by Laura Wright
Mac snorted. “Bye, crazy lady.”
“Back atcha.” Grinning, Sheridan hung up the phone. It was fun. Mac was fun. How had she gone twenty-five years without this kind of fun? She gathered up her printed copies of research and placed them in separate folders.
Maybe she could work an hour or so, then call Mac back and see if she’d already eaten. They could go to the Bull’s Eye for a bit, and Sheridan could down some liquid courage and persuade Mac to spill the beans on James’s past. Was it Cass’s death that had closed him off to love? Or was there something more? She was desperate to know what had broken his spirit.
For the next thirty minutes, she worked furiously. Searching, printing, calling. Until she finally found what she was looking for, her smoking gun. A contact who had faxed her a statement regarding Mr. Palmer’s order for both wood flooring and bathroom tiles. It was three times what the project required. Someone was skimming off the top or using the extra materials for another job.
She was about to grab her phone and dial Mac’s number when she heard something outside the office. At first, fear licked at her insides, but then she wondered if maybe it was James, if he’d come to check on her, drive her home, like he had the night before. Maybe she was foolish to continue hanging out with him. Maybe she was signing up for a course in How to Live Out a Shakespearean Tragedy with River Black’s Hottest Horse Whisperer. But she didn’t care. She liked him. She felt good around him.
When he didn’t come up, she got up and headed for the door. Maybe he was waiting in the living room—didn’t want to bother her. But as she stepped out into the hallway, she remembered she’d locked all the doors. How could he possibly—
“Evening, sweetheart,” Mr. Palmer drawled.
Sheridan’s skin instantly prickled. There he was, down the hallway, less than ten feet away. Her gaze shifted past him. No one else. Just him. “Mr. Palmer?” she began cautiously. “What are you doing here?”
The man looked older in the dim light, and his eyes narrowed with every second that passed. “You had questions for me.”
“Yes,” she said, forcing her tone into one of confident control, not the anxiety she was truly feeling. “But we have a meeting scheduled for tomorrow—”
“I think we’ll talk now,” he interrupted caustically.
Inside every person is a warning bell. Sometimes you ignore it, tell yourself it’s just your imagination. Other times, you listen to it. Both choices carry risks. But as Sheridan took in the man before her, she knew without a shadow of a doubt that he’d come there to hurt her. She didn’t know if he’d guessed what their conversation was going to be about tomorrow or if he just wanted to harm her. But she didn’t have time to figure it out.
“I can’t talk now, unfortunately,” she said, gingerly moving backward toward Deacon’s office. If she could just get inside, there was a lock on the door. Of course Palmer might very well have the key. But while he was looking for it, she’d have a few precious seconds to slide whatever she could find in front of the door, then call 911.
“Mackenzie Byrd is coming over any minute to take me to dinner,” she said lightly. “You know, she’s asked me to be her maid of honor.”
Palmer laughed. It was a dark, foreboding sound that burrowed inside her chest and tried to steal her breath. “I just saw Ms. Byrd eating at the diner not ten minutes ago.” He cocked his head to one side. “I guess you’ve been stood up, honey.”
Shit. Sheridan’s heart started to pump wildly. Back up. Get to the office.
“I suppose I should be surprised at the dedication you’ve shown in trying to get me fired,” he said, still not moving from his spot in the hallway. “Women can barely manage a checkbook, if you know what I mean. And yet you were able to dig up some very well hidden receipts.” He grinned. “Oh, yes, I know.”
She needed to run. She could make it.
“But then you’re not just the average woman, are you?” One brow slowly lifted. “Sweetheart.”
That final word was like a starter pistol firing. Sheridan turned and bolted for the open door of Deacon’s office. Once inside, she slammed the door shut and went to lock it. But when she glanced down, thinking herself safe, she saw that the door wasn’t closed at all. A black boot tip was wedged just inside it. She was about to slam herself against it when Caleb Palmer entered like a seething, hungry bull, his eyes immediately finding hers.
