by Pam Godwin
Well, they’re not the ones I’m thinking about now, and that’s dangerous in itself. Lorne might be a damn fine sight to look at, but he’s meaner than a snake. Sometimes, I wonder if he treats people like shit just for the hell of it.
That’s the real reason for my mood this morning. He pushed me away last night when all I did was try to be nice.
He hurt my feelings.
I know better than to give him that power over me. Feelings aren’t part of our arrangement. I won’t tolerate him disrespecting me, and I’ll continue to stand up to him at every turn. But I can’t let him get to me.
Indifference is the only way to deal with Lorne Cassidy.
He wants his guns put together, and I’ll try to do that. Only because it’s part of my training. I’ll learn everything there is to learn about a firearm so that the next time I shoot John Holsten, I won’t fail.
Turning my attention to the scattered parts, I throw myself into the task.
Too soon, the shower shuts off, and Lorne rolls out in a mist of condensation with a towel wrapped around his trim hips.
I succeeded in sliding the bolt thingy into the hole where the barrel’s supposed to go, but I might’ve messed up the order of operations. If he shows me again, I’ll get the hang of it.
He glances at my work, and his lip curls back. “Did you even try?”
“Yes, of course. I—”
“Fucking worthless.” He snags his jeans from the floor.
A hot ember lodges in my throat, but I swallow it down. “You need to have a little patience with me.”
“That was me being patient. I gave you a simple task and clearly expected too much north of your ears.”
“Oh…” I laugh with mirthless disbelief and drop the gun parts. “No. No, you will not talk to me that way.” I slowly rise to my feet, my voice shaking on the edge of explosion. “Apologize. Right now.”
He turns his back and collects his clothes, dismissing me.
I can’t make him retract his insult, but I don’t have to stand here and look at him.
Pivoting toward the door, I walk out with more calm than I feel.
“Raina.” His footsteps follow as heavy as his voice. “Get back here.”
I pick up my pace and make it to the hall before his fist captures my hair and yanks me back against his chest.
“Where are you going?” He breathes at my ear.
“Let go.” I claw at his grip, unable to budge the steel vise of his fingers.
His other arm clamps around my waist, and panic jolts through me. But I force myself to go still so he can focus on my words.
“Bully me all you want, Lorne. You’ll be the one walking like John Wayne for the rest of your life. Don’t forget I prepare your food, and I swear on all that is holy your next meal will grow warts on your asshole and spread a rash to your balls. Everything below your belt will be so painful to look at you won’t just want your dick to fall off. You’ll take a knife to it in horrified desperation.”
“Christ.” He releases a sharp breath, and his hold on me disappears.
I lurch forward, burning the breeze in my hurry down the hall. I don’t look back until I reach the foyer.
He stands where I left him, arms at his sides, towel hanging precariously on his hips, and gaze pinned on mine. His stunned face looks like that of a coldblooded predator, but there’s definitely shock there, etched in the terrible beauty of his scowl.
I continue through the house and out the back door. The summer heat sucks the air from my lungs, and I squint against the unforgiving sun, wishing I owned sunglasses.
At least he didn’t follow me.
Weapons training will have to wait until I can stomach the thought of looking at him again.
I have plenty of distractions, such as an herb garden to revive, berries to forage in the grove across the field, and meals to plan.
I spend the rest of the day doing just that. I don’t know where Lorne went, and thankfully, I don’t see him again until dinner.
The smoky aroma of barbecued meat permeates the kitchen as I set out the brisket, fried hominy, and warm bean bread. These were some of my favorite foods as a child. I doubt I prepared them as well as my grandmother did, but everything smells delicious.
The door to the mudroom opens, followed by the clomp of boots. One by one, the ranchers find their way to the table, leaving a trail of dirt on the floor I just cleaned.
I didn’t sign up to be their maid, but I can’t stand a dirty kitchen. Some ground rules might be in order.
Lorne is the last to enter, his jeans carrying fewer stains than the others. His eyes dart directly to mine, and I busy myself with the pans in the sink.
“This looks amazing, Raina.” Maybe lifts a spoonful of hominy to her nose and inhales.
“Thank you.” My stomach rumbles.
I haven’t eaten since breakfast, and I don’t know the protocol. What’s my role here? John never ate his meals with me.
“Oh my God, this is delicious,” Conor says around a mouth full of brisket.
“How was your day?” Jake settles in beside her and runs his knuckles along her cheek.
“I treated a horse with desmitis. The poor thing.”
As she launches into her medical care, Lorne pulls out the chair next to his and finds my eyes.
Sit, he mouths.
I’d rather not sit by him, but it’s the only seat left. I can act like a child and refuse. Or I can do the mature thing.
As I lower beside him, Conor points her fork at him and asks, “What did you do today?”
He kicks back in the seat, all swagger and sex appeal. “I bought a cell phone, renewed my driver’s license, worked out, and was put in my place by a very scary woman.” His eyes drift to me.
A tide of heat rises up my neck, and not just because I’m imagining him working out.
“Why were you put in your place?” Jake glances between Lorne and me, his expression indecipherable.
