Master of Solitude (Mountain Masters & Dark Haven Book 8)

by Cherise Sinclair

  Taking the broom from the older woman, Mallory jumped off the boardwalk. Dodging a car, she ran to the other side of the street. Oh, sun and stars, how could she help?

  Morgan had closed with the bearded hoodlum, hitting him as if he were a punching bag. Unable to defend himself against Morgan’s big fists, the gangster staggered back.

  A few feet away, Ware moved sideways to put the piercing-laden thug between him and the one with the hatchet. When the pierced gangbanger turned, Ware kicked him in the gut. The man folded in half. When Ware delivered an uppercut, the gangbanger was knocked backward, landing on the wooden planks near Verne. Knocked out cold.

  The huge one with a hatchet made a growling sound and circled Sawyer, the hatchet blade held at ready. Then he lunged—and swung.

  As Mallory stifled a scream of horror, Sawyer dodged the hatchet. Somehow, he managed to twist around fast enough to slam his fist into the gangster’s kidney as he went past.

  This was horrible. Stalled at the edge of the boardwalk, Mallory couldn’t figure out how to help. The action was too fast.

  With a furious roar, the huge gang member spun to face Sawyer again…and now his back was to Mallory.

  A chance. Jaw set, she swung the broomstick as hard as she could. The handle thumped against the backs of his legs.

  His knees buckled. As he started to fall, his arms went out for balance.

  Sawyer punched him in the jaw so forcefully the gangbanger flew off the boardwalk and landed in the street.

  Far too close to her.

  A car skidded to a stop. Oncoming cars stopped on the other side.

  Shaking his bleeding knuckles, Sawyer glanced at her. “Thanks, babe.”

  “He-he had a hatchet.”

  “I noticed.” A dimple appeared in his cheek. “You’re sneakier than you look, little contractor.”

  “He could have killed you.” Her heart was trying to pound out of her chest, and he was…smiling?

  Groaning, the skinhead tried to sit up. A limp body landed right on top of him, knocking him flat again. It was the bearded man, out cold. Mallory backed up hastily.

  “Back up some more, Mal.” Grinning, Morgan grabbed the last unconscious hoodlum and heaved him on top of the pile.

  “You getting into street fights now, bro?” The disgusted voice came from Virgil Masterson, who was striding down the boardwalk from the police station. The lieutenant was followed by a younger officer in his black uniform with weapons belt.

  “Mallory.” Virgil stopped beside her and appraised her quickly. His gaze rolled over the three Aryan Hammers and up to the boardwalk. After watching Sawyer help old Verne to his feet, he frowned at his brother. “Morgan, what the hell?”

  “Hey, this is the most fun I’ve had since Wyatt left.” After examining his bruised knuckles, Morgan grinned at Sawyer. “I can’t believe you told me to stay out of it.”

  Virgil sighed and turned back to Mallory. “Can you tell me what happened?”

  “Those three guys were harassing Verne, and they knocked him down. Sawyer told them to stop.” She pointed at the skinhead. “This one grabbed a hatchet from the hardware display. Morgan knocked one guy out. Sawyer smashed another. And the third one with the hatchet”—she pointed to the huge skinhead—“I…uh…hit him with the broom, then Sawyer punched him.”

  “I saw. Very pretty swing you got, sweetheart.” Virgil kicked the hatchet in the direction of his deputy and glanced at Ware. “I take it they’re out for revenge against you as well as Atticus?”

  Sawyer nodded, his face grim beneath the shadow of his hat.

  Mallory remembered he’d killed an Aryan Hammer during the prison break.

  Now the gang wanted revenge? The skinhead could have murdered him right here in front of her. Feeling as if ice had filled her insides, Mallory wrapped her arms around her waist.

  Someone jostled her. Curious locals had gathered in the street, taking advantage of the stopped traffic.

  “Now we’ve got fighting in the streets. All from the damned trash the prison brought in.” Roger Simmons’s New York accent thickened when he was upset. “Should toss all four of ’em in jail.”

  Four? Realizing his indictment included Sawyer, Mallory frowned. “Ware didn’t start the fight.”

  “He’s another damned convict, violent as all of them. Don’t know why the hell he’s still in our town.”