Her eyes darted past him. Could she get around him?
“Not a chance, sweetheart,” he drawled.
Pulse racing, Sheridan turned and headed to the desk. Please. Please. Her hands fumbled with paperwork, searching for her cell phone. But she couldn’t find it. Not before he grabbed her by the arms and hauled her against him, crushing her. He was shockingly strong, and for a second Sheridan wondered if he was on some kind of drug.
“A man’s got to make a living, sweetheart,” he said, his body weight driving her back against the wall. “You won’t be taking that away from me.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she ground out, struggling, her eyes flickering around the room, looking for anything she could use as a weapon.
“After tonight you won’t know much of anything,” he threatened, his breath foul against her cheek.
Trembling, her eyes returned to his and she tried once more to be the asshole employer with a very true threat of her own. “If you don’t let go of me right now and leave this house, Deacon Cavanaugh will take your life from you. You have no idea what he’s capable of.”
“And he has no idea what I’m capable of,” he returned, then ran his nose up one side of her face. “Honey.”
Sheridan turned to him and without thinking, spit in his face. Palmer cursed and jerked back just an inch, but it was enough for her to bring her knee up between his legs, crushing his balls.
He groaned, slumped slightly, but continued to hold her firmly. “Bitch,” he ground out, rushing her, slamming her back against the wall.
Air rushed from Sheridan’s lungs and spots dotted her vision. But even so, she refused to give in, give up. This piece of shit bastard was not going to fucking take her out. With every ounce of will and strength she had in her, she brought the heel of her boot down hard on his foot, then slammed her head into his nose.
The action made him release her, but it also blurred her vision terribly. She knew he was still in front of her and brought her knee up hard once again. With a groan of shocked pain, he went down on all fours.
Go, go, go!
Breathing heavily, she stumbled to the desk and spotted her phone, which was peeking out from under some paperwork. She grabbed it and ran from the room. And though pain surged through her and her vision was compromised, she refused to stop. Down the hall, down the stairs, through the living room, and out the front door. She didn’t think of anything but escape until she was inside her car, windows and doors locked.
Then she stabbed in three numbers with her shaking hands.
“Nine-one-one. Please state your emergency.”
“I’ve been attacked,” she cried, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Please come. Redemption Ranch main house.”
“Is the person who attacked you still there?” the man asked in a calm, highly trained voice.
“He’s in the house,” she whispered. Pain shot through her and her vision was narrowing. “It’s Caleb Palmer. He tried to kill me.”
It was all she could get out before the world went black and she collapsed onto the passenger-side seat of her Subaru.
Ten
Getting ten pills down a gentled horse’s throat was near to impossible, and James wasn’t even going to attempt to do that with a wild mustang.
After examining Comet’s leg, checking to see if the wound was healing properly, James had thrust a syringe inside the stallion’s mouth, pumped the medication in real quick, then held his jaw c
losed until he swallowed. By the time he did, James was drenched in sweat. Luckily, the stallion seemed healed enough to get out of the barn and back to his herd. It wasn’t good for the wild ones to be away too long. Tomorrow morning, first thing, he’d take him out.
James started to gather up his things. He needed to get something to eat; then it was going to be a long night in front of the computer. More care facilities to search, sure, but he’d had another idea as he’d worked on Comet. In all the years since leaving River Black, he’d never allowed himself to read any of the newspaper articles or headlines from when Cass was taken. With no hope of finding answers, he’d just pushed the questions away, back into the place where he stored his pain.
But the vet had—like it or not—lit the fire of hope in their hearts.
Tonight he was going to read every last article; see if there was anything he and James and Deac could explore outside of the ex-sheriff. Maybe something about that Sweet character. None of them had remembered a new kid in school at the time. But someone around town had to have known him.
James was just giving Comet one last look-over when Sam came running into the barn.
