Still stalking the room, Victor threw the ice pack at a wall. It hit with a wet splat—the ice had melted.
“It’s that bastard Evan Hall. If she did this, he made her.”
Evan Hall was a well-known cooker and leader of the Jasper Warriors, a small but influential gang on the reservation that styled themselves protectors of their people. On the Sawtooth Jasper Reservation, which abutted right against the Jasper Ridge town limits, there were two factions—those who kept themselves on the rez at all costs, and those who crossed over regularly. By far, the greater number of residents on the rez crossed over. They worked in and around Jasper Ridge, they shopped and dined and made friends in town, their kids went to school in town.
There was always tension between those two ways of living, and the Warriors had established themselves in the isolationist camp, but since Hall had taken control of the Warriors, that tension had gotten pretty hot. He’d also been the one to introduce meth production to the reservation—apparently missing the intense irony of berating his people for crossing into town while at the same time selling product all over the West.
Evan Hall was close to Logan’s age. Natalie was a teenager. Logan waved Victor to a stop. “How’s she tangled up with him?”
“How d’you think?” Victor grunted and picked up his storming circuit.
“Jesus, Vic. She’s a kid.”
“You think I don’t know that? She’s my baby sister! I’m gonna fucking kill him.”
Logan stood and got in Victor’s way. “Easy, now. Honor’s got her. If anybody can straighten this out, it’s her. So take a seat and let’s wait to see what she can do.”
Victor sat, and Logan reclaimed his seat. They waited to see what Honor could do.
*****
“You are absolutely amazing,” Logan murmured and pressed his lips to the sweet spot at the base of Honor’s sleek throat. “I’m in awe of you.”
She laughed softly and cuddled her naked body closer, lifting his head to look into his eyes. “She has no prior arrests, no record of any kind. Until last year, her grades were good. It wasn’t hard to get her released to her parents. But she’s still got to deal with the charges. And now we’re in the red zone, and I can’t say more than that.”
He didn’t need to know more. Honor was helping Natalie, so Natalie would be okay. “I love to watch you work. Just to see it on your face, the way your mind’s spinning.” He took hold of her thigh and spread her wide, sinking into her with ease. “It’s hot as hell.”
She moaned and looped her arms around his neck. “It feels good to help. I don’t want to lose it.”
“You won’t, counselor. I’ll help you.” He tightened his arms around her, thrust deep into her. Held her close, filled her up, surrounded her. He didn’t ever want to let her go.
*****
The Fourth of July was the biggest day on Jasper Ridge’s whole calendar, celebrating the birth of the country and of the town itself. The celebration went on for days, and all day long on the Fourth. A big parade, contests, rides, a small-fry rodeo, enough food to feed the whole state, dancing, fireworks—just a general good time that included just about every country cliché there was.
Last year, the party had been marred by Black’s death and Heath’s arrest. This year, right before the party, Natalie Thomas had been very publicly arrested, and there was another pall over the proceedings. They were starting an unfortunate tradition of people getting arrested at Founders’ Day.
The festivities went on as planned, but the Thomas family was prominently absent, and the gossip train ran full steam ahead. Logan had heard all sorts of mutterings and outright declarations, ranging from the mostly true to the certifiably insane: Natalie was Evan Hall’s girlfriend. She’d been caught up in his bullshit and couldn’t get free. Natalie was the one who’d had the idea to cook meth. Hall was pimping her out to his friends. Natalie was running the Jasper Warriors. Natalie was pregnant.
All of that and more. People just couldn’t help themselves.
Logan knew, because Victor had told him, the truth. Natalie had been with Hall since before Christmas, but her family hadn’t known until early spring. She was running wild, rebelling against the strict household Frank and Naomi had made, and when Evan Hall had turned his smarmy attention on the pretty teenager, she’d felt flattered and emboldened. He was twenty years older. A grown man with power. She was in his thrall. But not with his child.
And—Victor had told him what Honor had not—Natalie had been with him when he’d run his product into Boise. On more than one occasion. And all the way into Oregon once—across state lines. The sheriff wanted Hall, and he was willing to threaten a little girl with prison to get to him.
Natalie wouldn’t turn on him. Besides any true feelings she had for the son of a bitch, and a general tendency to be loyal to her people, good or bad, Hall was a dangerous man, with dangerous friends. Natalie put her life and the lives of her family on the line if she gave him up. Which the sheriff knew full well.
Would he put her in prison if she didn’t turn? Norb Murphy harbored some bias against the Shoshone, so Logan thought he’d serve Natalie up just to get some kind of win. He didn’t see her life to hold the same value of a white girl’s life.
Ironic that he was so deferential with the Cahills. Logan and his siblings were registered members of the tribe, too; their mother had been half Shoshone. But Morgan Cahill was a white man, wealthy and powerful, and his children were considered white. Enough green washed away people’s prejudices in this greedy world. Or at least faded them out.
But Honor was there, working her magic. She’d gotten Natalie released in a few hours, without bail. She was on the case, working for free. Logan had offered to pay expenses, to help in the only way he could. It felt good, to help her, and he really did love to watch her work. But already, just a few days after Natalie’s arrest, Honor was pulling away from him. She was deeply immersed in her work, distracted by it, and he was superfluous unless she needed him to send money to somebody.
