We repeated the process in the room across the hall. Bear didn’t know me, and at first the blond cowboy shot me the same hostile glower that he gave Libby and Tuck. God. As far as he was concerned, I was a Nazi sympathizer. I fought the impulse to speak up, to disassociate myself from them and squirmed under the judgment I saw in his eyes. Things got weird after I’d introduced myself and he smiled at me. What was up with that?
Libby crossed the room and rolled up the window blind. I squinted at the bright light, then moaned and scratched furiously at the skin surrounding the burn.
“What’s wrong?”
I extended my leg so Libby could see the burn. “I got hurt in a motorcycle accident a couple of weeks ago. Burned real bad. It itches so much that it’s driving me crazy. I hope it isn’t getting infected.”
Libby bent over to examine my leg. I flinched and groaned when she gently touched the wound, hamming it up for all I was worth. “Maybe we should have the doctor take a look at that,” she suggested.
I suppressed my triumphant grin. “I don’t think Ripper would want that man to touch me, not unless he was there to make sure the doctor stayed in line.”
“I get it. You never know with those people. I’ve been spotting, and we’re worried about the baby. Boyd always stays close when the doctor examines me. Do you have any shorts?” I nodded. Hannah and I had cut the legs off a pair of mom jeans. “Why don’t you get dressed while I fetch Ripper?”
When Libby left the room, I threw on the short shorts and a pink tank top. I tugged the top down over my cutoffs, making sure it wouldn’t ride up and reveal my welts. They were too easy to misinterpret, and I didn’t want anybody to ogle or comment on them.
Libby returned a few minutes later, Ripper in tow. They found me sitting on the edge of the bed, my lower lip trembling with false worry and pain. “It really hurts, baby. I think it might be infected.”
Ripper squatted next to the bed and pretended to examine the burn. He whistled. “Shit. It does feel warm.” It didn’t. “Guess I gotta let that man examine you.”
Tuck appeared in the doorway. “Something wrong?”
“Mac’s burn might be getting infected. Gonna have the doctor check it out.”
Tuck bent over my leg, frowning. “How’d she get burned?” When he reached out to touch my skin, I instinctively drew back.
Ripper pushed Tuck’s hand away. “Pipes burned her leg when I laid the bike down.”
Tuck lifted his brows and opened his mouth. I suspected that he was going to make some snarky comment about how Ripper let me get hurt. He did like to needle Ripper. Fortunately, he thought better of it. “It’s a pain in the ass to take off the doctor’s shackles. Best we go to him.” He dug in his pocket for the key. We followed him to the opposite end of the hall. Tuck unlocked the door and led the way in.
“Time to earn your keep, boy,” he called to Sahdev, who sat cross-legged on the bed, eyes closed, head leaning back against the wall.
Sahdev opened his eyes, and his gaze moved from Tuck to Ripper. Not a flicker of recognition crossed his face.
Ripper crossed his arms over his chest and scowled at Sahdev. “My old lady has a burn on her leg that’s itching something fierce. Think it might be infected. I want you to check it out, but no funny business, you feel me? I’m not taking my eyes off you.”
My lungs constricted, and I leaned against the door frame, trying to catch my breath. Sahdev had to know that Ripper was playing a part, that his contempt was a ruse, but still, my soul shriveled at the disrespectful words directed at our friend.
“I understand,” Sahdev said, his voice scratchy. If the brigade was bringing him food and water only once a day, he had to be thirsty. I could fix that.
“He needs to wash his hands before he touches me. I’ll be right back.” I shuffled to the kitchen—hamming up my injury—and grabbed a stainless steel bowl, liquid dish soap, and three bottles of water that I wrapped in a hand towel. Returning to the room, I handed everything to Ripper, then turned to Tuck, forcing myself to touch his arm.
“You’re sure he’s a real doctor?” I asked. The tremor in my voice was genuine, although I knew Tuck would misinterpret it. As soon as Tuck turned his back on Sahdev, Ripper nodded at me and slid a bottle of water underneath his pillow. Thank God he understood what I was up to.
