Booted

by Pam Godwin

  Contents

  Disclaimer

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  Free Books

  Other Books by Pam Godwin

  Playlist

  Acknowledgments

  About Pam Godwin

  If you have not read the first two books, STOP!

  Each book in the TRAILS OF SIN series is a different couple,

  but they should be read in order.

  KNOTTED (#1)

  BUCKLED (#2)

  BOOTED (#3)

  The silence in the master suite makes my blood run colder than the air blasting from the floor vent. It’s an accusing silence, articulation without voice, howling with my failures.

  Tensing against the tremors is useless, but I do it impulsively, trying to deaden the bleed of anguish.

  The bruises and cuts John Holsten left on my body mean nothing. It’s the other damage, the deep hole he cleaved through my heart that wracks me with inconsolable pain. I can’t undo what he did. I have no choice but to survive it.

  I drink in the silence and hear what it’s telling me.

  It says to end the pity party, pull my ass from this bed, and go.

  How long have I been at Julep Ranch? Two nights? Three? I haven’t eaten. Haven’t bathed. Haven’t left this room. I’m bereft of strength, my limbs hanging boneless and brittle, as if karma is conspiring to keep me here. In John Holsten’s family home.

  I owe Maybe Quinn for risking her life to save me, but the unexpected freedom doesn’t dare whisper the reassurances I need. I have nothing. Not here or anywhere.

  She should’ve left me chained in that room in Texas. I would’ve killed the son of a bitch eventually.

  Lying on my side with my back to the door, I’ve only been awake for a few minutes. Daylight fades beyond the window, sharpening the jagged edges of my existence.

  A fuzzy sheen glazes my good eye. The swelling in the other has gone down since the night John rammed his fist into it. But it waters and stings unbearably. If the cornea is scratched, there’s no fix for that except time.

  Time will heal the small stuff. The worst of my wounds, however, may never stitch back together.

  Behind me, the quiet intrudes like a thief, bristling with menace and plundering the cavernous suite. Is someone here?

  I hold my breath, listening. Then I feel it. A knot of air. An undeniable presence. I’m not alone.

  Maybe checks on me every few hours to treat my wounds, nag me to eat, and ask questions I don’t have the energy to answer. She stomps around and makes too much noise for the presence behind me to be her.

  Curiosity shifts me to my back, but I misjudged the weakness in my body. My muscles struggle to take orders, my breaths rasping in my exertion to re-position. I turn my neck and wait for my vision to clear, hoping for a feminine face or friendly expression. I get neither.

  Cold green eyes hijack my pulse. Long, lean, and packed with power, the formidable cowboy sprawls on a folding chair a few feet away and glares out the window from beneath a black wide-brimmed hat.

  Immersed in the beauty of his dangerous superiority, his gaze slides to me and narrows into judgmental slits. It’s a look without morals or manners, one that says killing me would cause him less grief than putting down a horse.

  A gasp hitches my chest, but I keep my eyes steady on his. Two years ago, I met John Holsten’s sons, Jarret and Jake. Yesterday, I met Conor, the only daughter at Julep Ranch. This man must be Conor’s brother, the elusive fourth in their tight-knit quartet.

  Lorne Cassidy.

  When I stayed here before, a photo of him graced the fireplace mantle. The smiling boy in that picture has no resemblance to the felon scowling at me now.

  If an ex-con has a look, Lorne personifies it. The icy allure reflected on his face makes me shudder as his thumb mindlessly strokes the scar on his palm. Chillingly intense and devoid of sympathy, the man is chiseled in hostility.

  Where his eyes are the vivid green of fresh dew on a pasture, his lips are pale and pressed into a severe line. Short black hair peeks from under the hat. A slender nose and prominent, clean-shaved jaw accentuate his bold angles.

  Beautiful doesn’t begin to describe him. He’s arresting in the way a viper is deadly. Entrancing. Calculating. Patient. If he strikes, I won’t survive the bite.

