by Lisa Jackson
It was sick how he was attracted to her—a little mite of a thing who didn’t know up from sideways when it came to men or sex.
Unlike Angie. He gritted his teeth, damning himself for his weakness where the Buchanan women—make that girls—were concerned. Though Angie’s blatant sexuality disgusted him, he couldn’t help being a little turned on whenever she was around.
God, if Chase could see him now!
He never thought he’d have this kind of woman trouble, where the most sought-after female in Prosperity was chasing him down and he was attracted to her spitfire of a little sister. What was wrong with him?
Not bothering with the lights, he led the horse into the stable and felt, rather than saw, another person. Willie, no doubt. He had a room over the stable. “What’re you doin’ up so early?” he asked, as he reached for a pail to get the colt some water.
“You cock-sucking bastard!” A fist slammed into his face.
Brig’s head snapped back. Pain exploded in his jaw. He spun against the wall and could barely breathe.
His fists clenched instinctively. “What the hell—?” Rounding on his heel, he hadn’t recovered before his attacker threw another punch. The knuckles on the man’s hand popped. Brig’s jaw cracked again. He hit the floor with a thud and rolled instinctively toward the door.
“Stay away from her!”
As Brig’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, he recognized Derrick, his face flushed and twisted in rage, his eyes bright with hate. The smell of used whiskey filled the air. “You hear me, McKenzie? You keep the fuck away from my sister!”
Cassidy’s image seared through his mind. “I haven’t—”
“I’ve seen you, you bastard. You’re droolin’ all over yourself.” He kicked at Brig, but this time Brig was ready. His hands wrapped around Derrick’s polished boot and twisted hard. “Wha—” Derrick lost his balance and landed on his back. Smack! His head bounced against the wall. “I’ll kill you!” he roared. “I’ll cut off your fuckin’ balls.”
Horses neighed and Brig backed up as Derrick scrambled to his feet and reached into his pocket. With a sharp click, his switchblade flashed deadly.
Brig’s insides froze. “Go sober up, Buchanan,” Brig advised, wiping at the blood that drizzled from his nostril, keeping his eyes trained on the knife, watching Derrick struggle to his feet. “Or else I might have to hurt you.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t ya?” Derrick’s smile was pure evil. “Well, try it, McKenzie. Just try it.”
“Leave it alone, Derrick.”
“You’ve been with her, haven’t ya? Gettin’ into her panties—”
“Shut up.” Guilt burned through his brain.
“I know it. I’ve seen you and I’m not the only one; the half-wit, he’s seen you, too. Been mouthin’ off about it.” Derrick wiggled his knife in the darkness. “You’re a no-good bastard son of a bitch, McKenzie. White trash that needs to be taught a lesson.” He lunged again, but Brig moved, rolling quickly onto the balls of his feet and reaching into his pocket for his jackknife. Crouched and ready, he wanted nothing more than to take Derrick down a peg or two.
Derrick’s knife sliced the air, slashing in a wide arc. Brig ducked, but not before the blade carved an arch in his shirt, the fabric ripping, the point of the knife burning into his skin.
Brig pounced, leaping onto Derrick’s back, holding his knife against Derrick’s throat.
“What the fuck!” With a swift kick, Brig’s heel smashed against Derrick’s knee. “Christ!”
Shifting his weight, making the drunk fall down, Brig was on him in an instant, pinning him down, knife at his throat, nostrils quivering. “You rich bastard, don’t you ever insinuate—”
“What the hell’s going on here?” The door flew open and a switch clicked. The stable was suddenly awash with flickering fluorescent light. Tall and furious, Mac loomed in the doorway, his weathered face a mask of hatred. “Didn’t I tell you I didn’t want any trouble, McKenzie?”
“The bastard’s trying to kill me!” Derrick yelled.
“Get off him!” Mac ordered.
Brig hesitated.
“Now, McKenzie! Move it!”
Snapping his knife closed, Brig crawled off Derrick and shoved the jackknife deep into his pocket. With the back of his hand, he wiped the blood that oozed from the corner of his mouth and stained the front of his shirt.