Ripper poured the second bottle into the basin and squeezed soap onto Sahdev’s hands. Once Sahdev finished washing, Ripper handed him a towel. He set the basin and the third bottle of water on a dresser. With any luck, Tuck wouldn’t think to carry it all back to the kitchen, leaving Sahdev with two bottles of water to drink.
Ripper dragged a desk chair across the room, placed it next to the bed, then held out a hand toward me. “His hands are clean now. Sit down and let the doc check out your burn.”
I sat and extended my leg onto the bed. Bending over, Sahdev spent several minutes examining the injury.
“How long ago did this happen?” he asked, playing dumb.
“About two weeks ago,” Ripper replied.
“Two weeks.” Sahdev repeated, furrowing his brow. “It should have healed more in that time. I’m concerned by the color. I don’t suppose you have any antibiotics in the house? Or at least, an antibiotic ointment?”
“Not a clue,” Tuck said.
“Would you mind checking?” Ripper glanced at Tuck. “Maybe somebody left some antibiotics in a medicine cabinet.”
Tuck winked at me. “Gotta take care of our sweet thang. I’m on it.”
Sweet thang. I’d never again hear that endearment without shuddering.
I smiled up at him. “Thanks, Tuck. I really appreciate how nice you are to me.”
Lie. Lie. Lie.
Tuck’s footsteps retreated down the hall. Ripper gripped Sahdev’s shoulder. “Hang in there, doc. We’re gonna get you outta here. You and Bear. And we’re gonna take Valhalla back from these fuckers.”
“I never doubted you’d come for me,” Sahdev said in a low, weary voice.
“You sacrificed yourself to save Mac and Hannah. That’s a debt I can never repay. I owe you forever.”
Sahdev shook his head. “No. No debt. We’re family, and that’s what family does for each other.”
“Sahdev,” I whispered, my heart breaking that we’d have to leave him in shackles.
“It’s all right, Kenzie.” He squeezed my hand. “I’ll be fine.”
Tuck’s whistle signaled his return. “Score.” He brandished a small white tube. “Antiseptic cream with built-in pain reliever.”
“Thanks, man.” Ripper held out his hand. “I’ll rub it on.” He squeezed some ointment onto his fingertips and spread it over my wound, then glanced dismissively at Sahdev. “Think we’re done with him.”
“Yep,” Tuck agreed.
Without a backward glance at our friend, we walked from the room. Tuck locked the door and slipped the key into the back pocket of his jeans.
The men strode side by side up the hall, and I had to scamper to keep up with them. I tugged on Ripper’s arm. “Libby wants me to help her clean up after breakfast, and then she promised to show me the chicken coop and garden. That goo you spread on my burn has already made the pain go away. Is it okay if I help Libby?”
Ripper glanced over his shoulder at me. “Go ahead. You gotta earn your keep.” Since Tuck’s back was turned, I stuck out my tongue, a simple act of defiance that made my mealy-mouthed, complacent act much easier to swallow.
Libby had already washed the breakfast dishes. She gratefully sat down at the kitchen table, resting her swollen feet, while I dried and put the dishes away.
“We need to bake bread today.” She fanned her face with an old magazine. “We’ll mix the dough and set it to rise before we head outside.”
“That sounds fun. I love homemade bread, but I’ve never made it.” I was getting alarmingly adept at lying. Before Miles fell in love with it and took over, I used to help Aunt Debbie bake bread and cinnamon rolls.
&
nbsp; I insisted that Libby stay off her feet as she directed me step-by-step on how to make bread. Once I had kneaded the dough and put it in a greased bowl to rise, she led me outside to the chicken coop.
After inspecting the hen house, we secured the gate and began to walk toward the vegetable garden. Libby and I picked corn and dug potatoes before returning to the house. We lugged two wooden tubs to the porch—one for soapy water, one for fresh—and spent a couple of hours washing dirty clothes. Wringing out the heavy, wet clothes was exhausting work, and I insisted that Libby take a break on the porch swing while I finished the task. After a feeble protest that she was fine, I persuaded her to go inside and take a nap while I hung the wet clothes on the line.