Summer was a slow time on the ranch; the herd was focused on eating and growing and lazing around in the sun, and the hands kept watch. There wasn’t much for him to do except make sure the schedule was set for weaning season, place orders for winter hay, and keep the bills paid.
Normally, he spent summers enticing the trophy wives up at the dude ranch, giving them something interesting to do while their rich husbands played cowboy. This summer, for the first time in his life, he had a woman, and the first weeks of that had been pretty damn nice. Now, though, she was busy, and he was bored.
He was bored here on the Fourth, too.
Honor had been missing her Boise friends, and he’d suggested she invite them to town for the celebration. He’d meant to draw her attention back here, to him, but instead, he’d only managed to ace himself out of enjoying the Founders’ Festival.
Though Honor looked like she fit in, wearing faded jeans that fit her perfectly, and a navy-blue t-shirt that slid off her shoulder to show the silky strap of a red bra, and a pair of new boots she’d picked up at Idahoan Outfitters so he could teach her to ride, her friends looked like ritzy tourists—and one, Lizbet, looked downright obnoxious. She was wearing a novelty headband with red-white-and-blue sparkly stars bouncing on springs, a sequined shirt in a flag pattern, and a tiny white skirt with shiny red cowboy boots.
Lizbet was, Honor had told him, an art history professor. Well, okay. Sure. She looked like a bimbo in a used-car-lot commercial.
During the parade, the rodeo, the contests, all of it, he’d been trailing behind four women clucking together like hens. Every now and then, one of them would throw some kind of snarky chick comment his way, and he thought Honor had tried to pull him into actual conversation once or twice, but he was too devoted to stewing in his own sullen juice to engage.
He probably should have left them to their fun and found his own friends, but this was Honor’s first Founders’ Festival, and he’d wanted to sh
are it with her. So he’d followed and sulked and hated himself for what he was becoming.
The Jack sold dollar pints and shots on Founders’ Day, and by the time the sun was setting on the day, Honor’s friends had gotten absolutely plastered—so much that they were barely on their feet. There was a whole night of festivities coming up, including a dance and, of course, fireworks at the town park, but the women Logan had begun to call—in his head—Honor’s Boise Bitches were done.
Though Honor had laughed and hooted and goofed with her friends like a college girl, egging them on while they flirted with town men, Logan thought she’d stayed pretty sober. He’d had little more to do than pay attention, and she drank at about a third the pace of her ‘girl crew.’ When he finally drove them all over to the Gemstone Motor Inn, she was steady, and she helped him pour Lizbet, Emily, and Callie into their beds.
He waited at his truck while she got them fully tucked in. The town celebration pulsed all around, and he could hear it shifting its tone to the night. The band was tuning up; the kids were quieting down. This was his favorite part of what was usually a really great day. Maybe there was something to be salvaged—he could take Honor over to the park, and they could dance, and sit on the grass and watch the fireworks, make out in the dark.
His mood began to ease, and he took a nice, comfortably deep breath. He’d been a petulant shit all day; he’d known it at the time, but he could really see it now. This needy jealousy thing he had going—jealous of Honor’s friends and acquaintances, male and female alike, and of her work, too—he had to get hold of it. He had to figure it out and get it in hand, because those feelings ate away at the beautiful, powerful feelings he didn’t want to lose.
Then Honor came out of the motel room, stomping right at him, her brow drawn tight with anger. She was coming so fast, and she was so obviously angry, that Logan took a step back.
“Take me back to the ranch, please,” she gritted, and yanked the truck door open to climb inside. He came around to apologize, but she slammed the door before he could get there.
He went back and got in behind the wheel. “I was a dick today. I’m sorry.”
She didn’t respond. Her arms were crossed, and she glared straight ahead, like she was angry at the bug smears on the windshield.
“Honor.”
“Not in the truck. I want to have this out, but I don’t want to do it trapped in here with you. Please take me back to the ranch.”
“Trapped?”
She turned to him, and Logan saw that she was more than angry. She was hurt. And scared.
“I’m sorry,” he said again.
That, at least, bought him a nod. “Not in the truck, Logan.”
He drove back to the ranch. The band started playing as they drove past the park.
*****
The whole of the Cahill clan was in town, and so were all but one of their hands, whatever poor slob had drawn the short straw. Logan and Honor had the whole place to themselves, and Logan picked the living room for this fight. They slept together in his bed; he didn’t want bad shit between them to poison that space.
He walked in and went straight for the bar. He wasn’t drunk, and she wasn’t drunk, but maybe they needed to be. He poured himself a bourbon rocks and Honor a vodka rocks. When he turned with their drinks she was sitting in an armchair—no room for him to get close—with her arms and legs crossed. He handed her her drink.
She set it aside. “What is going on, Logan?”
“I told you, I’m sorry. I was in a mood, and I was a dick.”
“You’re in a mood a lot.”
“I’m moody.”
“No, you’re not. Not until lately.” She paused, and her voice lost about half its volume when she added, “Not until me.”