  Seriously? She shook her head. “Sawyer Ware isn’t violent. Where do you get these ideas? You should get to know him before lumping him in with real criminals.”

  Sawyer heard the gas station owner, Simmons, spouting off—nothing new—but Mallory had jumped to his defense.

  Simmons grunted. “You’re wrong, Mallory.” He glared at Sawyer and stomped away.

  Sawyer stared down at Mallory, feeling…odd. She’d told Simmons he wasn’t violent. And, although her green eyes still sparkled with anger, she was pale. The fight had upset her.

  Raising a trembling hand to push back her hair, Mallory asked Virgil, “Do you need me for anything?”

  “Nah, little bit. You go on back to what you were doing. If I have questions, I know where to find you.”

  She nodded. With not even a glance at Sawyer, she walked away, still carrying her weapon. Quite the fighter, wading in with a fucking broom.

  She crossed the street, handed the broom back to an older lady, and left. Not walking with her usual smooth glide.

  Violence upset her.

  She didn’t like it.

  She didn’t think he was violent.

  He felt as unsettled as when he’d parachuted at night into a choppy sea and been smacked around by every wave until he’d submerged.

  How had he misread her so completely that night? She hadn’t taken him to bed because he was an ex-con. She hadn’t wanted some violent bastard. She’d wanted him.

  The realization lifted a weight from his chest, one he hadn’t realized was there. He pulled in a breath, deeper than the one before it. After a second, he realized Virgil was trying to get his attention.

  “Yeah?”

  “Come to the station and press charges. You, too, Morgan.” Virgil snorted. “It’ll serve you right to have to help fill out the damned paperwork.”

  Morgan laughed and slapped Sawyer on the back. “Let’s go, buddy. My brother’ll cry like a little girl if his paperwork isn’t all pretty.”

  *

  With the puppy curled in a ball on his lap, Sawyer slouched in his leather chair and watched the sun climb over the eastern mountains. His eyes felt gritty, his stomach sour. It’d been a rough night. Not surprising. After any bloody confrontation, his nightmares returned.

  But the guilt…now, that was new. He’d been wrong about Mallory. He’d been an asshole.

  The night with her and what they’d shared had been different from what he’d believed. Odd how one realization changed everything.

  No wonder he hadn’t been able to get a handle on who she was.

  Now he knew. She was exactly what she seemed—a fantastic woman with a big heart who kept extra food at home in case of strays, who took homemade food to new neighbors, whose construction crew adored her and worked to please her, and who had treated him professionally in spite of his behavior.

  He’d treated her badly—and yeah, he felt like hell about it.

  Now she’d seen him fighting for a second time, and she knew the gang was targeting him. And she didn’t like violence. Would she bail out of his construction job at this point?

  Sawyer scrubbed his hands over his face. Most of the stable repairs were done, and he could probably finish the rest if he had to, although his work would be a lot less professional.

  In all reality, the repairs weren’t what bothered him. It was the feeling he’d…lost something. Someone. Even when thinking she’d fucked him for a thrill, he’d liked her. Enjoyed her company.

  If she walked away, he’d miss her, dammit.

  The sound of her truck brought him to his feet. Here it c
omes. He could already imagine how she’d explain she had other obligations or how something had come up.

  Holding the sleepy puppy against his chest, he opened the door.

  “Good morning, Ware.” Toolbox in hand, Mallory walked past him. In the drive behind her pickup, two more trucks pulled in. The roofing twins and another carpenter.

  Not waiting for his response—because she’d undoubtedly learned not to expect a good morning from him—she set her toolbox on the counter as she normally did. “The roof should be done today. Then we’ll start on the floors in the tack room and wash rack. The new sink will be installed today, too.”

  Sawyer stared at her. The puppy yawned with a high squeak.

  Mallory laughed. “Does he have a name?”

  She’d seen him punch two guys into oblivion. Wasn’t the woman supposed to look nervous or something? “Achilles.”

  “Achilles.” Beautifully curved brown brows drew together. “Like the Greek who fought Hector in the Iliad?”

  “Very good.” He grinned at her disbelieving stare. “My mother was an English teacher—hence Sawyer and Atticus. And our youngest brother…” He paused, waiting for the question.