Derrick, smelling of liquor and smoke, climbed to his feet. “He jumped me when I came in to check on the horses.”
“That so?” Mac’s eyes thinned, as if he were weighing the truth in Derrick’s words. “Since when’re you interested in the stock?”
“Hey—I care about this place. Gonna own it someday.”
“You smell like a brewery.”
“I had a couple of drinks. So what? Anyway, this son of a bitch was waitin’ for me. Jumped me from behind.”
“That so, McKenzie?” Mac eyed Brig’s shirt, pulled down the cut flap and frowned at the semicircle of blood where Derrick’s blade had scratched Brig’s chest.
Brig had been down this road too many times to care. “It happened just like he said except he got the names twisted around. He jumped me.”
“You lying bastard. You know what happened.”
“Shut up, Derrick. Let him tell his side of it.” Mac wasn’t taking any crap from either of them. His gaze bored into Brig. “So what were you doin’ here this time of day?”
He could lie and say that he’d come to work early, but Derrick knew better, had seen him with the horse. His motorcycle wasn’t parked in its usual spot, and he was wearing the same clothes he’d worked in the day before. But if he told the truth, he’d get Angie and Cassidy in trouble. “Cassidy’s horse got loose last night. It took a while to find him.”
The lines on Mac’s face seemed to deepen. “Got loose where?”
“Out in the north pasture, by the old sawmill. Cassidy’s been pesterin’ me to ride him and I thought I’d give him a trial run first, make sure she could handle him. Trouble was he shied at a snake and threw me. I spent the next nine hours tryin’ to track him down.”
“You lost a fifty-thousand-dollar colt?” Mac demanded.
“Found him again. Unharmed.”
“Jesus H. Christ!” Mac lifted his hat and shot stiff fingers through his hair.
“That’s what happens when you hire fuckin’ trash,” Derrick snarled. “Can’t even stay on the horse. What kind of a ranch hand do you think you are, McKenzie?”
“Enough!” Rex Buchanan’s voice boomed through the stable, and Derrick’s lips curved into a smirk. “What in the Sam Hill is goin’ on? The noise you all are makin’ is enough to raise the dead. Holy Mother of Mary, look at you!” he said upon seeing his son. Derrick’s hair was mussed, filthy from rolling on the floor; cobwebs, dust and hay stuck to his head. A welt was forming under his eye. “What happened…” Then his gaze landed on Brig and his spine seemed to stiffen, vertebra by vertebra. “Derrick?”
“He jumped me when I came into the stable.”
Rex’s eyebrows inched up. “That so, McKenzie?”
“Other way around.”
Mac glowered at the two younger men. “McKenzie, here, claims he got throwed off Cassidy’s colt and spent the night trying to find him. When he got back, Derrick was waitin’ for him.”
“You believe him?” Rex asked Mac.
The foreman looked from Brig to Derrick and back again. “Someone’s got to be lyin’.” He rubbed the stubble on his jaw. “McKenzie here isn’t a fool and I don’t think he’d risk his ass by attacking your boy here. Derrick’s been drinking and—”
“All right, so I took a swing at him,” Derrick admitted angrily, “but he deserved it. I’ve seen him with Angie, Dad. Kissing her and touching her and—well, hell, for all I know he might’ve already—”
“Don’t even think it,” Rex growled, but his eyes had turned as dark as midnight, his lips white with rage. “What have you got to say for
yourself, boy?” he said. “I gave you a job, trusted you with the most valuable horses on the place and what have you done—nearly lost a prize colt for beginners.”
“That much is true.”
“And my daughter?” he demanded.
Brig thought of Cassidy and how he’d been unable to fight temptation and nearly taken her—how close he’d come to giving in to his lust and how much restraint it had taken to keep from making love to her over and over again. So she’d been a virgin—that hadn’t stopped him before. For the first time in his life he felt genuine remorse about his relationship with a woman.
“Have you been sleeping with Angie?” Rex’s voice was a cold, harsh whisper.
“No.” Brig stared him straight in the eye.
“Why should I believe you?”
“I guess you shouldn’t,” Brig answered, “but maybe you should have more faith in your daughter.”
