Cowboy's Pride (Welcome to Covendale Book 1)

by Blaze, Morgan

  Then she heard the laugh again, chased by a moan. And the rhythmic creak of bedsprings.

  Fury and pain twisted through her like breaking glass. She dropped the caution, practically ran down the short hallway, and yanked the bedroom door open.

  Tommy. And Stephanie, with the big assets. He was on top, his naked ass clenching as her nails scored his back. He bent his head to her ample breasts—and her eyes met Sydney’s.

  “Oh…oh! Tommy,” the waitress said breathlessly. “Company.”

  She could see the shockwave run through him as he froze mid-rut. His head came up with an audible popping sound that sickened her. He turned to look—cheeks flushed, hair damp, sweat beading at his temples. He licked his lips.

  In a flash Sydney knew that whatever came from his mouth, she’d probably try to kill him for it.

  “Don’t say a word.” Her voice came out hoarse and choked, completely foreign to her own ears. “I mean it. You open your mouth, I’m going to shove something sharp in it.” She fumbled with her engagement ring and twisted it off her finger, suddenly loathing the damned thing with a bright hatred she’d never felt before. She dropped it on the carpeted floor like a disease. “You’ll probably need to have that resized,” she spat.

  Somehow she managed to walk out of the apartment and down the stairs. Then she emptied her guts in the bushes along the sidewalk, and wobbled back toward the bar.

  * * * *

  “I can give you five thousand.”

  Eddie Verona lit a fresh cigarette from the butt of the one he’d been smoking, and pitched the old one onto the weed-choked tracks. A tall man with stooped shoulders, slender build, and weathered face, he looked like a Halloween scarecrow someone forgot to put away for the winter. Creepy, but not threatening.

  The threat was behind him in the shadows. Like all the Dawson boys, Jonah was made out of muscle and mean—and liked to let his fists do the talking. Luka’s three older brothers had been the terrors of Covendale since they were kids.

  But Cam wasn’t about to let either of them intimidate him. “Well, I need ten,” he said. “If you only give me five, I can’t hold onto the ranch. So basically, I’d be borrowing some expensive toilet paper to wipe my ass with until I lose everything, and then you kill me.”

  Eddie laughed. “I’ve heard of people doing worse with my money,” he said. “But that’s the way I do business. See, I haven’t worked with you before, so I don’t know you.” He dragged on the cigarette and blew smoke out slowly. “If you don’t pay me back, the worst I can do is kill you for five thousand. I can’t kill you twice for ten. Understand?”

  “I’ll pay you back.”

  “You say that, sure. They all say that.” Eddie took another thoughtful drag. “I could go as high as six,” he said.

  Cam glowered at him. “I need ten.”

  “I can’t help you, then.” He gestured at Jonah, and they turned and started away.

  “Wait. There has to be something you want.”

  Eddie stopped and pivoted slowly. “What I want is money,” he said. “If that’s what you had to offer, you wouldn’t be here in the first place. Isn’t that right?”

  Cam heaved a breath. “Look…I’m desperate,” he said. “I worked out a deal with the bank, but Lowell talked them into backing out. If I don’t give them the whole amount, he gets the ranch.”

  “Lowell?” Eddie’s brow went up. “Are we talking Boyd Lowell, by any chance?”

  “Yeah. Son of a bitch wants to turn my place into a golf course,” he said. “Apparently he’s got a buyer all lined up. And I wouldn’t sell, so now he’s trying to squeeze me out.”

  Eddie grinned. The bony smile was a lot more threatening than his serious expression. “I help you, Boyd Lowell gets screwed?”

  “Out of millions.”

  “Perfect.” He half-turned to address his enforcer. “Jonah, get the case out of the car and put it in Mr. Thatcher’s truck.”

  “Wait a minute. I thought you said you only had five.”

  “I lied.” Eddie shrugged, dropped his cigarette and ground it out. “Heard you were a stubborn bastard, so I figured you might just talk me into a better deal. To be honest, I didn’t expect it to turn out better for me.”

  He shook his head. “What do you have against Boyd Lowell?” he said. “Not that anyone needs a reason to hate that greasy bastard.”

