“No, no!” he yelled at Scotty, when he and Philip collided and Melanie knocked them into a pile with the dummy’s head. “You’re attacking too soon. Float around the perimeter when your partner takes the lead, and don’t step in unless he gets into trouble or the bull comes unhooked and stops following him. Show him, Melanie.”
She did, timing her entrance perfectly. Damn. If she’d been twenty instead of thirty-four, he would consider her a serious prospect.
Behind them, someone cleared their throat. “Um…excuse me,” a male voice said.
They all wheeled around to find a young man peering over the fence. “Uh, hi. I was told I might find a Melanie Brookman here?”
Her forehead puckered in concern, and Wyatt could see her mind jump straight to Hank. “I’m Melanie. Is something wrong?”
“I can’t say.” The young man sounded apologetic as he gingerly extended an envelope through the rails. “I’m just supposed to give you this.”
Melanie strode over and snatched it out of his hand.
“Oh yeah. I forgot.” He cleared his throat again, trying to sound official. “Melanie Brookman, you have been served.”
She swore, tearing it open while he beat a hasty retreat to the generic sedan he’d left idling behind the rest of the cars. As she scanned the document, her mouth went slack, and the color drained from her face.
“What?” Wyatt asked, reaching for the paper.
She balled it up, threw it on the ground, and stomped on it before slamming out of the gate and into her car. Her tires spit dirt as she gunned out of the driveway.
Wyatt picked up the letter and smoothed it out. He dropped an f-bomb of his own when he saw the letterhead.
That son of a bitch.
But Wyatt couldn’t help a fierce spurt of admiration as he read to the end. Michael had gone back to Colorado and been fired on the spot, thanks to photos of his paint-splattered pickup that had mysteriously been forwarded to his boss’s inbox, the return IP address untraceable. The Earnest Ladies’ Club had been busy.
Michael had immediately filed a wrongful termination suit against his employer, claiming his relationship with Melanie had been nothing but a mild office flirtation that she’d blown out of proportion. He’d cast her as a desperate, delusional thirtysomething who went ballistic when she learned he was married.
The letter requested her side of the story.
Wyatt folded the paper and stuffed it in his back pocket, then turned to Philip and Scotty, both wide-eyed with curiosity. “Take the rest of the day off.”
They hesitated, then Philip said, “Anything we can do?”
“No.” Wyatt bared his teeth in what didn’t even pretend to be a smile. “I’ve got it handled.”
Chapter 27
Melanie Anne Brookman, do you solemnly swear that you did the nasty with Sara Miller’s lawfully wedded husband?
Her stomach heaved. She slammed on the brakes, lurched onto the shoulder, and threw open the door to spew coffee and Froot Loops on the side of the highway. Her breath came in gasps as she fumbled for the lukewarm bottle of water in the cup holder. Rinse and spit, rinse and spit, getting the worst of the taste out of her mouth. Then she flopped back into her seat, pulled the door shut, and cranked the AC so cold air blasted her in the face.
Goddammit. She’d reached the point where she could forget that bastard for a whole half hour at a time…and now this. The empty space in her stomach filled with black, slimy loathing, equally divided between herself and Michael. He was a worthless shit, but that letter had hit the nail square on head. She had been the epitome of a woman who was so hard up she that jumped the first likely man who came along.
Now they wanted her to place her hand on a Bible and swear to her stupidity—making it a matter of permanent record.
And damn Wyatt for showing up today looking so…damaged. She needed at least one constant right now, and he had always been the rock she could pound on with both fists. He could not crumble on her now.
He also couldn’t see her wrecked, so she wiped away the snot with the hem of her T-shirt, put the car in gear, and drove on into town. Up in the apartment, she stripped and took a quick shower. Slapping on the minimum of makeup and yesterday’s khaki shorts and tank top, she headed back down the stairs less than thirty minutes after she’d arrived. She burst onto the sidewalk, fully expecting the Camaro and its owner to be parked outside, blocking her escape, but neither was in sight.