“That’s not answering the question,” Derrick said, and his face was pale with hate. “I should rip your lyin’ tongue from behind your teeth, then slice off your nuts!”
“Enough!” Rex slammed his son up against the wall so hard a bucket that had been hung from a peg near the door clattered to the floor. “Clean up your language and go sleep it off,” Rex said, shoving Derrick toward the open door. “And you, Mac, leave us alone. This is personal.”
With a nod of his head, Mac walked out of the stable and Brig was left with the man who had hired him, the man who had been kind to his family when others in town would rather have looked the other way, the man who adored his daughters.
Fury dilated Rex’s eyes and his nostrils quivered. He pointed a thick finger at Brig’s chin and jabbed the air. “Don’t you ever, ever go near her again. Y’hear? I gave you this job because I thought you needed a break, because you’re good with the stock, but if you ever so much as lay a finger on Angie, I swear Derrick will be too late. I’ll cut off your balls myself.”
The air in the stables simmered, though night had just turned to day and the first rays of dawn were streaking through the open door, backlighting the most powerful man in the county, seeming to gild his white hair.
“Now, you’ve got work to do,” Rex pointed out. “I suggest you get on with it. But remember. I’ll be watching you. Even when your back is turned, and believe me, I’m not a man you want to cross.” Jaw clenched, he strode out of the stable, and Brig was left with a bad taste in his mouth. From this point forward, no matter what kind of trouble occurred on the ranch, he was sure to be blamed.
Cassidy couldn’t sleep. She thought of Brig and what he’d done to her; how he’d made her feel. The same exhilaration as riding Remmington flat-out, only different. She’d been as breathless as if she’d run for miles, her blood had seemed to spark as it had rushed through her veins and she’d tingled in the deepest parts of her.
She stood in front of the mirror naked, her body slim and athletic, her hips slender, her breasts small and high. Cocking her head, she eyed herself critically and wondered what he saw in her—a lanky tomboy without a feminine curve to her name. Her waist was small enough, she supposed, her abdomen flat, but still—if she shoved her hair into a baseball cap, wore men’s jeans and a big flannel shirt, no one would suspect that she was female.
But Brig hadn’t seemed to mind. Or had he? Was she just an easy substitute for Angie? Suddenly the image in the mirror seemed to mock her, and she felt foolish. She snatched up her clothes and tried not to think about the way her nipples puckered when she thought of Brig’s kisses or how, deep inside her, there was a new warm moisture.
“Cassidy?” Angie’s voice rang through the hall, and Cassidy dived into her underpants. She threw on a bra—what a joke—and slid into a faded pair of Wrangler jeans. “Hey, could you come here a minute?”
“Just a sec,” she called out as she shoved her arms through the sleeves of her favorite T-shirt and yanked it over her head.
“I need some help.”
“Great.”
“Oh, come on—”
On bare feet she hurried to Angie’s room, where her sister sat on the window ledge, hands outstretched, fingers separated by balls of cotton as a shiny shade of apricot polish dried on her nails.
She, too, was undressed, wearing only a lacy bra and bikini panties. Her skin was bronzed, her breasts nearly spilling out of the confines of silky red cups. Though her abdomen wasn’t as flat as her younger sister’s, she had the curves that made up for it.
“Good. I wouldn’t ask, Cassidy, but I’ve got to get going and—well, Felicity’s not here and your mother doesn’t like me enough to do my hair.”
“Of course she does—” But Angie’s sharp, knowing glance cut off the lie.
“We both know that she resents me; it’s no big deal. But I’m not going to ask her to do my hair.” Careful with her fingernails, she climbed to her feet and crossed the room to her vanity, where she caught Cassidy’s gaze in the mirror. “Now, I know it’s not your thing, but would you mind braiding my hair—French braid. I’m supposed to go into town with Felicity and I did my nails first. Stupid, huh?”
“I’m not very good at this,” Cassidy hedged.