  “Well. You see, I have one rule when it comes to lending money—no politics. I believe that democracy should never be bought.”

  Cam shot him a skeptical look. “You’re a moral criminal?”

  “Not moral, Mr. Thatcher. Democratic. Without democracy, I could never do what I do.” The chilling grin resurfaced. “Anyway, Lowell sent his boy Tommy to borrow a considerable amount of money from me. He said it was for a muscle car. He paid me back ahead of time—and that’s when I found out Lowell had used my money to buy himself into the town selectman’s seat.”

  “And you didn’t kill him?”

  “Of course not. It’s against my policy to collect interest when payment’s been made. Besides, he bought himself into a high enough profile to protect him.” A dark look swept over Eddie’s face. “I have proof of his election-buying scheme. Unfortunately, I’m not in a position to expose him due to my…less than moral reputation.”

  Cam nodded slowly. “I might be able to help you with that,” he said. “I’ll look into it after I stop his golf course.”

  “Tell you what,” Eddie said. “You take Boyd Lowell down, I’ll drop your interest rate to five percent, no late charges. Until then, it’s thirty with penalties—but you can have the first month interest-free. Do we have a deal?” He held out a hand.

  Cam took it. “Deal.”

  Just then, Jonah came back over and stopped behind Eddie. He didn’t say anything. But Eddie seemed to sense him anyway, because he said, “All right. The money is yours, Mr. Thatcher.” He paused, and added, “Oh—we do have one more detail to take care of. If I’m not mistaken, I believe you know what it is.”

  Jonah stepped forward, flexing a fist.

  “Yeah,” Cam sighed. “I guess I do.”

  “I am sorry about this. If it helps at all, it’s just business.” Eddie moved back and gave a single nod. “Don’t break anything, Jonah,” he said.

  “Sure,” the big man rumbled. “Not this time.”

  Cam tried to steel himself, wishing he’d been able to get a second shot down earlier. But it was over fast—four well-placed blows, and he was on his knees gasping for breath. The man hit like a boulder.

  “Goodnight, Mr. Thatcher,” Eddie called from what sounded like a distance through the blood pounding in his ears. “We’ll be around next week to collect your first payment.”

  “Great,” he rasped. “Looking forward to it.”

  Cam stayed on the ground until he heard the engine start and the car drive away. By then he could almost breathe. Wincing, he folded an arm across his aching gut, and out of habit started looking for his hat.

  Then he realized it hadn’t been knocked off his head. He’d left it at The Klinker.

  Goddamn it, he wasn’t in the mood to deal with the town’s communal hatred again tonight. But he had a feeling if he left it there, it’d be long gone by morning—and that was his favorite hat.

  He stood with gritted teeth and moved carefully toward his truck. One more stop, and then he could head home to lick his wounds in private.

  Chapter 11

  Sydney was so numb with shock that she lost time. One minute she was walking along Main Street, the next she was sitting on a bar stool at The Klinker with five empty shot glasses in front of her. She had no idea what she’d drank, or whether she’d spoken to anyone, or how long it’d been since she found her fiancé fucking another woman in his bedroom.

  The place seemed much too quiet. She tried to look around, but her head was so blurry she couldn’t see much more than three feet away. There was a blob on the other side of the bar that might have been
a person.

  “Excuse me,” she tried to say, but her tongue tripped over the sounds and it came out scurze. She frowned and concentrated hard on something simpler. “Hey.”

  The blob got bigger and turned into Matt the bartender. At least she thought that’s who it was. “Mmmph,” she said. But that wasn’t what she meant, so she tried again. “Luka. Whereshego?”

  “She left with Reese,” Matt said patiently. “I already told you that, remember?”

  “Oh, good.” It came out oguh. “I’m happy for her. See?” She tried to point at her face and smile, and almost fell off the stool.

  “Yes, you said that.” Matt looked extremely concerned. She couldn’t imagine why. “Sydney…do you want me to call someone for you? I could call Tommy, and—”

  “No.” At least that was clear. “I wanna drink. Big one.”

  He sighed. “How about some water?”