Smart man, choosing to give her some space. She used it to jump in her car and get the hell out of Dodge. Or Pendleton, as the case may be.
Past the Roundup grounds, she had to make a choice. Go south toward something called Pilot Rock, or take the interstate? She chose west. It wasn’t like she had any particular destination in mind. She just had to move. And keep moving for as long as it took to come to grips with this latest sucker punch.
At the intersection of the west and northbound interstates, she randomly chose north. Within minutes, she was crossing the broad Columbia River and into Washington state—home of Starbucks, basketball powerhouse Gonzaga University, and legalized pot.
Now there was an idea. She could get herself a stash and a cheap motel room and stay stoned until she could face her life again.
She veered onto the first exit ramp north of the river instead, in response to a sign advertising the Columbia Crest winery and the promise of a tasting room. Crackers, cheese, and a few sips of wine poured by a friendly stranger sounded like just the ticket for her now-grumbling stomach. When she laid eyes on the villa-style stone building surrounded by lush gardens, she felt the first trickle of tension leaving her body.
She stayed for over an hour, limiting herself to those sips, letting the sommelier tell her more about the ideal climate for growing grapes than she’d ever thought she’d want to know and talk her into a very nice—if pricey—bottle of late-harvest Muscat Canelli. The woman also gave her a map of Washington wineries. Hot damn. There were a couple dozen more within a fifty-mile radius…and she might just hit them all.
Her phone buzzed with an incoming text from Wyatt. Well, that had taken him longer than she expected.
Where are you? he asked.
She could almost hear that patented cool exasperation…layered over well-hidden concern. Took a drive to clear my head.
We need to talk.
I’ll be at the Bull Dancer after dinner. She paused, then added, Don’t worry. I’m just indulging in some retail therapy.
Probably better not to mention that she was test-driving booze. Before he could respond, she turned off the phone. She wouldn’t put it past him to be able to call some crony who could track her via the signal.
The next stop was over a massive ridge—the Horse Heaven Hills, she read, shaking her head at the name as she drove past miles of brown scrub brush—in the small town of Prosser, where she acquired two more bottles of wine. What the hell, call it early Christmas shopping. Or stocking up on survival rations, the way her luck was running.
She also acquired a purple shirt that said Wine may not be the answer, but it helps me forget the question. Amen to that, sister.
Her looping route skimmed the southern edge of the Tri-Cities—Kennewick, Richland, and Pasco—where she spotted a sign that promised a mall. Yes! Time to do some down-and-dirty shopping.
When she finally parked her car in the lot behind the Bull Dancer, her hair was sleek and shiny from a shampoo and blow-dry, and she’d had her face done by one of the makeup artists at the Macy’s counter, the result several degrees more sultry than normal. She had traded her day-old clothes for a sky-blue sundress splashed with vivid red poppies, and a pair of strappy red heels to match.
The color of the day for a scarlet woman.
Instead of hauling her loot up to the apartment, she left everything but her purse in the car and strolled in through the back door of th
e bar, startled to find the place packed—by their standards.
Half of the tables were full and most of the stools, and the jukebox thumped out unintelligible hip-hop. Wyatt was at the far end, back to the bar and arms folded, face set. When she’d turned her phone on at the mall she’d found two more texts, both demanding to know where exactly she was and when she’d be back. From that look on his face, When I damn well feel like it wasn’t the answer he’d been looking for.
He had changed into artistically faded jeans and a short-sleeved sport shirt the same sky blue as his eyes, but he still hadn’t shaved and his hair seemed to be defying his attempts to tame it. The evidence that he could be messed up should have made her happy. Instead, she wanted to kick him. If anyone got to come undone, it was her. He had to wait his turn.
A low whistle caught her attention, and she glanced over to see Louie grinning at her. “Helllooo, beautiful!”
“Thank you.” She twitched her skirt and grinned back at him, then circled a hand in the air to indicate the crowd. “What’s the occasion?”