Denial leapt to his lips, but she was right, and she was too smart not to know she was. But Logan didn’t know what to say or do. He didn’t understand his own damn head. If he said she was right, would she think he wanted things to end? Because he didn’t. He wanted to feel better. He wanted to have that thing he had when she leaned on him. He wanted to kill that thing that had had him today. He didn’t know how to keep the one he wanted and lose the other.
“I don’t know how to do this. You need to give me some room to figure it out.”
“Do what?”
“Be with somebody like we are. I don’t understand how to do it.”
“That’s bullshit, Logan. It’s a copout.”
That hit low. He finished his drink and went back to the bar, splashing more bourbon into his glass, filling it full. He drank the whole thing down before he replied.
“Fuck you, counselor. I’m not copping out. I’m twisting myself into knots trying to do this. A little recognition of that would be nice.”
She stood up, and came closer, but not within reach. “You know exactly how to do this. There are examples all around you. Your brother and sister figured it out. Your father and mother figured it out. You see it working every day. And I see you with them. I see you with the kids. You know how to love, Logan. You know how to give yourself. You just won’t give yourself to me.”
“You’re who I want. I never tried this with anyone else. Maybe I can’t do it, but I swear I’m fucking trying.”
She shook her head, and Logan felt that black ooze filling him. Why did this have to hurt so goddamn much? And why the fuck did he want this?
He didn’t. Not this, not this feeling. He didn’t want this at all, or anything that would lead to this.
She wasn’t done. She had her carving knife nice and sharp, and she was going for his tender spots. “For a while, I’ve been trying to see if there’s a reason, or a pattern, for why you get surly like today, and I think I found it. It scares me, Logan. You get like this when I feel good. You’re sweet and attentive and wonderful when I feel weak. That’s what you need. You need me weak. You’re threatened when I’m strong.”
“Bullshit.”
Again, she shook her goddamn head. Fuck, why was she so calm? His guts were hanging out, and she was practically sedate. She was fucking lawyering him.
“I don’t want a savior, Logan. I can’t be with somebody who can only love me when he’s holding me up.”
“Who said anything about love?” He said it because he had to hurt her back, and he’d succeeded. Finally, she showed some emotion. Her eyes went wide, and she flinched, like he’d actually cut her. Drawn blood.
Good.
“I’m sorry,” she said, still in that cursed calm tone, though her face was no longer so placid. “I thought that was where we were headed.”
Yeah, it was. Not headed—he was there. He loved her. In every inch of his body, he was in love with her. That thing in his chest that felt so good? It was love. He needed to feel that. That, not this. But he couldn’t seem to feel one without the other.
Filling his glass again, he drank the bourbon down. Why did all this still fucking hurt? When would the booze kick in and make him not care?
The quiet between them stretched on until Honor said, her voice soft and shaking, “I thought … I thought what we have was different. I thought I was different.”
They both needed to face the fact that he couldn’t change, that nothing was different, would ever be different. He couldn’t have the love without the need, and the need was too much to manage. He’d been right all along—he wasn’t capable of love at all. Not like he wanted it to be.
But he was very good at making women hate him.
Finding his old armor, he said a terrible word in his most could-give-a-fuck voice. “Nope.”
Her head dropped. “Logan …”
He made himself one more drink, drank it down, set the glass aside, and walked out of the room. Out of the house. Back to his truck.
He started the engine and drove back to town. He left her behind.
Chapter Sixteen
Logan fought waking like he was being dragged to his death—which felt like it might be true. Clinging to the l
imbo between insensible dark and painful light, he took a groaning second and tried to figure out what the hell was wrong. Was he sick? Was he actually dying?
No—he was hung over. Founders’ Day. Oh, goddammit.
Casting an arm out—even his arms ached—he found an empty space beside him, and smooth linens. He cracked open a single reluctant eyelid and saw that half the bed was made. Honor hadn’t slept with him.
And why would she have? He’d been a champion dick last night.
They had some shit to clear out between them. He had some shit to clear out in his own head. He’d sat at the Jack last night for a long time, drinking Jim Beam like he’d find his answers in that bottle, and maybe he had. At the least, he’d figured out some things he had to say. Some things he had to ask. Forgiveness to beg for. Once he’d numbed the hurt, he’d seen the truth: he was going to lose her if he didn’t get his shit cleared out and stop behaving like a fucking a contestant for World’s Biggest Son of a Bitch.
The problem was, he still didn’t know where it was coming from, why his need for her freaked him out so much. She was right—he felt good when she needed him. Not when she was weak—or, hell, maybe she was right about that, too, but he didn’t want her to be weak. He loved how smart and talented she was, he loved to see her do her lawyering thing. But it felt wrong when she turned from him and did her own thing.
It scared him. The thing on the other side of the love, it was fear. He was afraid.
She’d called him a coward a long time ago. She was right.
Well, what he needed to do was to sack up and try to say this to her. Or most of it. Enough of it to clear out the black ooze that had flooded between them last night.
He didn’t want to lose her. He wanted to figure this out and do it right. For the first time in his life, he didn’t want to take the easy route and just walk away when things got complicated.
Someday (Sawtooth Mountains Stories Book 2) Page 20