“I showed my ass,” Lorne says matter-of-factly.
“In the metaphoric sense?” Conor lifts a brow.
“In every sense.” He stretches a leg beneath the table, his fathomless green eyes fastened to mine.
It’s not an apology, and I’m not willing to let it go just yet. “Was there a lesson learned?”
He stares down at the food he hasn’t touched on his plate, his lips twisting into a cocky smirk. “Don’t piss off the woman who prepares your meals.”
Around the table, mouths freeze in mid-chew.
“The food is safe.” I pick up my fork and demonstrate by taking a hearty bite of barbecued brisket.
A communal sigh of relief ripples through the room, and the conversation steers onto safe topics, like this year’s cattle stock.
After dinner, Lorne sticks around to help me tidy up. The family is good about loading the dishwasher and offering to pitch in. They’ve been fending for themselves their whole lives. But I chase them away to clean up the mess I made while cooking.
“I have a few more errands to run tonight.” Lorne leans against the counter beside me. “You’ll be riding along.”
“Why?” I toss down the towel and turn toward him.
“We both need clothes.”
“You want to take me shopping?” I can’t picture it. “I don’t have money. Besides, the stores will be closed.”
“You’re earning your keep, and I have a friend who owns a shop.” He strides away. “We leave in ten.”
“I need to take a shower.”
“I’ll be in the truck.” He prowls out of the kitchen.
I growl under my breath and head to the bathroom.
Twenty minutes later, I stroll out to his pickup. I skipped washing my hair in lieu of cutting a pair of his jeans into shorts. And I cut them short, right beneath the panty line, giving a new meaning to boyfriend jeans.
His gaze flies straight to my legs as I climb in beside him.
“You can’t go out in public like that
.” He rests an arm on the steering wheel, his expression tense.
“I can, and I will.” I latch the seat belt.
“You look like a buckle bunny.”
“If you don’t lay off, you’ll be shopping alone.” I adjust the knot of the flannel top to sit higher so my entire midriff is bared.
With a grunt, he starts the engine and hits the road.
The moon hovers over the tops of the trees and follows us into town. He takes the main drag through Sandbank and pulls into the driveway of a modest colonial home with a columned front porch and evenly placed windows.
A familiar SUV sits in front of the single garage, with a light bar mounted on the roof.
“What are we doing here?” Roiling heat ignites in my belly.
“Stay in the truck.” He climbs out and stalks to the front door.
After two curt knocks, the porch light illuminates, and Sheriff Fletcher steps out.
I sink into the shadows of the cab, my pulse thundering.
John Holsten and the sheriff of Sandbank are thick as thieves, their corruption so intertwined I wouldn’t be surprised if John was shacked up here right now, waiting for me to wander into town alone.
My spine chills as I lock the doors and nervously scan the sleepy street.
Fletcher tips his hat at Lorne, and Lorne gives him a nod in greeting. They exchange words, a conversation I can’t hear, while assuming the same dominant postures—boots planted in wide stances, hands resting on belt buckles, shoulders back, and eyes stony.
Lorne motions at the truck, and the sheriff’s greasy gaze slithers to mine. My breath stutters.
What is Lorne doing? Why the fuck are they staring at me?
Five minutes pass. Then ten. Lorne does most of the talking. Neither of them shows any signs of hostility, but the strain on Fletcher’s face confesses his growing agitation.
The confrontation ends with a jerky nod from the sheriff. He remains motionless and watchful as Lorne steps off the porch, unlocks the truck, and slides in beside me.
“What was that?” I grip the armrest, trembling on pins and needles.
“A prayer meetin’.” With a straight face, he pulls onto the road.
“Was that a joke? Because I’m not laughing. That man is a rat with a badge. Did you know he and John went to school together?”
He stops at a red light and squints at me. “No.”
“They’ve been good ol’ pals since before John met his wife.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying Sheriff Fletcher had a hand in the deaths of Julep and your mother.”
He searches my face. “You believe that.”
“I believe it’s possible that a small-town sheriff shows up at the scene of a car wreck, messes with evidence, and makes it look like an accident. All the while, his best bud is sitting on oil-rich land with the promise of sharing some of that wealth.”
His nostrils flare. “Motherfuck.”
The light turns green, and he punches the gas.
“What did you say to him?” I ask.
“Told him I had what John was looking for.”
My hands ball on my lap.
He glances at my fists and returns to the road. “I went there with a warning, Raina. If John steps foot in Sandbank, Fletcher will contact me.”
“Or?”
“Or he’ll spend the rest of his life behind bars.”
“He’ll take your family down with him.”
“Not if he wants his wife to live.” His hand clenches on the steering wheel. “If there’s one thing Fletcher loves more than money, it’s his high school sweetheart.”
My blood shivers. Lorne threatened the sheriff’s wife, and I have no doubt he’d follow through on that threat if something happened to his family.
He drives the truck down Main Street, the traffic scarce this time of night. Sandbank is enclosed on all sides by farmland and cattle ranges. The closest highway sits on the outskirts of town.
He heads in that direction and stops at the intersection that marks the city limit. A few miles up ahead lies the freeway. A huge tractor supply warehouse spreads out on my right. Anyone and everyone coming into Sandbank passes through here.
