Blood from her palm dripped onto the hardwood floor.
"Mom?"
"Stop whining, Finn," Bren said, his voice tonight just a little too high pitched.
Finn's eyes widened and he clamped his mouth shut. "Bren, he only—"
"Enough, Dad." All eyes remained on her. "Everyone stop staring at me! Stop telling me what to do. How to feel. I've had it up to here!" She raised her trembling hand, still dripping blood, to her neck and cut a slice through the air. Bren grabbed a napkin to stanch the blood and pushed back against the chair hard, toppling it over. Everything seemed to circle—the chair, broken glass, blood-red wine—Tom's blood!
Oh God.
Bren turned toward the hallway, tripping in a pair of high-heeled clogs. Unable to steady herself, she kicked them off and ran to the steps, the tears blinding her as she climbed the stairs and headed in the direction of her bedroom.
He isn't coming back.
Bren hit the light switch inside the doorway and ran to Tom's highboy chest. She still hadn't cleaned out his things. She grabbed for the top drawer and began scooping his undershirts, socks, and boxers, the blood from her hand smearing the clothes. Bren dumped them on the floor. Going for the next drawer, she did the same, a pile growing.
She ran to the walk-in closet, her socks slipping on the hardwood floor. His clothes hung on the left. She took a tentative step—a mix of jeans, flannel shirts, a few dress shirts, and slacks rested silently on hangars. She moaned. Wiping her wet face with the back of her arm, she slumped forward. The smell of Tom filled that side of the closet, a combination of the barn, their land, and Irish Spring.
As long as she could smell him, he was with her. But while time passed, the scent of him haunted her. He'd be alive if it weren't for her—Bren, always needing to prove a point, always pushing to get what she wanted.
Except this time it had backfired—big time.
Bren leaned into Tom's clothes. She gathered them into her arms and took a long breath. Her tears flowed anew as she clung to his flannel shirts. Then her anger took over, and she yanked them off the pole and threw them to the floor. She reached up and pulled down his hunting gear from the shelf, letting it fall with a thud to the ground. On the floor, she pulled out his shoes and pitched them behind her, grunting and stopping to wipe her face several times.
"Bren." Jeremy stopped her mid-throw.
Bren stood still, holding Tom's Nike tennis shoe in her hand.
"You okay?"
She turned toward him and bit down on her lip, shaking her head.
Jeremy moved forward. He frowned and took the shoe from her hand, then wrapped his arms around her. "I know you're hurting."
She nodded against Jeremy's shoulder. The tears ran down her cheeks, soaking his ridiculous red-and-green reindeer sweater.
"I can't—" Racked by sobs, Bren couldn't finish. She only buried her face deeper into his shoulder. She'd cried on his shoulder so many times over the last year, it wouldn't have surprised her if he was waterlogged by now. She'd woken him from a dead sleep the night she found Tom. He had lowered Tom down while she guided his body to the ground. Jeremy and Jo had both rallied around her when Kevin couldn't put Wes anywhere near their farm the night Tom died and wasn't changing his "findings" to suit a friend who, in his words, needed to get a grip.
Well, he needed to get a grip, too—a grip on Tom's phone. Because it existed.
She pulled away and wiped her face. The cut on her hand still thumped, but the blood had stopped. "I'm a mess." She glanced at her wine-stained sweater and jeans.
Jeremy gently pulled her from the closet and sat her down on the edge of the bed. He glanced beside the bed at the pile of clothes. "The clinic is closed tomorrow. How about Jo and I help you pack up Tom's things?"
"I can—"
He put up his hand. "I know you can, Bren. But let us help. Six hands are faster than two." He sat down beside her and squeezed her knee.
Bren gave him a half smile. "Thanks."
"I know this is none of my business, but how are you doing financially?"
Bren shrugged. "It's tight. With the economy, donations are down for the rescue so I've had to dig into what little savings Tom and I had. But we're managing."
"Didn't you have life insurance for Tom?"
Her shoulders slumped. "We're living off it. What's left anyway. And Dad's social security."
Jeremy rolled his lips and made one of those "I'm thinking" faces. "I'm looking for an assistant. In fact, Monday I was going to put an ad in the Hagerstown Herald. The position starts at twenty-seven K."