  His strength flows through the twining cords of muscle that shape his physique—thick biceps, powerful thighs and calves, rock-hard chest and abdomen. The jeans and t-shirt fit too tightly, his broad frame stretching the fabric and testing the seams.

  Incarcerated at age eighteen, he must’ve grown over the past eight years. But little inconveniences, such as needing new clothes, are probably not high on his give a fuck list.

  He sweeps a cursory glance over my bandages. The marbled coloring on my arms and chest blends together in layers of yellows, blacks, and blues. Every inch of my body narrates the story of my life as John Holsten’s whore.

  “Tell me what happened.” His voice scratches, low and rusty, as if out of practice.

  “Isn’t it obvious?”

  Leaning forward, he rests his elbows on spread knees. Rather than drilling me on how I became a punching bag, he pins me with threatening silence. The kind of silence that wraps my lungs in razor wire.

  He stares, and I stare right back, as much as I can with a busted eye. His demeanor is unnerving. Downright scary. It probably earned him an empire of respect in prison.

  There’s no denying he’s the alpha among men. The biggest wolf of them all. And he just graduated from a maximum-security school for gangsters, predators, and murderers.

  I brace for another growly order, but he doesn’t need his voice to intimidate. He commands with a rigid posture and unwavering eye contact. His terrifying calmness demands I explain myself and promises pain if I don’t.

  Goosebumps skitter along my arms. Pain isn’t something I’m ready to experience again so soon. But I’m even less inclined to lie here and tolerate his silent attempt to terrorize me.

  Fear doesn’t control me. He doesn’t know that, but he’s about to find out.

  I swing my legs off the bed. “I’m leaving.”

  He glares at my bare thighs. “Cover yourself.”

  Wearing the sundress Maybe gave me, I tug the fabric to my knees and cringe at the dried red stains amid the flowery pattern.

  My wounds are no longer bleeding, my memory a fog of constant agony. Pointy-toed boots, leather belts, angry knuckles, whips, blades, the floor, the wall—anything and everything was used as a weapon to punish me.

  I’m physically beat down, but beneath the bruises, I seethe with determination. If Lorne, John’s sons, or anyone else tries to hurt me, I’ll stand up to them with everything I am.

  If they want to help me, I’ll return the kindness with kindness. They lived with John, too, after all. Since we share that misery, maybe we can help one another.

  “I need to get moving.” I peek at the devil with green eyes. “If you’ll help me—”

  “No.”

  “I just need something clean to wear and—”

  “You’re not going anywhere.”

  That answers that.

  My toes curl against the hardwood flooring. I need shoes. Guess I’ll figure that out after I fi
nd the strength to stand.

  I push off the bed and lock my knees against a vicious wave of shaking. Dizziness plummets through me, and I sway to remain upright. I should’ve eaten something. But even now, the thought of food makes my stomach shrivel in on itself.

  I take a step and lose my balance, faltering.

  Detached and expressionless, Lorne watches me wrestle with gravity without offering a hand or a word of encouragement.

  Fuck him.

  I attempt another step and careen toward the bed, missing it. My knees hit the floor with a bone-rattling smack.

  A hot river of tears streams from the burn in my bad eye. I cry out in frustration and pound a fist against my thigh, hurting to the point of nausea.

  Pain medication would be a blessing right now, but I said no doctors and no cops. For good reason.

  Lorne observes my debility with indifference. I swear if he had a gun, he would raise it to my head and gently apply pressure to the trigger, just to play with the action between firing and not firing.

  After a loaded span of breaths, he rises and exits the room, leaving me to fend for myself on the floor.

  I slap at the tears streaking from my injured eye, which only aggravates the broken skin on my cheek. I’m not crying. It’s just… Dammit, everything hurts.

  Indiscernible whispers sound from the hallway as I brace my hands on the mattress and attempt to hoist ineffective muscles.