  “Put rum innit. Lotsa rum.”

  She watched Matt turn into a blob again, and then banged her head pretty hard on the counter trying to lay it down and rest. Hard enough to see stars—but it only hurt for a minute. That would’ve concerned her if she was anywhere close to sober. But she wasn’t, so she stayed there staring at a floor that looked a million miles away and waited for her drink.

  Then she heard heavy steps coming toward her.

  Her body wouldn’t cooperate with an attempt to see who it was until a pair of boots walked into her limited field of vision. Black boots. Black jeans. She could guess the rest. With extreme effort, she lifted her head and blinked a few times until Cam Thatcher’s face came into focus.

  “Jesus Christ,” he said.

  “No, I’m Cynth…Syd. Sydney. I’m drunk.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “I do.” Oh, damn. That made her think of weddings, and she was instantly on the verge of puking again. She fought her surging stomach and said, “What’re you…” She meant to add doing here, but the rest wouldn’t come out.

  “Forgot my hat.”

  A fuzzy recollection of Cam putting his hat down on the bar earlier came to her. He hadn’t been wearing it when he walked out. Part of her was disappointed that he hadn’t come back for her, but why would he? She was engaged to Tommy.

  No, she wasn’t.

  “Oh, God,” she whispered. “Tommy.”

  Cam winced when the name left her mouth. She wanted to explain the rest, that she only said it because she’d just fully realized what happened. How very over it was. But the crushing weight of betrayal overcame her tongue, and all that came out was a wrenching sob.

  “Here you go, Sydney.” Matt’s voice cut through the dizzy roar in her head, still gentle. But it sharpened as he addressed Cam. “What do you want?”

  “My goddamned hat,” Cam practically growled. “You’re giving her another drink?”

  “It’s water.”

  “She doesn’t need water. She needs to go home.” Cam snatched the hat from the bar where Matt dropped it, and jammed it on his head. “Call her fiancé or something.”

  “She told me not to.”

  “Fine. I’ll go get the son of a bitch, then.”

  “Don’t!” Panic pulled Sydney’s voice into something approaching clarity. “I don’t…need him,” she managed, praying she hadn’t said anything to Matt about the big-busted waitress during her lost time. “Just let me sit here a few minutes. Then I’ll go.”

  Concern replaced the anger in Cam’s expression. “You can’t drive like this.”

  “She can’t drive, period,” Matt said. “She came with Luka.”

  “Damn it.” Cam crossed his arms and stood there for a long moment, staring fiercely at nothing in particular. At last he said, “All right. I’ll take her home.”

  Matt cleared his throat. “I don’t know if I should let you do that.”

  “Like you could stop me.” That dangerous note was back in Cam’s voice.

  “Would you stop?” Sydney said, louder than she’d meant. But she didn’t care. She was so sick of people—including herself—having the same knee-jerk reaction to Cam, when he didn’t do anything wrong. “He’s not a bad guy. He’s fixing the carriage.” That didn’t make as much sense out loud as it had in her head. “He’s just trying to help.”

  “Just keep your mouth shut,” Cam said. For a minute she wasn’t sure if he was talking to Matt or her, but she decided he must mean the bartender. He squatted down until his face was level with hers, and stared into her eyes until she got uncomfortably hot. He finally said, “Do you think you can walk out to the truck?”

  She felt like laughing, but she managed not to. “Nope. Not a chance.”

  “I was afraid of that.”

  “Just leave me here to die,” she said. “I’ll be fine.”

  Cam grimaced, straightened slowly, and let out a long sigh. “All right,” he said. “Here we go.” And before Sydney could react, he’d scooped her into his arm like she weighed nothing.

  She probably should’ve been humiliated at being carried out of the bar like a baby. But Cam was solid and warm and not Tommy. And he’d helped her when no one else could—or would. She was already a lot more relaxed than she’d been all night.

  When he stepped outside and headed for the parking lot, the cooled air hit her hard. She’d been here long enough for the temperature to drop. She snuggled closer to him and put an arm around his waist for balance. “Cam,” she murmured. “Don’t take me home.” She couldn’t face her parents yet—because she’d have to tell them about Tommy.

