by Zoe Chant
“No,” he said coldly. “But anyone can see the lady’s said no. So now might be a good time for you to up and leave.”
Far from the raucous atmosphere of just a moment earlier, the diner had gone deadly silent as the biker and the stranger stared each other down. Charity found herself holding her breath – the Reapers had everyone in town scared out of their minds.
Maybe this guy wasn’t from around here, and didn’t know any better. Glancing toward the bar, Charity tried to find Sherri to motion for her to call the sheriff’s office – for all the good it would probably do them – only to find her nowhere in sight.
Which was probably sensible, Charity thought. If she’d had the sense God gave a goose she would’ve been backing her ass behind the counter as well – but she found she couldn’t move a muscle. She was rooted to the spot, staring as the two men got ready to go to town.
“Well,” the biker said, his voice slow and deliberate as he got to his feet, “if you ain’t the boyfriend, then I don’t see what business this is of yours. Now, I suggest you turn around and walk out of here, before things get ugly.”
Growing up in a place where there wasn’t a lot else to do but talk and drink, Charity had seen her fair share of barroom brawls. But even with all her experience, she wasn’t prepared for what came next.
The biker bunched his fist, jerking it back in a lightning-fast move that Charity almost didn’t catch.
“Look out!” The words were out of her lips before she had time to think.
The biker’s fist shot up through the air in what would have been a brutal uppercut – if only the handsome stranger hadn’t caught his arm mid-flight, blocking the punch with all the ease of swatting a fly.
The biker, clearly caught by surprise, staggered a little, before he backed up into the cracked leather booth, sitting down hard.
“What the fuck –”
Charity took his momentary confusion as an opportunity to march forward, putting herself between the two men.
“No fighting in here!” she shouted in her most commanding voice. “You can get outside if you want to carry on like little boys, but you are not going to wreck up my diner –”
It did no good: no one was listening to her. Before she could think, she heard the clatter of chairs being pushed back as the bikers stood up, eager for a fight, bunching their fists and scowling.
Charity gasped as she felt a hand on her arm, moving her back. It took her a moment to realize that it was the stranger, who’d pushed her behind the warm solidity of his body before she could get caught up in the middle of the brewing fray.
“Wait up, boys.”
The voice cut through the air like a knife, cold and hard. It took Charity a moment to realize it had come from the biker who’d been hassling her – he was still sitting on his ass in the booth he’d stumbled into, but his eyes were fixed right on her face.
“Now. The lady says she doesn’t want her place wrecked up – which is a request I can respect,” the biker continued after it became clear he’d gotten his men’s attention.
Charity held her breath. Could it be that she was going to get out of this without having to see a fight, or watch her already rickety furniture be smashed to pieces? Not that it would be much of a fight, she supposed – no matter how strong her unexpected rescuer was, one against seven weren’t odds she cared for.
The biker stood, slowly and deliberately, moving with barely-restrained fury. “Me and our gentleman friend will finish this up another time,” he said, before slowly turning and heading toward the door.
“But Jessup –” one of his men started to say, but he was quickly cut off by a wave of his hand.
“But nothing,” he snarled, head flicking around to look at the man who’d spoken up. “I said we’re leaving. You wanna argue?”
The man only hung his head, averting his eyes.
“That’s what I thought.”
Charity let herself breathe again as the men fell into step behind Jessup, though not before they’d been sure to send their most malevolent stares in her direction. Charity stared back from around the side of the solid, unmoving wall of muscle between her and them. They didn’t scare her, she told herself. She’d been here since before they came, and she’d be here after. This was her home, and no one frightened her out of her home.
“Oh, there’s just one thing.” Jessup suddenly halted in his slow progress toward the door, holding his hand up and turning as if he’d forgotten something.
“What’s that?”
Charity’s mystery man had been so silent during all of this that she was almost startled now at the sound of his voice – deep and strangely soothing though it was.
“Just something to remember me by –”
This time, Charity didn’t see Jessup’s fist in the air or have time to shout a warning. She only heard the sickening crack as his knuckles slammed into the stranger’s face, and saw his head snap back on his neck. Charity gasped, expecting the man to crumple in a heap on her floor. But although he staggered slightly, raising a hand to his bloodied cheek, he remained upright.
Jessup might have been surprised – Charity guessed that was certainly the hardest punch he had it in him to throw – but he didn’t show it.
“Now just you remember,” he spat out, “nobody fucks with the Reapers – and nobody fucks with Jessup McLeod. This is your first and last warning, stranger.”
“All right, time for you to leave. Now.” Charity stepped out in front of him, crossing her arms over her chest.
Jessup’s eyes were amused before he brought his fingers to his forehead in a mock salute. “Yes ma’am – but we’ll be back for more of your hospitality later. Be sure of that.”
Charity clenched her fists so hard she could feel her nails digging crescents into her palm as finally – finally – the bikers all trooped their way out of the diner, letting the door slam shut behind them. After a minute or two she heard the sound of their motorbike engines roaring to life, before taking off down the road and into the night.
“Thank God,” she muttered to herself – before remembering that this still wasn’t over.