  Sweat beads on my temples, and my arms tremble uncontrollably. I make it to my feet as the tread of boots scuff behind me.

  Lorne prowls into the room and returns to the chair without glancing in my direction.

  “When did you get out?” I slump onto the edge of the bed, out of breath.

  “Four hours ago.” He rests a loose fist beneath his mouth and stares at the window.

  It’s a two-hour drive from the prison, and he was here when I woke.

  “You spent your shiny new freedom watching me sleep?” I flex my hands on my lap.

  “This is my room.”

  “I’m on my way out.”

  As soon as I muster the energy to walk. And eat. And steal a pair of shoes.

  I press my bare feet together and blink at the floor. “If you could call me a cab and loan me a few dollars—”

  The door opens, and Maybe breezes into the room, carrying a small tin box.

  “You’re up.” She bathes me in the brightness of her smile.

  “I’m working on it.”

  She gives me a once-over and settles on my face. “Your eye is still watering.”

  “It’s fine.” I wipe away the cascade of tears. “How long have I been here?”

  “Two days.” She pats my shoulder and offers the box to Lorne. “Is this what you wanted?”

  “Yes.” He takes it from her, lifts the lid, and removes a marijuana cigarette.

  She purses her lips. “I really don’t think she should—”

  “I didn’t ask for your opinion.” He hands her the joint and a lighter from the box. “Light it.”

  Why doesn’t he light it himself?

  On the way here, I overheard Jarret and Maybe discussing Lorne’s prison sentence. He earned an early release. No parole. No checking in. No routine drug tests. He’s a free man.

  Perhaps he has an aversion to drugs? God knows I do.

  I meet his frosty green eyes and shiver. “I don’t do drugs.”

  “But you’ll do a man three times your age?” His jaw sets. “Didn’t realize you had standards.”

  My hackles bristle. This is one of the reasons I need to leave. They will never understand why I did the things I did, and I don’t care enough to enlighten them.

  Maybe coughs through an inhale and passes the joint back to Lorne. “Are you always such a dick?”

  “Every day. Every breath.” He snatches it from her and motions toward the door. “Leave us.”

  She slams her fists on her hips. “If you’re trying to scare me away, it won’t work. I love Jarret, and he loves me.” She holds up her hand, wriggling the engagement ring with a surly smirk. “This means I’m not going anywhere. Deal with it.”

  I smile inwardly, in awe of her fire. I liked her the moment I met her, when she showed up at John’s door two years ago demanding answers about her husband, Rogan Cassidy.

  She was married to Lorne’s half-brother. Now she’s engaged to Lorne’s… What is Jarret to him? They grew up together on the ranch. They might as well be brothers.

  Jarret and Jake killed her husband before they knew about his relationship to the family. Not that it would’ve stopped them. The Holsten men are murderers, through and through.

  “You just keep on scowling at me, Lorne. It only makes me want to boop your nose.” Maybe reaches toward him, as if to tap his nose with a finger.

  His lips curl, exposing straight white teeth that look dangerously close to biting off her finger.

  She yanks her hand back. “Okay, you’re clearly not ready for that. But we’ll get there.” She turns her blue eyes to me. “You need anything?”

  “Shoes?” I sit taller.

  “She doesn’t need shoes.” Lorne flicks a finger at the door. “Get out.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.” She winks at me and strides from the room in a whirl of wild blond curls and cowboy boots.

  I glance at Lorne, trying to get a read on his reaction to her. “She’s…different.”

  “She’s a vegetarian,” he says, as if that explains everything. He holds out the joint between two long fingers, his voice void of emotion. “This’ll help with the pain.”

  Is he actually showing a glimpse of concern?

  I don’t know why that makes me soften. Maybe because I really want these aches to go away, and he seems to understand that.

  Accepting the herb, I lift it to my lips. The first draw sets my throat on fire, and I hack out a lung. I used to steal my mom’s cannabis when I was a kid, but that was forever ago.