  She didn’t fail him. “His name is…?”

  Sawyer grinned. “Hector.”

  Fuck, he loved her laugh. Soprano voices were often shrill; hers was smooth and silken and full.

  Suddenly, he needed a direct answer. “You know the Aryan Hammers want revenge.”

  She blinked at his harsh tone. “Mmmhmm, I heard what Virgil said.”

  “Should I look for another contractor?”

  Her disgusted expression made him blink. “No, Ware. We have a contract—that’s why they call me a contractor. I finish what I start.”

  “I…” His throat clogged. Undoubtedly too much coffee. “Right.”

  The sound of the bickering Booth twins came from outside. “Russ, Priscilla thought you were an idiot. It was me she wanted.”

  “Dream on, dumbass. She asked me to get her a drink.”

  “Only so I could stay beside her. She liked me better…”

  “Those two.” With a huffed laugh, Mallory shook her head. “You’re pretty good in a fight, Ware. Any chance you’d want to beat up the roofers today?”

  Sawyer snorted and walked back to the bedroom to get changed.

  And if he was grinning? Well, she couldn’t see him, now could she?

  Chapter Eleven

  ‡

  A wayward storm swept down out of Alaska on Thursday night to gift the mountains with a lovely blanket of snow—before changing to an afternoon rain. In celebration of making deadlines and returning to a five-day week, Mallory let her crew take off early on Friday. Herself included.

  While cleaning up after her late lunch, she noticed the rain had stopped. If she walked down to get her mail right now, she could enjoy the last few remnants of snow.

  After donning her red rain jacket—just in case—she strolled down the lane, taking deep breaths of the invigorating cold air. The lower forests were a dark green, and up higher, the slopes were still a pristine white. Down here in the valley, snow lingered in the curves of the meadow and the shadows of the trees.

  Underfoot, the snow had turned to an unappealing, muddy—slick—slush. And slick. She skidded over a patch and barely caught her balance.

  Halfway to the mailbox, a few sprinkles hit. Then a few more. Murphy’s Law, right? Go for a walk and the rain will begin again. She pulled her hood up and laughed at the pattering sound. Rain or not, the world was beautiful.

  She passed Ware’s house and noted the dark windows and missing pickup. Not home.

  Oh, honestly, had she just held her breath?

  The roof on the stable looked good, and they’d finished just in time. Ware had been pleased…and had actually said so.

  Wasn’t it strange how his behavior had changed since the street fight last weekend? He still wasn’t particularly friendly, didn’t flirt or anything, but his edgy anger toward her had disappeared. Why he should have been mad to begin with, she’d never figured out—and she sure didn’t know him well enough to ask.

  She pursed her lips. Maybe he’d been adjusting to the outside world? What would it be like to be shoved into a concrete prison box to live? Regulated and restricted all the time. No wonder his aura had streaks of gray, and harsh lines bracketed his mouth.

  Had prison turned him into such a good fighter? Despite her fear, she’d noticed how skillfully he fought—as if he’d been born to be a warrior.

  No. Don’t start that again.

  It would be interesting to know where he’d picked up those skills, though. But she wouldn’t ask others about his past. According to the Buddha, speech needed to be “true, gentle, purposeful, and spoken with a mind of loving kindness,” and hearsay all too often verged on the unkind.

  If Ware wanted her to know more, he could tell her himself.

  She grinned. His willingness to share would happen right about when Bear Flat turned into a palm-tree-filled tropical resort.

  Besides, his past wasn’t her business. He’d made it clear he had no interest in her as a woman.

  Really, she shouldn’t have made love with him that night. Maybe they’d have been able to be friends if she’d simply thanked him for seeing her home and gone inside alone.

  She reached the end of her lane where it met the bigger road. Whiskey Creek Lane had three mailboxes in a row. Stepping over a pothole, she made a mental note to get the lane graded. Maybe graveled. At least the county had finally paved Kestrel Mountain Road.

  Opening her box, she pulled out the single envelope—“You have qualified for a credit card.”