She still had her handsome stranger to take care of.
Squaring her shoulders, she turned back to him. He was wiping the blood from his face onto the back of his hand, and Charity could see his cheekbone was beginning to swell – a crying shame in a face that handsome.
Pushing the inappropriate thought straight out of her head, she turned to the bar. “Sherri! Come out from wherever you’re hiding and get me some ice,” she called out, before she pulled back a chair and urged the man down into it.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Charity said as he sat down. “I could handle those assholes.”
The man’s chuckle was deep and it sent a wave of heat straight through her.
“I could see that,” he said, glancing up at her. “But it would be a pretty poor thing to stand around and watch when I could do something to help.”
Charity wanted to say something in reply, but she felt all her words dry up as his gray-green eyes fixed on hers. She was glad to have the excuse to look away when Sherri, reappearing from wherever she’d got to, finally handed her the ice, wrapped in a hand towel.
“Here. This’ll help with your swelling. I – uh –” Charity trailed off, her hand half-extended towards him, suddenly realizing what an intimate position her placing the ice on his face would put them in. She’d have to lean right into him, and, well, Charity couldn’t exactly claim Mother Nature had skimped when it came to her bust. And leaning forward like that would press her breasts right up against his chest…
Flustered, Charity finally ended up dumping the wrapped ice in his hand.
“You take it,” she said quickly. “You know where you’re hurt.”
Charity swore she caught the hint of a smile on his lips as he raised the ice to his face. “Thanks.”
As he placed it on his cheek, Charity sat down across from him. She r
ealized she hadn’t thanked him for stepping in when things had started to get nasty – but she decided she wasn’t going to be too quick to do that. She hadn’t asked him to do it, and she certainly hadn’t wanted anyone to get punched on her account. She didn’t like owing people. One thing she’d learned quickly as she grew up was that debts – of any kind – were trouble. And they always got called in, one way or another.
Looking away, Charity’s eyes fell on Sherri, who’d retreated behind the bar after handing her the ice.
Sherri raised her eyebrows suggestively once or twice, mouthing He’s HOT and fanning herself dramatically. Charity scowled at her, shaking her head a little and making a short motion, shooing the waitress away. Did Sherri think she hadn’t noticed? And what good did it do her, even so? No one ever stayed around here for long. This place was basically built for passing through.
Sherri rolled her eyes, before finally giving up and disappearing out the back, though not before she’d mimed getting the guy’s phone number.
“Look,” Charity blurted, if only to distract herself from Sherri’s theatrics. “Do you want me to call the sheriff’s office or something? I don’t know what good it would do, but he did hit you, after all.”
Again, that low chuckle that made her knees turn to jelly. “That won’t be necessary, ma’am.”
“That’s probably the right choice – they never do shit except sit on their asses anyway,” Charity said, momentarily letting her hopelessness at the situation she was stuck in overwhelm her good manners.
She wouldn’t always have huge guys with movie star-looks stepping in for her at the last moment, and Jessup had said he would be back. What would she do then? What could she do?
“Sorry,” she quickly apologized. “I shouldn’t have said that, I guess. I can call the cops if you want, though.”
Removing the ice from his face, the man sat up straighter, smiling a little and shaking his head. “No ma’am, that’s fine. I just mean it really won’t be necessary – I’m the new sheriff.”
Chapter Two
Mason
Mason watched as a cute red blush crept its way up over her neck. Damn, but she was pretty. Big blue eyes and dark red hair, with a light spray of freckles over her nose. Her full lips were cherry-red and slightly parted. And she had all the generous curves that, in his personal opinion, a woman should have. Her shirt – which was fairly obviously a man’s hand-me-down – was pulled tight over the curve of her breasts, and the strings of her waitress’s apron fit snugly into the valley of her waist.
Pretty didn’t begin to cover it, really – what she was, was absolutely smoking hot. His lion had sat up and started taking notice the second he’d set foot inside the diner, simply intending to get something to eat now that his shift was over.
He hadn’t intended on walking right into the middle of a situation with the Reapers, and he certainly hadn’t been expecting his lion to lift its head and roar to life, insisting that he protect the woman the bikers were evidently harassing. He could do that by himself, without the lion to tell him – he was not and never had been one to stand idly by when trouble was brewing.
But for some reason, the lion had fixed its gaze on this woman, and it hadn’t calmed down since.
“You’re the new sheriff?” she asked, sounding incredulous. “Mason Whittaker?”
Mason smiled, though it turned into a wince as split skin over his cheekbone moved.
“Well, I can see my reputation precedes me, then,” he said, putting the ice back on his face. “Good way to end my first week, wouldn’t you say? This’ll be a fine look tomorrow morning when I get in.”
He’d hoped the crack would make the woman laugh, but she just blinked at him, as if she was measuring him up. It was too bad – there was something about her that made Mason want to look after her, protect her somehow. Maybe it was the pensive way her eyebrows drew together, or the subtle slump of her shoulders. She had burdens she shouldn’t have to bear, and it made Mason want to make her smile, if only for a moment.
