I dare another peek at Jarret.

  He’s still watching me.

  Damn. There’s nothing discreet about him, and now that he’s caught me looking multiple times, I might as well get on with this.

  I rise from the stool, and he drags his tongue along his lip, speaking to Conor. He laughs at something she says and sobers when he realizes I’m heading his way.

  That’s right, Jarret Holsten. I’m not as shy as I look.

  He might be intimidating as all hell, but I’m not leaving town until I get what I came for.

  As I cross the room, the damn peanut shells make it difficult to navigate on heels. First thing tomorrow, I’ll find a second-hand clothing store and replace my shoes with something practical.

  When I reach the table, Jake slips past me and settles next to Conor.

  “Um… Hi.” Oh God, I sound like an idiot. I hook a thumb under the purse strap on my shoulder and strengthen my voice. “You’re the Holsten twins, right?”

  “Yup.” Jarret drinks from his beer and rudely stares at my chest.

  Conor kicks him under the table. “Women don’t like to be leered at.”

  She would know. Her beauty is really something to behold. I bet she gets ogled and catcalled everywhere she goes.

  I tip my head at her in thanks. “You must be Conor Cassidy.”

  Jake gives me direct eye contact for the first time. “And you are?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Maybe?” Jarret wings up a brow. “That’s your name?”

  It’s not a name at all, but no one bothered to tell my mother that.

  “Yeah.” I try to smile, as if I haven’t heard all the Maybe one-liners in existence.

  I’ll take that as a Maybe.

  Call me…Maybe.

  Maybe she’s born with it.

  Maybe or Maybe not?

  “Maybe Quinn.” I stand taller. “Mind if I sit?”

  With a nod, he sets down his beer, flashing a thick red line on his palm. I perch on the stool, trying not to stare at the scar.

  “So, Maybe…” Jarret angles closer, his golden eyes poking holes in my bravado. “Which news network do you work for?

  My pulse quickens. It’s almost true, but not quite. I came here dressed like a reporter, hoping it would distract my real intentions. Evidently, I’m doing something right. But I don’t want to appear too eager.

  “Oh, that’s not…” I school my features. “I’m just passing through.”

  That earns me a withering glare from Jake, who calmly says, “The only folks passing through this town are investigative journalists.”

  That title is above my pay grade, but he can think what he wants.

  I glance down and spot a welted slash on his palm. Weird. They have the same scar?

  Without being too obvious, I steal a peek at Conor’s hand as she brushes a strand of hair from her face. Sure enough, another sca
r. They must’ve cut themselves on purpose? Like in one of those truth-or-dare games kids play?

  “Who do you work for, Maybe Quinn?” Jarret tips back his beer, and a swallow slides down the strong column of his throat.

  With a feigned sigh, I give him an answer that could be true. “Freelance. I write the story and sell it to the highest bidder.”

  I have the credentials to write and sell their dirty laundry. If they’re as corrupt as I’m led to believe, I’ll sell them out in a heartbeat.

  “What’s the story?” Conor narrows her eyes with distrust.

  “Levi Tibbs is getting released tomorrow.” I yank my hand from my hair, realizing too late I’m fidgeting. “What are you three planning to do about that?”

  “What are we planning? Well, we’re going to drink our beers.” Jarret takes a hearty draw from his. “We’ll probably warm up that dance floor. Then I’ll work off some steam in a warm, feisty body.” He checks me out again, a slow journey from north to south. “You’re welcome to join the party. Particularly the last part.”

  On another day, in another life, I might’ve considered his offer. The deep rumble of his voice alone makes me feel blissfully warm and dizzy. I’m certain the rest of him would give me the ride of my life.

  But my situation doesn’t allow for indulgence. Especially not indulgence with this man.

  “I think not.” My tone is short, tolerating no room for argument.

  “Then I expect you’ll find your way out of town and back to wherever you came from.”

  “I’m gonna dance with my girl.” Jake rises and cants the brim of his hat in my direction. “Ma’am.”

  He and Conor vacate the table, leaving me alone with Jarret.

  “I’m not going anywhere.” My stomach ripples with nerves, and I press my hands against my lap to keep my fingers out of my hair.

  The silent space between us becomes the focal point, hovering like an awkward intruder. Jarret doesn’t strike me as the quiet type. He’s blatantly ignoring me.

  “You were there the night Conor was attacked.” I pull in a steady breath. “Yet you were unharmed. Were you in cohorts with Levi Tibbs?”

  He moves his eyes slowly, deliberately, locking onto mine with lethal warning.