“Please. You know I wouldn’t ask, but…I need you.” Angie’s eyes were wide, and with a sigh, Cassidy crossed the room that was decorated in shades of pink and white. Lace curtains matched the canopy of an antique bed, and embroidered pillowcases were cast over a raw silk comforter in a shade of dusty rose that matched the blinds. One wall held a portrait of Angie with her mother, Lucretia. One-year-old Angie sat on her mother’s lap in a matching dress. Angie, with curling black hair and blue eyes, had been a beguiling toddler. Lucretia, in her early twenties, was a gorgeous woman with the same shade of eyes and hair as her daughter. The portrait had been mounted for years in their father’s study, but eventually Dena had redecorated and the portrait had been cast out. Angie had claimed it and, over her stepmother’s protests, hung it in a prominent spot in her room.
Angie was right; Dena had never much cared for a stepdaughter who was the spitting image of Rex’s beloved first wife.
In a glass bookcase, Angie’s collection of dolls was proudly displayed, everything from a Chatty Cathy and Betsy Wetsy to a series of Barbie Dolls—every Barbie that had ever been made. China dolls with hand-painted smiles, rag dolls with plastic faces and eyes that blinked, even dolls that cried or peed, depending upon the owner’s mood. But the Barbies were Angie’s favorites, and they stood prominently in the front of the case, wearing their ball gowns, bathing suits, shorts sets, cocktail dresses and ever-present high heels. Many of the voluptuous dolls were escorted by matching boyfriends, Kens in tuxedos, suits and casual slacks, all smiling, all seeming perfectly matched to their dream date.
Cassidy cast a glance at the dolls with their swelled busts, tiny waists and long legs. She’d always hated Barbie. Didn’t think much more of Ken.
“Hurry up, we don’t have much time,” Angie said, tossing her hair over her shoulders.
“I don’t like this.”
“I know, but it’s time you started paying attention to feminine things—”
“Like those?” Cassidy asked, casting a glance at the dolls.
“You could take a lesson from their wardrobes.”
“I think I’ll pass.” She wound her fingers through a hank of Angie’s thick hair. “I’m not sure I can do this the way you want—”
“Just pretend I’m a horse and you’re braiding my tail or something.” Angie’s eyes flashed indignantly. “You know, Cassidy, there’s really more to life than hanging around a stable. You’re pretty enough if you’d just do something with yourself. If you want I’ll help—with the lipstick and nail polish and hair.”
“Thanks, but—”
“Don’t you want boys to notice you?”
Only Brig. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Sure it does.”
“Do you want your hair braided or not?”
“Well, of course,” Ang
ie said petulantly. “That’s why I called you in here.”
“Then get off my case, okay? I like the way I look.” That was a little bit of a lie, but Cassidy wasn’t interested in emulating her sister or some plastic creation from Mattel, for crying out loud!
“Fine,” Angie huffed. She bit her lip, looked about to say something, and a shadow passed in front of her eyes—that secret desperate shadow that Cassidy didn’t want to notice. “I was just trying to help, but if you don’t want it, then just get on with the braid.”
Gritting her teeth, Cassidy picked up the brush. Her fingers worked deftly and soon a shiny black plait fell neatly between Angie’s shoulder blades. She twisted a rubber band over the end. “There. Now you owe me one.”
“Two,” Angie said absently as she turned her head to one side and touched up her blush with a brush. “I owe you two, if we’re counting. You helped me out last night, remember?”
Cassidy had to bite her tongue. “Yeah, right,” she said feeling a little jab of guilt.
“I’m not kidding. If Dad ever caught me with Brig, he’d skin us both alive.”
“I suppose,” Cassidy said, remembering the magic of Brig’s hands on her body—the way his mouth seemed to mold possessively over hers. A knot of desire started to unwind deep in her abdomen, and for the first time she understood why girls got bad reputations, why they risked everything to be with a boy. That’s how she felt with Brig, silly though it was. She started to turn when she saw the black and blue mark on Angie’s body. Partially hidden by the red silk of her bra, the bruise was just visible and Cassidy couldn’t help but stare. Her stomach seemed to drop as she recognized the hickey for what it was. A man had placed his lips on the tender skin of Angie’s breast and sucked hard enough to discolor her skin.
Cassidy felt the blood drain from her face.