“Your new friend, Rowdy, is throwing a welcome-home party for a buddy who just got back from Afghanistan.” Louie ignored a woman who was waving for a refill as he inspected Melanie from heels to newly plucked eyebrows. “What’s your occasion?”
She smiled, putting an edge on it. “Looking good is the best revenge.”
“Then baby, somebody’s gonna die tonight.”
She laughed, then stopped abruptly when Wyatt’s gaze swung around to meet hers. He did not grin. His gaze took in her dress, the shoes, the look at me makeup, and with a slight flick of an eyebrow, he managed to express his disapproval.
Well, screw him.
“Pour me a shot of your world-famous Pendleton whiskey. On second thought, make it a double with a splash of Coke and put it on my tab.” She shoved her purse across the bar. “And put that someplace safe, please.”
“I’ve got this round.” Rowdy sidled up next to her, his eyes focused somewhere well below her face, which required some imagination on his part. The spaghetti straps of the dress bared a lot of shoulder but not much cleavage, even if she’d had anything to show off. “You look great. Wyatt said the two of you had plans tonight.”
Oh he did, did he? She fired another look down the bar at Wyatt. He met it with an impassive stare. She flipped her hair and turned her back on him. Her pride had been run through the shredder, and tonight she intended to allow someone to patch it up. Since Wyatt had made it clear he wasn’t up for the job…
She made wide eyes at Rowdy. “He was obviously mistaken.”
Louie brought her drink, and she downed half of it before thunking the glass down on the bar.
Rowdy grinned. “This night is looking better by the minute.”
Chapter 28
If Rowdy moved his hand one inch closer to her ass, Wyatt was going to grab the knife Louie used to cut up limes and chop a few fingers off.
Not that Melanie seemed to mind, the way she was letting Rowdy lean into her, practically eye-to-eye and lip-to-lip, thanks to the heels on those damn red shoes. Wyatt hadn’t failed to notice, though, that she was sneaking glances his direction, measuring his reaction. Did she want to see him stew, or was she hoping he’d intervene?
Or was that just him hoping that she was hoping? He swore silently. If she was trying to goad him, he wasn’t sure what response she was looking for. That kiss had pushed them into new territory, and Wyatt had no idea what the boundaries were.
He did know that the contrast between the Melanie in pads and cleats from this morning and this woman with her scarlet mouth and dark, come-hither eyes was making his head ache…not to mention other parts of his body. His imagination was having a field day with how easy it would be to slide those tiny straps off her shoulders and feel her shiver when he traced the hollow above her collarbone with his tongue. He knew how she tasted now. How she felt pinned underneath him. He knew…
Too much—and not nearly as much as he’d like. But enough to realize, as he watched her take a gulp from her second double, that he was going to have to put a stop to this, whether it was what she intended or not. She was acting out, hurt and angry, and he couldn’t sit by and let her do something she’d hate herself for in the morning.
Wyatt signaled to Louie, who’d also been keeping a concerned eye on her.
“That there is not what she needs,” Louie said, scowling at Rowdy.
“I know.” And Wyatt could defuse the situation in two minutes if he could get her alone and show her the email from the attorney, verifying that they no longer needed her testimony after Wyatt had passed along the statements he’d gathered at the Waffle House. Then all he had to do was survive her justifiable fury when she realized what he’d done behind her back.
It wouldn’t be the first time she was furious at him. He knew for a fact it wouldn’t be the last. If he could redirect her anger, he was more than happy to let her take her frustration out on him instead of herself. Under the circumstances, it could be a benefit, reestablishing some all-important distance.
“Bring me her purse,” he told Louie. “But don’t let her see.”