Bren gave him a questioning look. "What are you saying?"
He pulled back and grinned. "The hours are flexible. Part-time for someone who needs to be home before the bus lets off her kids."
"You can't be serious! I don't—"
"Have experience? You run a horse rescue, have lived on a farm your whole life. Don't sell yourself short."
"When would—"
"The first of the year. Tomorrow I'll drop off a key."
"But I didn't—"
"Say yes, Bren."
Bren pulled away and licked her lips, the taste salty. The money, although generous, wouldn't go a long way considering the expense to run a household, but it would ease some of the burden.
She gave Jeremy one of her most serious faces. "How about vacation and holidays?"
His eyes widened.
She smiled and nudged his shoulder. "I'll take it."
Chapter Three
Jameson Livestock Sale Barn, on the first and third Friday of each month, took every ounce of energy from Bren whenever they came to auction. This place, redolent of fear, horseflesh, and piss, sickened her, the laughter and jovial chatter maddening.
Folks milled about the barn like it was a Saturday night social. Some sat in the bleachers lining the chute where the livestock came through as if in anticipation of a sporting event.
"You want the night off?" Jeremy dipped his head to see her face, frowning when he saw her expression.
Even though she wasn't here to bid on Grace's behalf, an equine vet was required to be on standby. As Jeremy's assistant, she couldn't shirk her duties, sour stomach or not. "I'm good." She held onto Finn's hand. "You seen Aiden?" she asked her son.
Finn shook his head.
She'd told Aiden to meet them at the rails, adding with finality eight o'clock sharp, hoping she had drilled that last point into his obstinate teenage brain.
"Mom," Finn whined.
"What?" She glanced down. He was grimacing. "My hand. You're squeezing it too tight."
"Sorry." She lightened up on his little hand and searched for the time. A big round clock hung above the auctioneer's box. "It's—"
Running feet, slipping on straw, caught Bren's attention. Aiden fell in next to Jeremy and swung the unnerving swath of brown hair away from his eyes. "Here," he announced and nodded toward the clock. "With two seconds to go."
He was cruising toward restriction big time. But he had her—he was on time. Giving him a razor-sharp stare, she pinched together her thumb and forefinger, leaving scant space between them. "You're that close."
Aiden's lips thinned and his cheeks flushed in embarrassment. Bren could sympathize with him a little. No one liked being the center of bad attention, and they had belabored the issue.
They moved toward the bleachers. This time Bren made sure her eldest sat next to her. She leaned into him. "I'm sorry. Friends?"
He nudged her back playfully. "Think you can handle it?"
"For you, I'll try."
Aiden shot a covert look around, no doubt checking to see if there were witnesses, and placed his hand on top of hers. He gave it a quick squeeze before pulling away. That was progress, Aiden-style, and the friction between the two lifted.
The auction started ten minutes late. Several horses were paraded through the chute. The cacophony of Lyle's calls echoed against the corrugated metal walls and ceiling. Horses were prodded and po
ked through the chute, their eyes wide with fright and ears pricked up in watchful attentiveness. That was what bothered Bren most about this particular sale barn—Lyle Jameson was just plain mean.
Finn huddled next to Bren, his hands pushed deep in his pockets. "You cold?" she asked him.
"A little."
She motioned to Jeremy. "We're going to get some hot chocolate. You want some?"
"No thanks."
Bren nudged Aiden. "You staying or coming?" He stood up. "Coming."
They cleared the bleachers and stepped outside. Bren could see her breath every time she exhaled. The stars twinkled like diamonds against a soft, black velvet sky. The moon, only a sliver, sat high in the west. With no cloud cover, the air was brisk, and she shivered against the collar of her barn coat as she stood at the concession stand.
She glanced around. Finn and Aiden had taken off toward a pen of mismatched farm animals waiting to be auctioned.
"Can I help you?"
"Three hot chocolates."
The stomping of feet came toward her, and Finn ran up, his coat flapping. "Mom! We saw the funniest goat."
"Finn. It's freezing." She bent down and zipped his coat. "Remember what I said when we left the barn? Mittens." She reached for his hands and found he was wearing his mittens and tugged the matching cap from his pocket and pulled it on his head. "And hat must be on."