Jerrilyn watched me from the porch steps, her arms crossed over her chest. From everything I’d seen and heard, the Wilcox Brigade had old-fashioned, sexist views about a woman’s place and a woman’s work. In spite of her advanced pregnancy, Libby was stuck doing all the grunt work, all the cooking, cleaning, and laundry. And despite her sex and her assertions that the health of the baby came first, Jerrilyn was somehow exempt from the gender expectations and was content to leave it all on Libby.
I finished hanging up the clothes, balanced the laundry basket on my hip, and approached the steps.
“You’re a useful little thing,” Jerrilyn observed.
“Thank you, ma’am. Ripper told me to earn my keep.”
“And you always do what Ripper tells you?”
Something about her tone made my Spidey-senses tingle. She was fishing, for what I didn’t know.
“Well, yeah. I mean, he is kind of bossy, but I don’t mind. He’s good to me. He makes me feel safe. The man can take care of business. You should see how he handles a gun. And he never looks at another woman—not that there are many other women around. Guess that’s one of the few blessings of the pandemic. Is that a terrible thing to say? Anyway, my ex was a cheater, and I won’t put up with that shit again.”
Had I tossed out enough word salad to throw her off her purpose, whatever that was?
“Is that right,” she said noncommittally. She’d planted herself in the middle of the stairs and refused to budge, forcing me to switch the basket to my other hip so I could step around her. Charming. “Ripper told me this morning that he wants to join the brigade.”
I halted midstep, surprised.
“He didn’t tell you? I wonder why not?” Her face assumed an entirely unconvincing sympathetic expression. Was she trying to make me doubt Ripper? To sow discord between us? What was in it for her?
I shrugged. “I slept in this morning. He probably planned to tell me later.”
She smirked. “Uh-huh.” When I ignored the jibe and started walking again, she called out. “We’re having a party tonight, to welcome Ripper into the brigade. Darryl and Dwight will be going into town later, to rummage around for some booze. What do you two like to drink?”
I didn’t drink. Never had. But could I believably pass myself off as a biker’s old lady if I told her I never touched the stuff? In my motorcycle club romances, most of the characters imbibed.
“How nice of them.” My mind scrambled to recall what Ripper liked to drink besides beer. I came up empty. “Ripper’s got simple tastes. He’d just as soon have beer as anything else. Sometimes he’s in the mood for tequila.” I totally made that up.
“And you?”
Me? I couldn’t think of a thing. “Rum and coke.” I finally blurted out the name of Ali’s favorite drink.
“I’ll tell the boys to keep their eyes open for tequila and rum.”
I smiled. “Thanks.”
The bread dough had finished its second rise. I didn’t want to wake Libby, so I fired up the stove and put the four loaves in to bake. The breadbox held a single loaf of bread, which I used to slap together peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for the men, who gathered on the porch for a late lunch. The aroma of freshly baked bread roused Libby, who took over babysitting the loaves in the oven. I retreated to the bedroom, claiming I needed a nap. What I really needed was a break from making-nice with the people who were holding Sahdev and Bear captive. I read for a while, then drifted off.
The aroma of frying chicken woke me. I stared at the ceiling for a full minute before jumping out of bed and heading to the kitchen to help Libby.
She glanced over her shoulder with a smile. “You have a good nap?” If Jerrilyn had said the same words, they would have reeked with sarcasm, but Libby sounded sincere and friendly. She liked me, or at least she liked the person I was pretending to be. My conscience twinged, until I reminded myself that she was a willing accomplice to all the crimes perpetuated by the brigade.
“What can I do to help?”
“Can you fix mashed potatoes?” Libby flipped chicken over in the two cast iron frying pans on the stove.
“Sure.”
Libby pointed at the mountain of potatoes on the counter. “The vegetable peeler is in the middle drawer. The pot’s in the drainer by the sink. Put the peels in that bucket for the pigs.” She tilted her head toward a plastic bucket on the floor.
“I’m on it.”
We worked in silence for a few minutes. “You ever butcher a chicken?”
My shoulders tightened. I ate chicken—but, call me a hypocrite—if I had to kill, pluck, and gut one, I’d probably swear off meat forever. “I’m a city girl. I’ve never had to butcher anything.” A better answer than, “Hell no. Ew.”