  Gah, junk mail—a total waste of trees. At least she could use it as fire starter. Even as she shoved it into her pocket and headed back down the lane, the rain picked up, turning into a steady patter with a few sprinkles of snow for seasoning. Mallory walked faster.

  Despite the rain, a doe was browsing on the grass in the ditch. Two adorable fawns were cavorting nearby.

  Mallory grinned, remembering Becca’s first winter in Bear Flat when the city girl had left food out for the “poor, hungry deer” despite Logan’s warnings. Becca had learned her lesson the following spring. Unlike grass-eating cattle, deer munched everything—like tulips and fruit trees and the rose bushes Becca had just planted.

  Still… Mallory had understood her friend. Could anything be more irresistible than babies? As she walked, she watched the two fawns bounce after their mother. The first made a neat leap over the ditch. Then the other—

  Mallory stepped into a rut and stumbled. Her foot came down on a slickened rock, slipped off, and with a burst of wrenching pain, her ankle twisted.

  She went down. Hard.

  *

  Sawyer drove up Kestrel Mountain Road, heading home. In his crate on the passenger seat, Achilles napped after his traumatic veterinary visit. Poking and prodding—and needles. Poor pup. Sawyer’d been in the hospital enough; he could sympathize.

  He slowed the truck and turned onto Whiskey Creek Lane. Sleet smeared the windshield, and he flipped the wipers to a faster speed. Snow last night. Rain most of today. Now this mixture. Crazy uncertain weather. He grinned. In town, people had grumbled about the early storm; however, in prison, yard time outdoors was measured in minutes, and he’d acquired a whole new appreciation of everything nature had to offer.

  Even a sky spitting snow, ice, and rain.

  He passed Atticus’s house. On the long stretch to his spread, with pastures on each side, a flash of bright red caught his eye. Something—no, someone—sat near the side of the gravel road.

  Jesus, Mallory?

  He jammed on the brakes, slammed the truck into park, and jumped out.

  She had one ankle-high boot off and had removed her sock, leaving her left foot bare. Slowly, she was wrapping the removed sock around her right ankle over and above the boot in a clever kind of homemade strapping.

  She looke
d up at him, her relief obvious. “Hey, Ware. Any chance I could catch a ride to my house?”

  Hearing the pain underlying her casual words made his gut tighten. He squatted beside her. Under the dark green sock, her right ankle was swollen over the top of the boot. Sprained or busted. “Nope.”

  “But…”

  “You’re catching a ride to the medical clinic. Put your boot back on.” Before she could give him some smart-ass response, he opened the passenger door, moved Achilles over, and returned.

  She’d gotten her boot on, so he scooped her up and tried not to notice how well she fit in his arms. After putting her on the passenger seat, he set the small dog carrier on her lap. “Hang on to Achilles for me.”

  When he climbed in the other side, she frowned at him. “Take me home, please. My ankle just needs to be wrapped and—”

  “You’re going to see a doctor. Period.” As he reached across her to fasten her seat belt, he caught her scent. Cool and clean as fresh cut grass. He could also feel her shivering. “How long were you sitting there?”

  “Not too long. I have to admit, I wasted a couple of minutes in cursing.” When a whine came from the crate, she gave the pup a finger to nibble on. “Easy, baby. Shhh.”

  Sawyer wasn’t surprised when Achilles settled back down. This woman toted around serenity like other women carried purses.

  After flipping the heat to high, he turned the pickup around and headed back to town. “Anything besides your ankle damaged?”

  “Just my belief that I’d finally mastered the art of walking.”

  He grinned. From the tightness of her face, he’d guess her ankle hurt like hell, yet she wasn’t crying or hysterical. Fuck, he liked her wry sense of humor.

  In town, he parked in front of the clinic, moved the dog carrier to the driver’s seat, and gave Achilles a chew bone to keep him busy. “Back soon, buddy.”

  Ignoring Mallory’s protest, he carried her in. One damp, shivering, fragrant, soft armful. Remembering the feel of her naked body all too well, he had to concentrate on not cuddling her closer.

  In front of the reception desk, he looked around the waiting room, noting the high-mounted motion detectors and the sensor to detect breaking glass. Good security as well as being located next to the police station had undoubtedly kept the place safe from the Aryan Hammers. One less business he had to worry about.