I kick off the light blanket draped over me, then wipe the tears from my cheeks as I turn to put my bare feet on the soft rug. I sit there and take a few more moments to catch my breath as I glance around the room now lit up with hazy early-morning light. The cabin is minuscule with a small living room, an adjoining and even smaller kitchen, and a tiny bathroom/laundry room on the first floor. A nearby set of rough hewn steps lead up to a little loft bedroom with just enough room for a full-size bed and one tall dresser. The decor is utilitarian and looks like everything came from a thrift shop, a little shabby around the edges, yet clean and serviceable. The owner must have been the kind of man who valued simplicity, something I could appreciate myself.
Curious, I snooped around enough last night to find out that the guy's name was Rowdy Boudreau, and he owned a bar called, Rowdy's Tavern. After that, I ended up sleeping on the sofa down here because I couldn't bring myself to sleep in the now dead man's bed, no matter how soft and inviting the quilt-covered thing looked.
With renewed purpose, I rise and head for the tiny bathroom. The cabin is probably chilly by human standards, but feels good to me since trueborn run hot. I didn't even bother with the small wood-burning stove at one end of the living room that appears to be the only heat source for the place. I didn't want to announce my presence here with a plume of wood smoke coming from the chimney either. Luckily, the power is still turned on and there's a water heater, so I can use the tiny corner shower stall to clean up since I'm in serious need of it.
Once the warm spray is hitting my back, and my body and mind start to relax, my thoughts turn unbidden to Lyric. I ache for her with a soul deep longing that makes no sense. I want to feel her comfort and affection again, and the warm liquid sense of peace she gave me when she touched me. I don't want to miss her and need her, but I do, even though she lays me bare and dredges up emotions I'd rather keep locked down. I barely know her, but it feels as though I do. I've never been hung up on any woman like this in my life, and I don't understand why I can't get her out of my head. It must have something to do with the emotional connection that happened when we had sex.
That thought has me remembering the way it felt buried deep inside her, how good it felt experiencing her pleasure as she climaxed beneath me. Then I'm remembering the sweet taste of her lips, the softness of her skin under my rough palms, and her wild honeysuckle scent. Lust hits my body hard and trembles through me.
I close my eyes as my hand drifts down to grip my already hard and throbbing cock, and I begin stroking myself. Within minutes, I'm gasping and quaking from pleasure as I come apart with images of Lyric's strong and glorious body in my mind, and the sound of her name on my lips.
And then on the heels of my powerful orgasm, comes an almost smothering wave of guilt. I'm here jerking off in a shower when I should already be out hunting Weylin. Fuck, he should have been dead last night. I'm failing my family and myself by letting her distract me from my goal. But no more. I can't let her or my fucked-up head get in the way of what needs done. Rett Weylin needs to die for what he did, and for the chain of terrible events that he set in motion. I won't and can't rest until it's done.
16
RONAN
I stalk silently on four paws through trees shrouded in the hazy remnants of an early-morning fog. The air is thick with the scent of wet rotting leaves and rich earth. I slowly approach the back of a huge bi-level house tucked into the almost eerily quiet forest, and stop just inside the tree line to study the place intently. The exterior is painted a rich shade of pewter and sports a low-pitched roof with overhanging eaves. A large deck with geometric designed railings stretches across the back of the second floor and overlooks an equally sizable and immaculately landscaped lawn. I can see high end decor and furnishings through the wide swath of windows across the back of the house. I curl my lips up in distaste and let out a low rumbling growl, disliking the fact that this piece of shit is obviously living it up here in the middle of BFE.
There isn't even an inkling of a breeze to give my presence away, so I sit and watch the house for a while. There's no hint of any activity and no one seems to be home. I'm just about to give up and come back later, when movement inside catches my attention through a set of glass French doors on the second floor. I see a middle-aged woman wearing cat-eye glasses entering the kitchen. Though obviously older than I remember, I instantly recognize the dark-blond curls and kind face of Cadie Weylin, Rett's wife. She's carrying a large basket with a lid that she takes over to the center island and sets on the granite counter top. She then turns to the fridge and begins pulling out food, setting it next to the basket with a contented smile on her face. I observe her for a few moments before I realize what she's doing. She's packing a goddamn picnic like she's living in some sort of happily-ever-after fairytale.