“Is there always a security guard on duty?” I point at the marked car parked in the shadowed corner of the warehouse lot.
“As long as I can remember. Old Cal doesn’t trust his security cameras. He’s been robbed and vandalized too many times over the years.”
Movement shifts beside the security car, drawing my eyes to the young man standing near the building. He lifts a cigarette to his mouth, his tall frame clad in a drab security uniform.
I have an idea. It’s a long shot but worth the try.
“Pull into that parking lot.” I brush my hair over my shoulders. “I want to talk to that guy.”
“Talk to him about what?” His lips form a flat line.
“If what you said is true, Cal’s security guards see every car coming and going out of Sandbank. I’m going to ask that one to keep a look out for us.”
He barks a sound of disdain. “Waste of time.”
“If you’re so certain, give me a chance to prove you right.”
He rolls his lips between his teeth. Then he turns into the empty lot.
“Right here is fine.” I point at the first parking spot.
On the opposite end of the blacktop, the security guard lowers into his car, swallowed by the darkness within.
“Give me the number for your cell phone.” I search the cab for something to write it on.
He removes a wrinkled receipt from the glove box, jots down the number, and hands it to me, with annoyance written across his face. “Try not to get yourself abducted.”
Lorne might be a class-A prick, but I know he won’t take his eyes off me between here and that car. Besides, John Holsten would be a fool to show up with Lorne’s truck sitting here.
I hop out and stuff the paper in my pocket. Hair swaying around my shoulders and boots clicking on the pavement, I glide across the lot with a subtle sway in my hips.
When I approach the passenger door of the security car, the window immediately rolls down. I lean in and fold my arms on the frame, giving the early-twenties security guard an unhindered view of cleavage.
Blue eyes zero in, hooded and captivated.
“Holy hell,” he whispers. “Where did you come from? Because one thing’s for certain, you ain’t from around here.”
“Evening, handsome.” I trap my bottom lip between my teeth and let it slowly slide free. “Want some company?”
“I could never turn down a pretty thing like you.” His gaze jumps to Lorne’s truck, to the cameras on the building, and back to me. “But I’m not supposed to let people on the property.”
“Aww, shoot.” I straighten and hook a thumb beneath the waistband of the cut-offs, inching them so low it leaves little to the imagination. “I’m in a bit of a predicament and could really use some help from a strong, strapping man like yourself.”
The sounds of his breaths grow deeper, faster. A moment later, the door unlocks with a victorious click.
I climb into the car.
The moment Raina disappears inside the dark car, my stomach knots. Restlessness grips my legs. My body temperature rises, and I feel like my insides are shaking.
My anxiousness is completely unwarranted. The security guard is such a skinny little twat she could swat the air and knock him over.
But I don’t like it. I hate that she’s alone with him.
I hate that I hate it.
Twisting the dream catcher pendant on my wrist, I probe the surrounding fields and vacant roads. My foot bounces, and I squeeze the back of my neck, unraveling by the second.
Blowing out a series of short breaths, I try to gain control and ignore the car that obscures her. But my gaze crosses the lot without my permission, straining to make out the dark interior.
What the almighty fuck is she doing in there? She
wouldn’t have sex with him. Not for something as menial as keeping a lookout for John Holsten.
But there are other things she could offer in exchange for the guard’s cooperation.
A growl rips from my throat, and I reach for the handle to shove the door open.
Across the lot, Raina emerges from the car, hits the door closed with her hip, and struts her ass back to the truck.
Her glossy black hair shines beneath the glow of the lighting poles. Her tits jiggle in the gap of the flannel shirt, and her long legs carry her with a seductive, defiant air.
She’s breathtaking, spellbinding, built head to toe from earth, wind, and handcrafted sin.
She slides into the truck and buckles up, her expression closed off and shoulders tight. “Where to next?”
“What happened?” I bow across the seat, grinding my jaw with built-up tension.
“It’s all good. He’ll call—”
“What did you do?”
Her gaze flicks upward, as if seeking patience. Then she claps those huge brown on eyes on me. “I let him feel me up.”
My vision clouds, and my hands clench into burning fists. “Over or under the shirt?”
“Under.” She juts her chin.
I seethe. I growl. I harden in places I shouldn’t, as violent boiling outrage steams from every pore in my body. I want to grab her throat, maul her mouth, and wail on her ass until it’s red and swollen.
How could she so flippantly let a man grope her? After the brutality she suffered with John, shouldn’t she be running in the other direction?
How does she not understand why something like this would piss me off?
Fuck, I don’t even understand it. I’m tempted to shove her out of the truck and drive to the nearest liquor store. I need a drink and some goddamn peace.
A ringing phone breaks through my haze, and I follow her line of sight to the device on the seat between us.
“That’s Ford.” She glances at the car on the other side of the lot.
Ford is the little boob-grabbing fuck?
I crack my neck, my thoughts swimming in blood. “That’s not a name. It’s a goddamn truck.”
“Do you mind?” She points at the chirping phone and snatches it without waiting for my answer.