"Mom, Aiden's not wearing his."
Bren peered up. Aiden quickly zipped his coat, and then his eyes followed something in the distance. Bren followed his line of sight. Jenny Smithson, a cute blonde, headed into the sale barn with several other teenagers.
"The hat's lame." Aiden folded his arms, his face unsmiling.
Bren knew when to pick her battles, and this wasn't one of them. She pulled Finn around by his coat. "Don't worry about your brother."
She paid for the hot chocolate and handed each of them a warm Styrofoam cup before grabbing hers. "Let's go. I'm working tonight. Remember?"
She didn't want to give Jeremy a reason to regret offering her a job. Plus the job and all her other duties managing the horse rescue left little time to mope. Now, for vengeance—she'd make time. Only she'd promised to stay clear of Wes. But if he found her, he'd pay her back. She needed to get to him first.
Bren's two-way went off, and she jostled her hot chocolate, spilling it on her gloves. "Shit." She steadied the cup on the top of a barrel nearby and pulled off the hot, wet glove. She grabbed for her two-way phone inside her coat pocket.
"Yeah."
"I've got a horse down. You need to get in here." Jeremy's voice breathed deep in her ear.
"On my way," she said. "Aiden. Watch your brother."
Aiden lifted his head. "What?"
"Your brother." She pointed toward Finn who was kicking stones. "Watch him."
Bren jogged the fifty feet to the barn. When she entered, she noticed a group forming around the rail. The crowd and her adrenaline made her break out in a sweat. She pulled off her coat and tossed it at the foot of the bleachers. She pushed aside the gawkers, squeezed through the rail, and took a deep breath.
At the bottom of the chute lay a black colt on its side. Bren's heart stopped. "What happened?"
Jeremy remained crouched next to the colt. "Spooked the mother. She trampled him."
"Damn it!" Bren came around to the colt's head.
Jeremy checked his pupils while Bren felt for broken bones.
"Knocked him cold." Bren lifted her chin toward the mare.
Jeremy nodded.
This was the typical crap Bren complained about the most. These horses were frightened, the lights blinding. Lyle paraded them too close together, making injuries like this inevitable.
Within minutes, the colt came to. He didn't appear to have any sustained injuries. Jeremy brought him to his feet and began walking him around the twenty-foot squared-off area of the chute. He then motioned to one of Lyle's men. "Lead him in the back into one of the stalls."
"Breakstone, I'm bidding on that pair," Wes yelled over the rail.
Bren clenched her hands and turned around. "Go to hell, Connelly."
Wes stood like a peacock in his plumage, dressed in a three-piece suit and red power tie. His head and face, ruddy and pocked and shades darker against the thick, silver nest of hair, always reminded her of a cork getting ready to pop.
"Lyle?"The word, slippery with intent, fell from Wes's lips. His buddy, his alibi and co-conspirator, surely caught his meaning, even if she and everyone else didn't. The only thing she knew was it didn't bode well for her. Wes's cold, steely eyes continued to hold her gaze. Bren shook with anger and fear. Kill buyers didn't normally bid on colts—small with little meat, they'd cost more to house and fatten up. He was paying her back for the newspaper ad.
"What's your bid?" Lyle tapped the gavel in his hand.
"Jeremy, can't you—"
"Five twenty-five for the pair."
Jeremy's expression hardened. "Come on, Jameson. Bren's right—auction them next Friday. This one," he said, motioning to the colt he held by the halter, "needs to be checked out." He nodded to the broodmare presently tied off toward the end of the chute, snorting and pulling against the rope, her eyes wild with unpredictability. "That one is about to go berserk."
"Time is money, Lyle," Wes added.
Lyle shrugged. "Sorry, Doc. He's got a point."
Bren's head ached. Watching Tweedledee and Tweedledum, she wanted to smack their heads together.
The colt's eyes were wide and awake as he danced on his hooves nervously under the fluorescent lights. He gave a snort and whinny. Jeremy handed him off to her. "He's all yours."
No. The colt and the mare were a pair now, thanks to Wes—a more expensive pair.
Lyle grabbed his gavel. "You bidding, Bren?"