While Melanie was distracted by an introduction to one of Rowdy’s friends, Louie slipped Wyatt the purse. He tucked it against his side, keeping it out of sight as he groped blindly for her keys. His fingers encountered a wide-toothed comb, two pens, one of those small notebooks, her multi-tool, and a lipstick. No keys. He unzipped an inner side pocket and found some change, a few thin paper scraps that felt like receipts and…
He froze at the unmistakable shape and crinkle of a strip of condoms. Son of a bitch. Maybe this wasn’t a chance meeting. While Wyatt had been home sulking last night, she could have made a date with Rowdy over that beer they’d shared. Had she walked in tonight knowing he’d be here, fully intending to sleep with him? Or were these a relic of her affair with Michael?
Wyatt crushed the condoms in his fist. Either way, Rowdy would not be trying them on for size.
He was halfway off his stool, propelled by a blast of white-hot possessiveness, when he remembered he still hadn’t found the keys. Whatever else, he had to be sure she couldn’t go squealing off in her car after downing those drinks. He turned the purse around and checked the outside pocket. There they were—car key, apartment key, and that handy little flashlight key chain.
Now he just had to persuade her to have a few private words with him…and refrain from slamming Rowdy’s head into the nearest wall. Wyatt didn’t have a lot of experience with insane jealousy—or any right to it in Melanie’s case—but he was beginning to understand how so many men ended up in prison in those old country songs.
He took a deep, centering breath before he stood, slow and casual, letting his ankle adjust to his weight. It was feeling much better after an afternoon propped on the end of the couch while he burned up a few phone lines. Not the easiest thing, tracking down a lawyer on a summer Saturday, but it could be done with the proper combination of charm, persistence, and subtly implied threats.
Getting Melanie to hold still long enough to listen would be more of a challenge. Even in those damn red shoes she’d leave him gimping along in her dust, and he’d left the crutches at home, assuming he’d only be taking a few steps from the Camaro to the bar and back again. He would have to stop making assumptions about anything where Melanie was involved, before he sustained permanent physical damage. Emotionally, he’d fallen off that cliff a long, long time ago.
He took another deep breath, fixing a slight smile on his face while he consciously shifted into manipulator mode. How did he pry her away from Rowdy? It would be easiest to take unfair advantage of their working relationship. She wouldn’t agree to go outside with Wyatt—but she could hardly say no to her employer.
As he worked his way down the bar, Wyatt made a point of pausing to greet the guest of honor at tonight’s welc
ome home party. He borrowed a page from the infamous Madam Beverly’s book as they shook hands. “Show your military ID next time you come in, and we’ll buy your first drink.”
The soldier grinned. “Better not tell my buddies, or they’ll drain you dry.”
“It’s the least we can do in return for your service.”
There. See? He hadn’t lost his touch. To prove it, he clapped a perfectly timed hand on Rowdy’s shoulder, and the dumb-ass obliged by spitting beer down the front of Melanie’s dress.
“Whoops.” Wyatt plucked a napkin from a stack on the bar and offered it to Melanie. She snatched it out of his hand with a malevolent glare and swabbed foam off her chest. Wyatt gave first her, then Rowdy a bland smile. “I hate to interrupt, but I need a few words with my marketing guru.”
“Uh—” Rowdy said.
Melanie’s smile was razor-edged. “It’s kind of late for business, don’t you think?”
“Ah. I didn’t realize consultants worked nine to five, or I would have chatted with you earlier.” Except they both knew he’d tried to get in touch. He didn’t blame her for not wanting to chat, but he’d use it against her if that’s what it took. “If you could spare ten minutes…”
Her eyes narrowed with irritation. “I’d be happy to meet with you in the morning.”
“No can do. I’m taking off first thing.” Which sounded like an excellent idea, now that he’d mentioned it. Once Melanie was done flaying him alive, he’d need to go off and lick his wounds. His cabin on Wallowa Lake was the perfect hideout. “Like I said, I only need a few minutes.”
As he’d anticipated, Rowdy puffed up his chest, pretending he didn’t consider Wyatt a threat. Silly boy. He patted Melanie’s hip with the hand he was in danger of losing. “Go ahead. I’ll shoot the shit with my buddy for a while.”
Fearless in Texas Page 20