Wild, Wounded Hearts
Wild Hearts, Book 2
By Beth Kery
Copyright ©Beth Kery 2019
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by reviewers, who may quote brief passages in a review.
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www.bethkery.com
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Epilogue
A Note from the Author
Wild, Desperate Hearts
Prologue
Twenty-two years ago
Z Beckett stealthily climbed the carved wooden staircase. It was the first time he had ever dared to set foot on what had always been considered forbidden territory in the Esterbrook house.
The sounds of agonized pants and muted screams coming from above made him want to shout as well, to fill his head with anything but that cruel noise. The boy stayed silent though, strangling his anxiety with the strength learned from his own suffering.
He heard the bear roaring outside—another mother in pain—and then a siren in the distance. Esme Esterbrook was going to be in so much trouble for luring that baby cub into the garage. Now the cub’s pissed-off mom was holding them all hostages inside the Esterbrook house. Five minutes into the standoff, Mrs. Esterbrook had gone into labor. Because the huge black bear was stalking angrily just outside the garage, they couldn’t open a door to release the cub. Meanwhile, the bear was blocking the driveway exit and intermittently wandering to other exits around the house. Mrs. Esterbrook couldn’t safely get to the hospital to have her baby.
And suddenly, it was too late. Baby Esterbrook was coming, whether they were ready or not.
Most of the time, Z couldn’t help but admire how brave Esme was, especially for such a little kid. But this time, she’d gone way too far. How was Esme going to feel if her dumb-ass prank had something to do with killing her own mom?
He pushed down the horrible thought. Silently, he crossed the sunny landing and eased down the shadowed corridor, all of his attention focused on the bedroom door at the end of the hall. It was cracked open an inch. His lungs burned painfully as he tried to restrain his panting. This was foreign territory to the orphan, next-door-neighbor kid: an adult world, a strange, compelling world.
The screams stopped, only to be replaced by the sound of panting…
And then, a tiny, kitten-like cry.
The boy knew those screams had been coming from Mrs. Esterbrook. He’d never met a prettier, nicer lady in his whole life. Every scream had sliced through him like a knife cut on skin. Still, he drew closer to the room, pulled by something his ten-year-old brain couldn’t quite comprehend.
Sure, he was pulling this crazy stunt because Grandpa Joe had ordered him to stay put downstairs in the Esterbrook family room with the littler kids—his brother Jude, their friend Mat, and Mrs. Esterbrook’s daughters, Sadie and Esme. Z didn’t like being told what to do. Before he’d been killed in a car crash, Z’s dad used to say that there had never been a line drawn that Z didn’t feel compelled to cross.
But even Z himself was surprised at his daring in sneaking upstairs in the Esterbrook house during such a critical time.
He felt sick to his stomach about Mrs. Esterbrook. Had his mother screamed like that just before she’d died in the car crash, surrounded by hot, twisted metal, smoke, and fire? The thought was unbearable to Z. He knew Mrs. Esterbrook cried out for a complete different reason.
But all pain sounded similar to a ten-year-old orphan’s ears.
He risked another step down the hallway in the direction of the door. The wood floor creaked under his foot. He abruptly halted at the sound, wincing in dread at being discovered. He plastered his back against the wall, holding his breath. Stephen would be as furious at him for this stunt.
Through a tiny crack in the door, he heard a man’s voice.
“It’s a girl, Ilsa.”
“She’s a beauty,” another man said, sounding awed.
Z recognized the first voice as belonging to Grandpa Joe’s physical therapist and caregiver, Stephen Jackson. Stephen had also looked out for Z and his little brother, Jude, soon after they’d been dumped on Grandpa Joe’s doorstep half a year ago. He knew that in addition to being a physical therapist, Stephen had been a medic in the army. In Z’s experience, Stephen knew just about everything. Surely he could help Mrs. Esterbrook safely have a baby.
At least she’s not screaming anymore.
“Let me see her, Clive.”
“Let Stephen finish cleaning her up,” Mr. Esterbrook said gently.
Z crept further down the hallway, closer to the door. He had a lot of experience stalking silently, thanks to hours of playing X-Men, Star Wars or Z’s personal favorite, Ghost Rider, with Jude and Mat. Now that they’d moved to Tahoe Shores, Sadie and Esme insisted on playing things like Xena Warrior Princess or Buffy the Vampire Slayer, a fact that disgusted Z. It had at first, anyway, until he’d learned it was just as fun to play the bad guy as it was the hero.