  After a few more attempts, I get the hang of it, pulling in the pungent smoke, holding it in my chest, and slowly releasing it.

  He cracks the window and reclines in the chair, glaring at me like it’s a completely normal thing to do. As I smoke down half of the joint, I glance between him, the window, the floor, back at him. He really knows how to make a person feel awkward.

  “Why did you call Maybe for help?” He holds himself unnaturally still, moving only his lips.

  “She offered.” I shrug and flinch at the pain that small movement produces. “Two years ago, she visited John and gave me her phone number. Or rather, she gave it to him but—”

  “I know how she did it. Why not call the cops? Or family? Someone you know?”

  My heart collapses beneath a deluge of irreparable mistakes. “I have no one.”

  “No family?” His gaze dips to my throat.

  “No.” I touch the leather choker that holds his attention, and my shoulders loosen.

  My Cherokee grandmother made me the necklace before she died. The leather connects to a silver ring at the base of my throat, and a web of woven wire with a turquoise bead at the center fills the hoop.

  My ancestors believed these dream catchers warded off the badness in the air. There used to be three silver feathers dangling from mine. I must’ve lost them during one of John’s rampages.

  Heaviness seeps into my muscles and desensitizes my brain. The devil’s cabbage—as my grandmother used to call it—is doing its job, the medicated high magnified by the sadness creeping around my armored walls.

  Stoned and despondent. A terrible combination in the company of this man.

  “I’m gonna go.” I hand him the roach.

  He crushes it out on the bottom of his boot and returns it to the tin box. “Tell me why you’re avoiding the cops.”

  A rush of lightheadedness bears down on me. My face loses feeling. The room spins, and my insides threaten to heave.

  I’m a lightweight, but the weed shouldn’t affect me like this. Excep
t I haven’t eaten in days. I haven’t smoked in years, and my emotions are leaking all over the place.

  “I need to…” My vision blurs. “Lie down.”

  I topple over, straight off the side of the bed.

  As I brace to hit the floor, strong arms catch me instead.

  Cradling my back, he settles me on the mattress. The intoxicating scent of clean, musky spice hits my nose and works its way through my muddled mind like an aphrodisiac. He smells divine. Like warm skin, soft linens, and insatiable sex.

  He’s unbelievably tense. His fingers, arms, chest—every part of him that comes in contact with me is coiled tightly, his teeth grinding to the point of fracturing. He might hate me, but if I shoved a hand down his pants, I bet he’d fill my grip like a loaded shotgun.

  “Why no cops?” The wavy mirage of his perfectly symmetrical, gorgeously masculine face hovers over me as he braces his hands on either side of my head.

  I moan, swaddled in doped exhaustion. “You don’t want cops involved.”

  “No, I don’t. But why don’t you?”

  “They’ll stop me.” My tongue feels too big in my mouth, lolling in slow motion and slurring my words.

  “Stop you from doing what?”

  “Gonna take a nap.” My hundred-pound eyelids shut out the world, and I bask in the solace of darkness.

  Until painful pressure ignites through my jaw.

  I snap back into consciousness to find his fingers squeezing the hell out of my face.

  “What are you planning?” His green eyes blaze down on me.

  I gently clutch his muscular forearm and caress my thumb across his wrist. The soft touch does exactly what I intended. He lets go.

  Working my jaw, I blink slowly, heavily. “I’m going to kill John Holsten.”

  He straightens and rests his hands on his trim hips, his expression unreadable. “You think I won’t stop you?”

  “You won’t.”

  “There’s a reason he’s still alive.” He glances at the door, no doubt considering John’s sons.

  I was here the day Jarret and Jake evicted their father from the ranch. They could’ve killed him then. I wish they would have. They knew enough about his crimes to justify it.

  But they don’t know everything.

  “I’ll tell you why he needs to die.” My voice fades to a whisper as sleep threatens to pull me under.