“Shit, boy, there you are,” he exclaimed.
“You out for an evening jog, Sam?” James joked, barely glancing up.
“To your bunkhouse and back.”
“Why’s that?”
“It’s Deac’s assistant . . .”
It wasn’t the words that had James turning and rushing the stall door. It was Sam’s tone. Heavy and scared. Add to that the anxious expression on the man’s face, and every hair on James’s body was standing straight on end.
“What happened?” he demanded. “Where is she?”
The old cowboy shook his head. “Caleb Palmer. I’ve known that man for years. He worked on my sister’s place. I see his daughter near every day at the bakery, and his wife’s at the church more than the reverend himself! I can’t believe it.”
Black tangles of fear coursed through James. He vaulted over the stall and headed straight for the old man. “What the fuck happened, Sam? Talk to me.”
The man’s eyes filled with dismay. “Palmer attacked Miss O’Neil tonight, out at Redemption. Banged her up real bad, I hear.”
Ice water froze his veins. “Where?”
“They took her to Green Valley Memorial.”
James took off past him, was already running out the barn door when Sam called after him, “They’re not letting anyone see her who ain’t family.”
His head buzzed and his heart slammed fiercely against his ribs. Sheridan had to be okay. Had to be.
He ran for his truck, hoping that he’d left his extra set of keys above the visor.
He’d never laid claim to her. He’d pushed her away. She wasn’t his. This shouldn’t have happened. He’d done everything he could to keep her safe—keep her away from himself, and that cursed, black cloud overhead. And yet she’d still gotten hurt. Nothing made sense anymore. Nothing except her. He had to see her, make sure she was all right.
He yanked open the door to his truck and dove inside. Keys were right where he’d hoped.
As he gunned the engine and shoved the truck in reverse, he prayed Caleb Palmer was dead. Because if he wasn’t, James might be the one going to jail tonight.
• • •
Cole sent the dart straight into the center of the bull’s-eye and grinned. Matty could suck it. Contrary to what his pain-in-the-ass trainer might think, Cole’s eyesight and coordination were on point and ready for the ring. Ready to face his first legit opponent, who also happened to be the one and only member of Cole’s Shit List Club.
Not ten minutes ago, Matty had texted him with the news that Fred Omega Fontana had signed on to the fight in three weeks. Trying to be coy, the trainer had asked Cole if he knew Omega. If he’d ever fought him before. To which, Cole had laughed, then flipped off the text.
Did he know Fred Fontana? Shit, he knew the arrogant asshole all too well. Used to be an underground fighter just like himself, trying to make his mark aboveground. Cole could just imagine the marketing campaign that was going to be put together for this fight.
The alpha and the omega face off above ground. Cold as ice, Cole Cavanaugh freezes out Fontana.
Cole aimed his dart and let it fly. Another perfect shot. His grin widened. Fontana was the one fighter he’d never been able to beat. In fact, every time they met in the ring, Cole had come out with something: temporary loss of hearing in both ears or a punctured lung. The guy was cunning and massive and evil, and Cole was more than ready to finally make him bleed.
“Can I get you a drink?” a waitress asked, sidling up to him, tray in hand.
“No, thanks.”
“On the house,” she purred.
“Another time.”
She cocked one leather-clad hip and leaned over so he got an eyeful of cleavage. “You sure, honey?”
It didn’t take a genius to understand what she was asking, just a guy with two working eyeballs. But he was off everything for the next few weeks. No alcohol, no drugs, and definitely no sex.
“I’m sure, but thanks,” he said, giving the woman a wicked smile.
She returned it and sauntered off.
Cole turned and let the final dart fly. But just as he did, his gaze caught on something. This time, the point didn’t hit the target at all. It landed on the edge and dropped to the ground with an embarrassing snap. Cole grimaced. Her fault. The vet. She’d stolen his focus. Sitting there in a corner booth by herself sipping a Shirley Temple or whatever pink thing was in front of her.