“Hello beautiful girl. Welcome to the world,” he heard Mrs. Esterbrook croon. She sounded very tired, but happy somehow. Z wasn’t sure how that could be right. Even the baby stopped her crying, as if she, too, wanted to hear the mystery in her mother’s voice.
He had to see Mrs. Esterbrook’s face in order to be sure she was okay, though. Holding his breath, he peered into the narrow opening of the door.
He recognized Stephen’s tall body and wide shoulders as he stood at the foot of the bed, wiping his hands off with a towel. Mrs. Esterbrook lay in the bed, a sheet pulled over her chest, while Mr. Esterbrook leaned over her, stroking his wife’s shoulder.
But what transfixed Z the most about the scene was the way Mrs. Esterbrook’s face shone as she looked down at her third daughter.
“This is one for the family history book,” Mr. Esterbrook chuckled. Z could see that his face was lit up just like his wife’s was as he stared down at the little bundle she held in her arms. “Esme luring that cub into the garage, and her mother keeping us hostage here in the house would have taken up at least two chapters alone. But then, this little girl decided that was the precise moment she wanted to come into the world, and the plot thickened. If I had to make a guess, I’d say innocent face or not, she’
s not going to be afraid of complicated situations, not to mention a little drama. What are we going to call her, Ilsa?”
Mrs. Esterbrook glanced up. She looked directly at Z through the crack in the door with huge, greenish-brown eyes. He started.
“Z?” she called.
He flinched like he’d been slapped. Stephen’s head snapped around before he had time to move out of the narrow opening in the doorway.
Shit. I’m in for it now.
Stephen stalked toward the door, blue eyes flashing. “What are you doing? How dare you spy on the Esterbrooks at such a private moment—”
“I didn’t see anything! I just looked a second ago.”
Stephen blocked his view and put his hand on the opposite side of the door, as if to close it in Z’s face.
“I heard screaming,” Z said, growing desperate.
Stephen paused.
“It’s all right, Stephen. Let him in for a moment,” Mrs. Esterbrook said softly.
Stephen looked around. Then he was backing away and opening the door wider.
Mr. and Mrs. Esterbrook both stared directly at him. Suddenly the last place Z wanted to be was in that room.
“Come in,” Mrs. Esterbrook encouraged with a little, tired smile. “Everything’s okay in here. It’s natural to have a lot of yelling when a baby is born, unfortunately. It’s all worth it. Come and have a look at the newest Esterbrook girl.”
Z hesitated on the threshold.
“Just for a few seconds. Things aren’t entirely finished here, yet,” Stephen said firmly, but Z heard warmth in his voice. Stephen wasn’t as mad at him as Z had worried he’d be. Z glanced down warily at the little bundle in the crook of Mrs. Esterbrook’s arm.
“Come on in. She won’t bite,” Mr. Esterbrook said.
Of course an itty-bitty thing like that isn’t going to bite me.
Despite his brave thought, Z entered the room reluctantly. When he stepped up to the foot of the giant bed, he came to a halt. But Clive put out his arm and waved Z in his direction.
Z looked down at the little bundle in Mrs. Esterbrook’s arms. The baby’s tiny mouth was puckered up like it was about to blow out a candle. She made a funny gurgling noise and pulled a face. Then she opened her mouth and let out a squall that made Z jump.
Mrs. Esterbrook suppressed a chuckle and started to croon to her new daughter, soothing her.
“She’s awful little to have such a big yell,” Z said after the baby had quieted some.
“She’s small, but she’s perfect. I’ll bet she’s over six pounds,” Stephen said from where he stood at the foot of the bed.
At that moment, a loud growl resounded from the yard outside. Ilsa glanced around, startled. “Poor Mama bear is still out there?”
“Yeah,” Z replied. “But three forest rangers, two police cars and an ambulance got here a few minutes ago. Grandpa Joe is on the phone with them, trying to figure out what to do.”
“Esme,” Mr. Esterbrook muttered darkly under his breath.
“She feels real bad about it,” Z said, compelled to defend his friend; even if Esme had been a dumbass for thinking she could make a secret pet of a wild cub in the Esterbrook garage. “But It was so cute,” Esme had kept wailing when she’d confessed to her agitated father what she’d done. Z resisted rolling his eyes at the memory.
Girls.
“She’s only six years old,” Z reasoned when he noticed Mr. Esterbrook’s stern face.
Mr. Esterbrook’s expression softened a little. Z inhaled in relief. He was still trying to understand the Esterbrook family. He knew from experience that Mr. and Mrs. Esterbrook adored Esme and Sadie. To his amazement, their love didn’t appear to have conditions. Esme might be in trouble for trapping that cub in the garage, but her punishment would be fair.