“Well, in any case, you know my name – what’s yours?” he asked her, when it became clear she wasn’t going to offer it up on her own.
“Charity Crawford,” she said, her voice a little guarded. “This is my diner – I mean, I own it.”
Mason nodded. “It’s a fine place,” he said, and meant it.
He’d never been one for fancy restaurants, and this place reminded him of all the diners he’d eaten in with his folks while they’d been on the road – some of the best memories he had of his father and mother. Good, hearty home-style food was what he’d been raised on – at least, when his lion didn’t demand to hunt for its food.
Which it had been doing more and more often in recent times. It had been restless, constantly on the prowl inside his chest. Though what it was looking for, Mason couldn’t begin to guess.
“I didn’t know you were the new sheriff when I said the cops around here were useless,” Charity said suddenly. “But I’m sure you know – you must do. The Reapers have been hanging around for months, making all our lives miserable, while George Atwood didn’t lift a finger to help.”
Mason nodded slowly. Charity’s voice was bubbling with barely-concealed anger – and rightly so.
“Yes, ma’am – I know all about that,” Mason said slowly. “In fact, it’s part of the reason I decided to run for sheriff.”
Mason meant what he said. He truly had been sick of the lazy way Sheriff Atwood had looked after the county. And he’d known that if only someone else would run a decent campaign against him, the usually uninterested voters would turn out to get rid of him.
What Charity – and, Mason guessed, most of the other people in the county – didn't know was that most of the Reapers were shifters like himself. George Atwood had known, of that Mason was sure. Maybe they'd brought him in for a cut of whatever money they made in their dirty deeds. From what Mason knew of the Reapers, they certainly weren’t done dirt cheap.
But aside from that, it made sense why human law enforcement had proved so ineffectual against them – as shifters, they could go anywhere and everywhere, and no one was going to be able to ID a wolf – or a bear, or a mountain lion. That was the other reason Mason had run for sheriff – shifter criminals required a shifter lawman.
His Uncle Lincoln had been against it, of course. But then, if his uncle had had his way, none of them would ever have left the ranch they lived on, isolated from the rest of society, spending their time only with other members of the pride and other visiting shifters. Lincoln may not have approved of the Reapers or what they stood for, but nor did he especially like the idea of his nephew chasing them down and putting them in human prisons.
He’d been steaming mad when Mason had come to him to announce his intention to run for sheriff.
Why do you want to go getting mixed up with the affairs of humans? Lincoln had roared at him during their argument. Let them do whatever they want – it’s no concern of ours.
But Mason couldn’t, and didn’t, listen. Lincoln might have been the pride alpha, but he didn’t control him. Mason had been raised around humans: his parents had believed that shifters shouldn’t hide themselves away, but try to live alongside them. And it was the Reapers who had done this – if they were terrorizing humans, then it was the responsibility of the shifter community to set things right.
It would be an understatement to say things had been awkward around the ranch since Mason’s election. His uncle didn’t approve in any way of what he was doing. But Lincoln had an obligation to his brother – Mason’s father. It had been a while since Mason’s father had died in a car accident, along with his mother, but lions always kept their promises to each other. And Mason’s father had made Lincoln promise he’d take care of his son, come hell or high water.
And anyway, there wasn’t a lot Lincoln could do about it now. Mason was the sheriff. His uncle would have to find a way to live with it.
Looking over at Charity as
she chewed her bottom lip, apparently deep in thought, Mason decided his going against his uncle’s wishes had already paid off. His first week on the job had mainly been sorting out the stacks and stacks of paperwork Atwood had left him to deal with, and trying to get to know some of the surly deputies, who, seeming to sense their easy ride was over, hadn’t been too keen to help him settle in.
Finally, at the end of the day and when he was off-duty, Mason felt like he’d actually done something to help somebody. The fact that she was a beautiful woman was just the icing on the cake.
“It’s a crime how neglected you folks are out here,” Mason said, hearing the anger growing in his own voice. “Just because George Atwood would rather spend his time shooting the breeze with his friends over in Cedar Hill doesn’t mean a thing. In fact, I think that’s what won me the position – enough people finally got fed up and turned out to vote him out for good.”
“Well… I guess that’s good to hear,” Charity said at last, turning to look at him again.
Her tone was a little reluctant, and Mason couldn’t say he blamed her. After the last few years of lax standards in law enforcement, he didn’t imagine it would be easy for her to believe he meant what he said.
As her deep blue eyes settled on his, Mason felt a bolt of lightning strike straight through him, and all at once, his lion raised its head, ears twitching, nose sniffing. While Mason blinked, trying to figure out what had gotten it so riled up, Charity’s eyes went to the front of his shirt.
“Oh –” she said, jumping up. “Your ice is melting all over you. Let me get you some more.”
Clearly without thinking, she reached out to grab the soggy towel from his hand. As she took it from him, their fingers brushed – and Mason’s lion jerked its head, parted its lips, and growled possessively.
Mine.
As Charity turned away, carrying the sodden towel, Mason could only stare dazedly after her.
Clearly not getting the response it wanted, the lion repeated itself, this time more forcefully.