For a brief moment, he contemplated ignoring her, grabbing some more darts and going again. That last shot would not stand. But he didn’t possess the ignoring gene. He had the confronting gene. The gene that made a man act before he thought things through.
It’s what made him a shitty friend, brother, boyfriend . . . but one helluva fighter.
He came up beside the vet’s table, all nice and easy. “Evening, Doc.”
Her eyes lifted from her pink drink and settled on him. She blanched. “Mr. Cavanaugh.”
He glanced around. “You here alone?” Cole wasn’t entirely sure why he’d asked. But she answered before he had a chance to examine his motives.
“No. My date will be back soon.”
“Date?” he repeated over the din. “Well, how nice. For you, I mean. Taking a break from all that stressful work at the animal hospital and going out with some pretty-faced country boy.”
She forced a smile and her chin lifted a few centimeters. “Speaking of faces,” she said. “How are your bruises today?”
“The ones on the outside are fine. They’ll heal. Always do. The ones on the inside though . . . only time will tell.”
Her jaw tightened and she looked away and shook her head. “I need you to stop this. I know you all are pissed, and you have every right to be. But nothing’s going to change.”
“Because you’re more concerned with protecting your daddy.”
“Of course I am.”
His nostrils flared at her blatant honesty. “Even if what he knows could be protecting a murderer? Someone who’s still out there, and may have killed again?”
A muscle in her jaw pulsed as her eyes slammed into his. “He doesn’t know anything.”
“Hell, woman,” Cole said with dark laughter. “Forget about me, you’re going to need to work a lot harder on that speech to convince yourself.”
Before she could reply, a man came to the table and slid into the booth across from her. Cole was taken aback for a second, as he recognized the guy as Reverend McCarron. Did cloth-types get to date? It felt a little unseemly.
“Evening,” the reverend said, eyebrows lifted in silent query. “Nice to see you again, Mr. Cavanaugh. Cole, isn’t it?”
Cole snorted. “’Course
it’s Cole. You went to school with my brothers, Reverend. Buried my daddy.”
“Yes, of course.” He turned to the vet. “Everything all right, Grace?” He had that deep thread of concern in his voice that Cole imagined all righteous people possessed.
“Just talking about the past,” Dr. Hunter said.
“When her daddy was the sheriff,” Cole added.
“Ah, yes,” McCarron said. “That’s right. I was just a child when he took on that job, but I remember him. Good man, your father.”
“Yes,” Grace confirmed with pointed passion. “He is.”
“I’d like to hear more about your good father,” Cole put in. “What’re you doing after confession tonight?”
“Confession is a Catholic ritual, Cole,” the reverend said.
“Still good for the soul, I’m bettin’.” His eyes were pinned to hers. “And Dr. Hunter here went to a Catholic school—didn’t you, Doc?” All that digging for information he and his brothers were doing may not have found the ex-sheriff’s whereabouts yet, but it had unearthed a few helpful things.
Grace didn’t answer him. She looked nervous. As in, if he knew that, what else did he know? “I’m busy tonight, Mr. Cavanaugh.” She gestured to the reverend. “As I told you before. Date.”
“Well, you two kids enjoy yourself,” Cole said, backing up. He glanced Grace’s way one last time. “Another time. Soon.”
Before she could answer, he turned and headed back to the game area, back to the dart board. And this time, when he aimed and fired, he hit dead center.
Eleven
His guts twisted up inside his body, James rushed out of the elevator. Down one hall, then the next, he made quick work of locating the waiting area. He just wanted to find her, see her. Know that she was going to be okay.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he called out as he spotted Deacon, all fancy in his three-piece suit and pacing back and forth in front of the nurses’ station.
The man was talking on his cell phone, but as soon as he spotted James, he said a few quick words and hung up. James hadn’t known his brother was back in River Black. But he didn’t have the time or the desire to discuss it. All he wanted to know about was Sheridan.