9781618854490WildChelceeNC

by Unknown

  “Can anything else possibly go wrong?” She glanced at the heater knob as if it had the answer to her question. Shivering, Jayla glared at the tiny vents. Nothing. Not a spark of warmth. Icy air flowed from the vents. Her breath escaped in foggy little bursts. No use running it if it wasn’t working. “Sure why not? Just go ahead and dump another load of shit on me since I don’t have enough problems.” Jayla looked down, and swearing, flipped off the heater. In that infinitesimal second that she took her eyes off the freakin’ road from hell, three deer bounded from the woods across her path. One zigged across the road, then changing its mind, zagged back across, narrowly missing the car. Then it changed its mind again.

  “Oh, shit!”She knew better, darn it, and still she did the one thing she shouldn’t have—she wrenched the wheel and swerved to miss the deer.

  But the deer apparently had other ideas. Frightened and confused, it leapt in the air, sailing across the hood in a single bound. The other two followed the big doe’s lead. All three animals cleared the car and burst into the woods on the opposite side before stopping to stare, their ears twitching with curiosity.

  “Ow-ow-ow!” God, her shoulder felt as if it’d been ripped in half. “Stupid deer!” Tears blurred her vision. Damn it, she couldn’t see where she was going. Jayla jammed on the brakes, but the tires lost what little traction they had on the slick surface. The car skidded out of control, spinning round and round like a merry-go-round. “Oh, my God!”

  Her heart beating like a runaway mustang’s, she clung to the wheel, but this time, she was far from being in charge of the car. Jayla swore the Mustang was possessed. Before she could work it out of the wild spin, the car sailed across the ditch, straight toward the biggest pine tree she’d ever seen in her life.

  The undercarriage of the car scraped across a log buried in the snow, but it did little to slow the vehicle down. Her breath hitched. It felt like her lungs were encased by steel bands. She couldn’t breathe. Her heart hammered. “This is going to be bad.”

  Tears stung her eyes, blurring her vision again, and that was dangerous, what with this freaking sleet building up on her windshield and the huge tree looming before her, yeah it didn’t look very promising. She had but a single moment to brace for the inevitable impact. Her fingers clung to the frosty wheel, cold and sweaty and slippery. Terror held her in its ragged claws.

  The car pitched forward, smacking the tree head-on with a solid thud.

  Crash!

  The shrill whine of crunching metal raised the hairs on her nape. Tiny slivers of glass exploded in myriad directions. The seat belt tightened and cut into her abused shoulder and stomach. Jayla grunted. Her belly knotted and mind-numbing pain slashed through her gut like a knife, followed immediately by intense dull cramps. She recognized that achy, crampy feeling.

  “No.” She bit her lower lip before slowly releasing it as an old, familiar ache filled her womb. “Please, no.”

  The car bounced back, then forward again. It roared one final objection, spluttered, and died a swift death. Black smoke spewed from beneath the hood like a sick geyser. The unfortunate pine tree shook, an angry, savage beast. Thick branches snapped and crashed on top of the little car, front and back, nearly burying it beneath broken pine boughs.

  Snow splattered in big plops onto the hood, what was left of it anyway. The sharp tinkle of glass splintered the air as a jagged limb pierced the passenger side window and shot toward her. She ducked and it missed her head by a mere inch. The airbag, bless its powerful punch, discharged so fast, she hadn’t seen it coming, but Lord God, she felt it now.

  Sitting back up, she touched her lower lip with trembling fingers. Her upper front teeth throbbed as if they’d been knocked out of line. Her nose hurt and her lips tingled. Her right knee stung, reminding her of the many scrapes she’d received when learning to skate as a child.

  A plastic sack with some of her precious purchases in it, her purse, and the little black bag that was her lifeline were lost somewhere on the floorboard, along with a flashlight, thermos, and road atlas.

  It took her a moment to realize she lay draped across the deflated airbag, praying, or maybe it was more like chanting, because all she kept saying was, “Forgive. Forgive.”

  God, she was so damn messed up.