“I butchered two chickens the day before yesterday. We divert electricity to one small refrigerator in the garage so we can safely age the carcasses. And to keep Boyd’s beer cold. Next time we have chicken, I’ll teach you how to butcher them.”
I swallowed hard. “Okay.” I hadn’t considered what it would mean to live on a working ranch. Unless I intended to be a total leech, I couldn’t afford to be squeamish. Crap. Maybe I could volunteer for another distasteful job—mucking out stalls—if somebody else handled processing meat. But that was a problem for another day. First we had to get rid of the Wilcox Brigade.
Libby and I put corn on to boil just before we called the men in to dinner. To my surprise, Dwight and Darryl were still out scavenging for booze. Libby set aside plates for them. After we finished eating, Tuck escorted Libby and me when we took food to Bear and Sahdev. We gathered in the living room, and Libby handed around bottles of beer.
“Thanks.” I took the proffered bottle, twisted off the cap and took a small sip. Ripper’s eyes sparkled as he watched me suppress a shudder.
“You really don’t like beer, do you?” he asked in a low voice.
“Nope.” I took another sip.
He snagged the bottle from my hand. “You’re a cheap drunk, Mac,” he said loudly. “I don’t want you passing out before the party gets going.”
“Hey!” I offered a halfhearted protest and playfully stretched my hand out for the bottle, which he held out of reach.
“Mind your manners, woman. No means no.”
“Seriously?” I rolled my eyes and snorted before I could stop myself.
“Somebody needs to be reminded who’s in charge,” Tuck interjected, smirking at Ripper.
Well, fuckety-doo-dah. I forgot myself for a handful of seconds—forgot that I was playing to an audience—and I triggered Tuck’s snark. I had to tread cautiously around him, encourage his habit of deference to a Janissary, not undermine it.
Ripper shot him a dirty look. “Mind your own business. I can keep my old lady in line.”
“Just saying. I wouldn’t let any woman of mine mouth off like that.”
“Nobody asked you, so fuck off.”
Tuck raised both hands in an I surrender gesture.
Ripper turned his eyes to me. “You gonna be good?”
I bobbed my head, searching his face for any sign of my Ripper, of the man who built me up, who never brought me down. I couldn’t see him behind the implacable mask he wore, but I knew that he was there.
“Sorry, baby,”
I mumbled.
“All right.” He pulled me across his lap. My legs straddled his waist, and my face hovered mere inches from his. “How about you show your old man what a good girl you can be?” His fingers tightened on my hips.
I nodded, signaling my compliance. “Whatever you want, Ripper.”
A slow smile crept across his face, and his hands gripped my ass. His mouth swooped down, and he captured my lower lip between his teeth. He nipped hard, as if reminding me who was boss, then pressed a firm kiss against my mouth. He released my ass, and strong fingers tangled in my hair. With one hand, he cupped my nape and held me tight. With the other, he palmed my breast.
I squirmed, stoking the erection that pushed against my denim-covered sex. Ripper arched his hips and we rocked together, swaying back and forth while he ate at my mouth. When he pinched my nipple, I gasped, tearing my lips away from his. We were both breathing hard. His pulse pounded against his throat. I touched his skin. His heartbeat drummed against my fingers.
Ripper’s dark eyes hooded. “Come here.” He yanked my head forward and locked his lips on mine once again.
Only a few months ago I’d told Ripper that we didn’t fit. I’d never be a fun party girl. I’d never drink alcohol. I’d never do anything sexual in public. Yet here I was, beer on my breath, grinding against him in full view of onlookers. The good girl who wanted a safe and predictable world was cutting loose in front of people she despised.
A safe and predictable world. Even during the best of times—before the pandemic—those notions were little more than a comforting conceit, a tantalizing delusion aimed at staving off existential panic. The new world demanded that we face reality. And my reality was good. Ripper loved me, and I loved him. We had friends. We mattered. We all hoped to build a future together. I couldn’t ask for more than that, could I?
I kissed my man back with abandon.
Maelstrom Page 31