  He groaned deep in his chest. “Where am I supposed to take you?”

  “Just…not home.”

  “That’s real helpful.”

  Her whole body felt heavy and drowsy, and she was barely conscious. She couldn’t think of a thing. And then she remembered the deal they’d made. “I’m not married right now,” she slurred. “Take me with you. To the ranch.”

  He shuddered so hard, she thought he’d drop her. “You’re killing me, Sydney.” His voice was hoarse and low, rumbling against her body. “All right,” he said. It was barely a whisper. “The ranch it is.”

  Thank you. She thought it, but the words never made it out of her mouth as she slid into sleep.

  * * * *

  Sydney’s bed felt weird. Not bad, just different. It was soft and comfortable, but kind of crinkly. And her bedroom smelled like…hay.

  Oh, no.

  She forced her sticky eyes open and saw rafters and rough wooden planks above. The crinkly bed was hay under a blanket. She was in a hayloft—in Cam Thatcher’s barn. There was no other place this could be.

  And she couldn’t remember a thing about last night.

  She tried to sit up too fast, and her head spun. Groaning, she waited a minute and then pushed herself up slowly. A few fragments filtered through her hazy brain. Something big had happened last night, something her mind refused to recall. Then she’d gotten drunk. Really, really drunk. And now she was here.

  Cam sat motionless at the edge of the loft, his legs dangling over the drop. He held a mug in both hands and stared straight ahead—back rigid and straight, jaw set. “There’s coffee if you want some,” he said without looking at her.

  Coffee was the last thing she wanted. She needed answers. “How did I get here?”

  “In my truck,” he said through clenched teeth. “You asked me to bring you.”

  “Oh.” Her stomach flipped and twisted. “Did we…”

  “Christ, no.” Now he did look at her, and his features were furious. “What do you think I am? You were so plastered you couldn’t even remember your own name. And you didn’t want Tommy-boy to come get you, for some damned reason.”

  Tommy. Oh, God, now she remembered. She’d walked in on him screwing Stephanie the waitress—and walked out minus one engagement ring. There was no wedding. No moving to New York. No carriage, no deal.

  No reason for her to be here.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “For everything. I rememb
er I was going to tell you that.”

  He stared at her, and then shook his head with a smirk. “At least you remember something.”

  “It’s all coming back now.” There was something different about him, and her fogged brain finally noticed his tousled hair and the dark hollows under his eyes. “Have you been up all night?” she said.

  “If you don’t want coffee, I guess I should take you home now.” He set the mug aside and got up abruptly. “Come on.”

  “You didn’t answer the question.”

  He frowned. “I wasn’t tired.”

  “All right. Be stubborn.” She managed to get to her feet, and only swayed a little before she felt mostly steady. It was a miracle that she hadn’t started bawling over Tommy. She glanced at the edge of the hayloft, and the barn floor far below it. “So how do we get down?”

  “Usually, I take the stairs,” he said. “But you can jump if you want.”

  “Stairs are good.”

  He smiled a little. “This way.”

  She followed him to the back of the loft and down a set of wooden stairs with no handrail. Heat infused her face as she realized he must’ve carried her up them last night, the way he carried her out of the bar. “Wouldn’t it have been easier to go in the house?” she said—right before she remembered that his mother would be inside somewhere, which could’ve been awkward. Mrs. Thatcher avoided town even more than Cam. No one Sydney knew had seen her since the funeral.

  But he didn’t mention his mother. “I sleep out here sometimes,” he said. “Already had the blanket up there.”

  “Oh.” They’d reached the bottom of the stairs, and it was on the tip of her tongue to ask how Mrs. Thatcher was doing. Until she saw the carriage.

  It stood uncovered in the same spot beneath the loft, but it was completely restored. No—better than restored. It looked like something straight out of a fairy tale, practically sparkling in the early morning sun that slanted through the open barn doors.

  He’d really done it. For her. For a wedding that wasn’t going to happen. He must’ve been working his ass off to finish it, and that was probably at least part of the reason he hadn’t slept last night.