  It dawned on her she’d cheated death once more. Jayla swiped the tears from her face, but she couldn’t wipe away the hysteria wrenching ridiculous giggles from her throat. Trying to regain control of her insane laughter, she drew a deep breath and slowly released it. She repeated it again and again until she felt calmer and able to function once more.

  Bowing her head, she whispered, “Thank you, God, for giving me one more chance.”

  Looking up and staring at the damaged pine, she wondered if her prayers helped. What did it matter if sleet and snow came down in buckets, if she prayed or actually received forgiveness for the wrongs she’d done?

  As soon as Kane Masters found her, death would have its way—she could hide, but she couldn’t outrun a bullet.

  Chapter Two

  We all got pieces of crazy in us, some bigger pieces than others.

  ~Cowboy Quotes

  Montana

  West side of Dancing Star

  February 20, Friday

  2:05 p.m.

  His hand shaking, Wild slowly lowered the revolver. Eyeing the pistol, he scrunched his brows, puzzled. What the hell happened? The distant explosion not only surprised him, but rattled him, too. Shuddering, he glanced around. What the hell did he expect, the spirit of God to step up and slap him down? Was it His wrath that stopped him from pulling the trigger at that exact moment?

  If he’d pulled the trigger, would the discharge from the gun have sounded like that outlying blast? Not that he didn’t already know the answer to that question. He did. But knowing it would have been the last sound he ever heard, somehow made it different, more mysterious, more life-threatening.

  Inside, his body quivered, yet he was taut as a bow. Blinking away unexpected tears, he stared at the firearm in his hand for what felt like an eternity. Jesus Christ, what was he doing? Thinking? The wrath of God? Sure. Why not? Today of all days, it’d be just like Him to send down a mighty bolt of lightning to get his attention for considering such a heinous act.

  So far as he could tell, God had never been on his side. That particular Person turned His back on him seven years ago. So why step in now and prevent him from doing the one thing that’d give him peace?

  Suicide? Really? He was that desperate to end his life?

  Nothing is worth ending your life.

  Bullshit!

  Wild tuned out the internal noise shaming him. Damn it! It was his decision. His choice. He didn’t need some hidden subconscious voice springing to life and crowding his thoughts, challenging him with the right or wrong of it.

  Wondering why he hadn’t squeezed the trigger, he studied the gun with curiosity. Since he hadn’t fired the gun, what the hell had exploded? Something outside. It hadn’t sounded all that far away, but noises out here carried. They fooled a man, especially in winter.

  He tossed the revolver on the old-fashioned iron-rail bed across from him, rose from the crate, and wasted little energy crossing the room. As soon as he flung open the door, fierce chips of sleet pelted him in the face, but he had no difficulty detecting a plume of black smoke rising in the distance above the trees—maybe a quarter mile away.

  If he was lucky, he’d make it there and back within an hour, long before night set in. Plenty of time before the weather turned into the all-out blizzard it promised—plenty of time to contemplate his botched attempt at suicide.

  God knew he was in the middle of nowhere on the back side of the Dancing Star. The cabin lay in a large valley, one way in, one way out, and that one way was an old wagon trail and best traveled on horseback. The trail had been established by the first Remingtons who’d traveled by wagons from the East and settled in this part of Montana. Just like his ancestors, he l
iked how the Rockies graced this part of the ranch with its majestic peaks and gray, craggy sides. The land was good, a fine place to raise a family—that is, if he had a wife and kids—also a good place to get lost in, away from crowds and accusing faces, which was exactly what he wanted when he made the decision to live here. He didn’t need some damn interloper barging in, spoiling his privacy.

  Wild eyed the billowing smoke in the distance, wondering if maybe a small plane had crashed. A chill whipped through him. What if Jace had sent one of the ranch hands out in the chopper to bring him supplies? His brother had a habit of doing that. Although he had plenty of supplies, with this bad weather rearing its ugly head, it wouldn’t surprise him if Jace sent someone with extra supplies and to check on him.

  Grabbing his canvas cowboy duster and the rifle, Wild jerked the door shut behind him and headed to the small, but solid, open-sided barn where the horses sheltered from the cold.