More importantly, her parents would continue loving her as much as they ever had.
Z guessed he was glad for Esme. But he was also a little suspicious of this complete, unquestioned love he’d discovered in the Esterbrook household. In his experience, love was more like the scoreboard at a football game. The one with the most points won. Surely Esme had lost a shitload of points with this latest screw-up. Parents—100, Kid—0.
At least.
So how could it be that Esme wouldn’t end up a total loser?
“So what do you think about her name?” Mr. Esterbrook asked, bending down to brush his finger gently against his daughter’s smooth pink cheek.
Mrs. Esterbrook examined her daughter with a searching expression.
“I don’t know,” she murmured. “It’s not quite coming to me.”
Another roar vibrated the windows.
“Maybe you should call her Baby Bear,” Z volunteered impulsively.
Mrs. Esterbrook’s big eyes fastened on him. A smile flickered across her lips.
“You’re right, Z. I knew we needed you. We’ll name her Ursula. It means little bear,” she said softly when she noticed Z’s confusion.
He mouthed the name experimentally.
Mrs. Esterbrook’s smile widened. “Thank you for the name, Z.”
“Better thank Esme for that,” he muttered, his cheeks burning in embarrassed pleasure.
Mrs. Esterbrook winced.
“Okay, time for you to go, Z” Stephen said, moving to the side of the bed. “Go and tell everyone that Ursula has arrived, and there are no complications so far. Grandpa Joe can let the EMT’s and forest rangers know. There’s no need to harm the bear, but Ilsa and Ursula need to get to the hospital in the near future, so they’re going to need to get creative.”
Mrs. Esterbrook looked like she was in pain. Was she going to start screaming again? Z hesitated.
“It’s okay, Z. I’m all right. This is all part of the process,” she assured him through pants. He felt Stephen’s hand on his shoulder, urging him to leave the room.
When Z reached the hallway, he paused to listen at the closed door, hearing their muffled voices.
“Sorry about that, Ilsa,” Stephen apologized.
“He was worried about you,” Mr. Esterbrook told his wife.
“Of course he was worried. He was thinking of his mother,” Mrs. Esterbrook said before she gasped and moaned softly.
Chapter One
May 2019
Z Beckett had no patience for a fool; especially one whom he’d met in jail.
Who’s the fool, this douche bag, or me, for agreeing to meet him? At a damn bar, no less.
This is what I get for doing business with the devil and his minions.
“So just like that, huh? Your boss says he doesn’t want the bike, and he wants the money back?” Z demanded angrily.
Joey Slavitch, or Joey the Slant, as he was commonly called due to being born with one shoulder lower than the other, shrugged unevenly.
“Frankie’s got no excess cash at the moment. He’s feeling the need to tighten the belt. You know he’s a businessman, above all else.”
“He’s the head of the Reno chapter of the Dark Psychles, a vicious crime syndicate. Not fucking Steve Jobs,” Z muttered bitterly.
Joey took his cigar out of his mouth and threw up his hands in a bad facsimile of innocence. “Crime Syndicate? The Psychles are a motorcycle club. A social group of likeminded men with a common hobby.”
“Yeah, making money in any way you can, including murder, theft, extortion, illegal gambling, drugs, prostitution—”
“Hey, I take offense to that!”
“When I met you at County Jail, you’d just pled guilty to possession and distribution of methamphetamine.”
“I meant about the prostitution. I’m not involved with any whores.”
“Your boss is, which you know very well,” Z said darkly, glancing toward the bar. His gaze fixed on the vision of the bartender pouring a beer. He swallow
ed with difficulty. His mouth felt dry.
God, I could use a drink.
No one in their right mind entered into business dealings with the likes of Joey the Slant or Frankie Saccardi, and did it sober.
“Tell Frankie there’s no money to return,” Z said. “I did what he asked me to do with the down payment. I’ve worked my ass off on that Mescalero. I combed every boneyard between Hells Canyon and Tucson. I’ve put my own money into it, beyond Frankie’s. That bike’s a fucking piece of art.”
“Come on, Z. Be reasonable,” Joey said, resorting to whining. “You can’t expect Frankie to let this pass. How is that fair, if he loses all his money, plus he never gets his bike?”
“He gave a down payment for a customized bike. I kept my end of the bargain and built it for him. He’s the one who’s welching on the deal, not me.” He was so mad he could spit acid. He should have known better. It was bad enough that he’d made a deal with a Psychle, but the head of the local branch of the motorcycle gang?
God, I’m a first rate loser. How am I going to make the down payment for the business in Columbia now?
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