Bren's heart quickened. She and Finn had seen this colt earlier. Finn had fallen in love with him at first sight. She'd been thinking of bidding. She'd promised Finn a colt. If she didn't bid, they'd be Wes's. He'd ship the frightened pair off to Mexico for twenty-eight cents a pound in deplorable conditions, take a hit on the colt, and call it even, knowing he'd gotten his revenge.
Cost be damned. "Five thirty-five."
"Seven hundred." A wicked grin curled the ends of Wes's lips.
Bren took a step, tempted to charge the son of a bitch and knock him on his sanctimonious ass.
Finn leaned over the rail. "Mom?" His voice quivered with uncertainty.
She nodded in his direction. "It's okay, baby."
Straightening, Bren set her eyes on Wes, who grabbed an old lawn chair sitting askew on the dirt floor of the sale barn. He loosened his tie and popped the top button of his white dress shirt, then slipped out of his navy suit jacket, folding it neatly in half and placing it over the rail. Searching his pants pockets, he pulled out a thin cheroot, ignoring the straw strewn about on the dirt floor and bales stacked in the corners and against every available wall space.
Bren tightened her grip on the rope as Wes lit up. The colt's eyes flashed, exposing the whites in the corner as he attempted to rear. She held tight, keeping him grounded, and spoke to him soothingly. The colt let out another snort and a whinny and settled down. Wes sat back into the lawn chair and crossed his legs, taking several drags off his cheroot.
"You know you're stealing this colt from a seven-year-old boy," she said.
"You're bidding, not the boy."
Finn's head turned from her to Wes. He stood alone on the dirt floor, clenching his small little hands by his side. David and Goliath. That was their only shot to save this colt, and she was taking it. Bren patted the colt and moved toward the rail. Spying a wooden crate in the corner, she motioned toward Aiden. "Grab the crate for Finn."
Aiden pulled it over by the rail.
"Hop up, sweetheart." It was a large step, but he managed with the help of his brother.
Bren pulled out a wad of bills—her first week's pay from Jeremy since starting as his assistant and
a thousand-dollar donation she'd picked up on the way to the sale barn and planned to use for feed and supplies—and handed it to Finn through the rails. "He's your horse, baby, and you're going to have to fight for him."
He nodded and took the money.
Bren gave him a peck on the top of his head and then lifted her chin toward Wes. "Just so we're straight. This is my son Finn. He's seven and far more mature than you'll ever be. He loves this colt, and he's willing to go toe-to-toe with you to get him."
Wes pursed his lips, his silver eyes twinkling with anticipation under his brows.
It wasn't the money now, it was the principle. She'd eat cold cereal for breakfast, lunch, and dinner to prove this point.
Wes settled into the lawn chair and placed his hands behind his head. "Okay, little man, let's get to it."
Lyle began his auctioneer rhetoric. "Seven twenty-five, seven twenty-five, do I hear—?"
"Seven seventy-five," called Wes.
Finn gave Bren a look of uncertainty and she nodded to him. "You're good. Bid in twenty-fives."
Finn nodded and looked at the colt standing idly by. He offered his first bid. "Eight hundred."
Wes countered, and Finn bumped him by twenty-five each time. Lyle's voice continued in auctioneer mode. Bren smiled inwardly. She was so proud of Finn. She'd put him in an awkward situation and he'd rallied, his voice growing stronger with every counter. The crowd cheered each time Finn upped the ante and moaned when Wes topped it. The bid was up to nine seventy-five after Wes's counter, and Finn looked to Bren for guidance, his sweet face flushed.
"Mom?" He raised his eyebrows and squinched his nose to adjust his glasses.
She wanted to hug him. She nodded assurance, and he continued.
The bid had risen to a thousand fifty, and it was Wes's turn. He leaned forward in his chair and took a long drag off his cheroot, then dropped it to the floor, flattening it with his expensive black leather dress shoe. He took a breath and eyed Lyle conspiratorially. Something passed between the two; Bren wasn't sure what that meant for Finn, and she clenched her hands to her side.
Wes let out a chuckle and pushed back in his chair. "I'd say you made a fair enough profit, Lyle, wouldn't you?"
Relentless (Fallon Sisters Trilogy: Book #1) Page 5