  “Hey, girl.” Soothing the sorrel mare with soft words, he cinched a saddle in place. Wild slid the rifle in its leather sheath and tied the end, securing it in place. As a precaution, he added a rope. Hell, a cowboy never knew when a good lariat might come in handy. In less than a minute, he had the bit fed in her mouth.

  He studied the sky, wary of the weather. The mercury in the thermometer inside the big round plastic case tacked on the west wall inside the barn continued to drop. If he was going on a rescue mission, then it was now or never. Wild took a moment to work his arms inside the long sleeves of the durable, wheat-colored duster. Grabbing the reins, he swung onto the horse and settled his butt on the cold leather.

  “Gid-up, Rosie.” The mare balked with a soft whinny and a few dancing steps. “I know, girl, your name sucks almost as much as the weather, but I didn’t name you. Lay the blame on my sister, but we still gotta check this out, might be someone’s in bad trouble. Can’t leave him out in the cold, now can we?” He clucked at the mare, kneeing her into leaving the shelter.

  Wild headed through the trees and scrub brush, blazing a path through the half-foot of snow already accumulated. It was slower going than he’d anticipated, mainly because the mare kept stumbling on hidden rocks and treacherous patches of ice buried under the snow.

  It took a half hour before he hit the clearing that led to the old wagon trail. Once there, it didn’t take long to spot the car, or the fact that the lone-standing pine tree had tried to catch fire.

  “Huh. Well, girl, looks like all that smoke’s a false alarm, no downed plane, just wet timber making a lot of fuss. Whoa, girl.” He pulled back on the reins, halting the mare a few feet away.

  He wasn’t about to ride up on a stranger. If someone was in this neck of the woods in this kind of weather, then he either had something to hide, something he was running from, or desperately desired his own company. Wild understood wanting one’s own company, but until he knew which one it was, he wasn’t going any closer. But the man was trespassing on private property. The land was posted.

  Wild stared at the mangled car in disbelief. It resembled a crunched aluminum can jammed against the sturdy pine.

  “Who the hell would be idiot enough to drive a sporty car like that back here in these mountains, especially on this half-assed road, in this kind of weather?”

  The mare snorted and pawed the ground.

  “Yep, that’s what I think, too. Dumb as dirt. A real greenhorn.”

  “Help!”

  Wild blinked, then scrubbed a hand down his face. Shit. A woman. He should have known. “Son…of…a…bitch.” He drew out the words. “There goes the neighborhood, Rosie.”

  “Help! Can anyone hear me? I need help!”

  He patted the mare’s neck. “Whaddaya think, girl? All this land and timber and she pointed her fancy rig at the only big tree standing off by itself. Couldn’t hardly miss it, now could she? Might make a man start to wonder if the little woman’s just plum loco or think maybe he’s being hunted.”

  The last thing he wanted was some dang reporter sniffing around the place and making a nuisance of herself. Hell, he outta just ride away, pretend he never saw the car. Sure as shootin’ this meant trouble for him. “Nah…can’t do it, Rosie. We can’t leave her to freeze.”

  Gingerly he nudged the mare forward. No matter how he felt, decency dictated he couldn’t leave a man here alone, let alone a woman. Not only might she be seriously injured, although he doubted it with all that caterwauling going on, but she’d either die from exposure or wolves would get her. Sliding off the horse, he approached from the driver’s side.

  “Hey, in there, you okay, lady?” he shouted. “Are ya hurt?”

  Crack!

  “Stop right there!”

  The boom of the gun sounded like thunder across the valley.

  Wild’s hat sailed through the air landing a few feet away. Rosie reared and whinnied, frightened by the unexpected noise. The reins slid from Wild’s gloved hands and the mare bolted like she’d been stung by a bee. He dropped to the ground, belly-crawling until he reached cover behind a large boulder. “Sonofabitch, if she didn’t want help, why’d she yell for it?”

  And why was he talking to a rock?

  Twisting about, he leaned back. His shoulders pressed against the boulder. He looked around to make sure the mare hadn’t fled the country in terror. Nope. The mare stood a few feet away. The horse was well trained, better than the loco female with the loaded gun poked out the driver’s side window taking a potshot at him.

  Wild peeped around the corner of the granite wall providing him cover. Hell, he’d had reporters charge at him like a herd of stampeding cattle, but he’d never had one try to gun him down before. “Damn, fool woman!” What was a man supposed to do? Damnation.

  She waved the pistol above the top of the driver’s door like it was a victory flag. “Don’t come any closer,” she yelled. “I’ve got a gun!”

  “No shit,” Wild muttered and ducked back down. Crazy woman was liable to blow off his head. Cursing, he snatched his Stetson off the ground—his favorite, the cream-colored straw one with the black and white beaded band and bits of ostrich feathers on the back. He eyed it with disgust. The lunatic woman had put a bullet hole through the crown.

  What a pissy-ass day this had turned out to be.

  He jammed the hat back in place, his jaw tightening with anger. He might want to kill himself, but be damned if someone else was doing the job for him. He decided when. He decided where. “Are you crazy, lady?” he shouted. “Don’t shoot! I came here to help you.”

  “Wild? Is that you?”

  Now she questioned who he was? After nearly plugging a hole in his head? Huh.

  “Is that you? Wild?” she asked again, sounding doubtful.

  Cautiously, he rose to his feet, his arms in the air in surrender. “Well now, that all depends,” he drawled. “Who the hell are you gunning for?” He didn’t recognize the voice or the car. Who was she and what did she want with him?

  Wild side-stepped, edging around so he approached the car from the rear and stayed out of her range at the same time, or at least made it difficult for her to line him up in her sights. He moved closer, not too close. He preferred not to get blasted with a bullet, but near enough to read the plates. “U.S. Government. D.C.” Nope, his eyes must be playing tricks on him. He hadn’t done anything lately to warrant the U.S. government to come gunning for him. No one in D.C. he knew wanted to talk to him bad enough to drive across the country during a pending blizzard either, his brother, Duel, maybe, but him—the ex-con? Uh-uh. No one cared enough to spend a bullet on him.

  Whoever she was, she was a long way from home, and a tad bit cracked to boot. By God, if he was right and this was some damn nosy reporter attempting to sneak her way past his guard, he’d leave her on her own. “You’re trespassing on private property, lady. Are you blind? Didn’t you see the signs posted at the cattle guards? Who are you? Whadda you want? And why the hell did you shoot at me?” In his opinion, situations like this were best approa
ched with caution, right after he ripped the damn revolver from her hands and shoved it up her ass!

  “If you’re Wild Remington, I want you.”

  He cocked his head to one side. “Guess you found who you’re looking for, ma’am. I’m Wild, but I sure as sweet hell ain’t up for grabs, lady. You can’t have me. Sorry.”

  “For Pete’s sake, I didn’t mean it like that,” she said, exasperated. “I meant I want your help.”

  “You shot at me. Why would I wanna help you?”

  “No reason I can think of,” she admitted, defeated.

  Wild thumbed back his hat taking a moment to consider the situation. Nope. He refused to feel sympathy for the woman. Sure, she sounded like a little whipped puppy, but the woman had shot at him! He chewed on his lower lip. Hell, he couldn’t deny something in her voice got to him. “Can you get outta the car?” Wild worked the leather gloves off his fingers and slapped his palms with them. Idiot. He was a certified nutcase.

  What was he doing?

  Thinking?

  He didn’t have to go looking for trouble, it always found him. If he was smart, he’d gather himself up, get back on Rosie, and skedaddle.

  “Not until I know for sure it’s you. Come closer.” She wiggled the gun in his general direction. “And move back over this way so I can see you.”

  He snorted. “You must think I been grazin’ on loco weed. I come any closer, you’ll shoot me.”

  “No, I won’t. But I need to be sure it’s you. I can’t see your face.”

  “Ma’am, I’m not standing here in the cold freezing my ass off while you make up your mind if you wanna trust me or not. Nor am I taking one step closer until you lower that gun. I have no problem leaving you here to fend off a hungry mountain lion.”

  “Okay. Wait! Don’t go. Answer one question. How many brothers do you have?”

  “Two.”

  “That doesn’t prove you’re Wild Remington. Anyone who watches the news knows the answer to that question.”