I growl again as my hackles rise in agitation, wondering if she has any idea what kind of monster she shares a bed with at night, and how she can live with herself if she does. I hope I get a chance to make sure she, and her kids, know the truth before I do her a favor and put her murdering bastard of a husband down like he deserves.
I watch for several more minutes before heading back into the trees. It looks like she's planning on leaving, and I need my car and my human form, so I can follow her. Maybe she'll lead me to her husband. Maybe I'll get lucky, and I'll have a chance to end this today. I move at a ground-eating lope, not even trying to hide my trail. My scent is that of a real wolf, not a trueborn, with the pendant once more around my neck, so the traces of my presence here should be more of a curiosity rather than an actual red flag.
It doesn't take me long to reach the beige sedan where I left it parked on an partially overgrown access road that was out of sight from the road. I swapped the Mach 1 with the rental in the big-box store parking lot I left it in yesterday before coming out here this morning. My Mustang is entirely too flashy and noticeable to be driving it anywhere near Wolcott. Especially now that it looks like I'll be tailing someone.
I shift back to human and open the driver's door, so I can grab my clothes. I hastily dress, including a shoulder rig with a gun holstered on my left side and a long-bladed tanto knife on the right, hilt down for easy access. I pull a leather jacket on over it. I don't know where I'll end up today, so I skip the sword and my long coat for something more practical. I climb in and start the engine, quickly backing out onto the road and head toward the Weylin home. I just hope I'm not too late, and she hasn't already left before I can get there.
I end up getting lucky. When the driveway finally comes into view, it's just in time to see a dark-red Jeep Grand Cherokee pulling out onto the road ahead of me. I grin as I follow the late model SUV from a safe distance. This is just too goddamn easy, and I hope my luck holds out.
She travels south for a while as the day's brilliant sunshine burns off the rest of the lingering fog. I expect her to continue into Wolcott itself, but instead, she turns left at the outskirts of town and heads west. I trail her for several more miles, wondering where the hell she's going, until the Jeep slows as it approaches a rustic wooden sign that reads, Wolcott Orchard and Cider Mill, in white block letters. The SUV turns off the road and pulls up in front of a large and equally rustic-looking building with cedar shingle siding. It too has Wolcott Orchard and Cider Mill emblazoned across the front of it in the same white lettering as the sign by the road.
I continue past the entrance Cadie used and turn into yet another that's just past the sign. I pull in and find myself in a large gravel parking lot that's well on its way to being full of cars and SUVs, as well as a few buses. I quickly find a parking spot and cut the engine before grabbing the baseball cap I left lying on the passenger seat. I put it on with the brim pulled low on my forehead, then climb out to hurry through the lot toward the Jeep, surveying the area as I go. More buildings are scattered around what appears to be a massive property.
I see signs announcing where to buy apples and pumpkins, where to go for hayrides th
rough the apple orchard itself, and where you can pick your own apples. They have cider tasting and a bakery with homemade donuts, and areas for kids to play as well. There's even a corn maze. I take in the smiling faces and lively chatter of the groups of people and families walking through the parking lot along with me and scowl. I feel like I've walked into a wholesome and sickly sweet nightmare.
I approach the main building just in time to see Cadie carrying her picnic basket in through the glass double doors. I thread my way through a cluster of picnic tables with umbrellas, and their happily eating occupants, to the entrance. A group of boisterous older women are slowly making their way into the building, so I step in line behind them, trying to keep from sneezing at the cloud of cloying floral perfume wafting up around them.
I follow them inside, and my nose is instantly bombarded again, this time in a better way by the scent of apples and cinnamon with layers of caramel and sugar and pastry thrown in for good measure. The noise assaults me next as I take in the grating chatter and laughter of the crowd of people inside, along with the ear-piercing squall of what sounds like a riled up toddler throwing a fit somewhere toward the back. The place is some kind of country-themed store with displays scattered around with every conceivable product made from apples you can think of, from apple butter to scented candles. I even see some goddamn coffee mugs shaped like apples.
Over the heads of the crowd, I spot my quarry at the back of the room approaching a long bakery counter. I hold my breath while deftly skirting the old biddies still in front of me, and make my way through the crowd as quickly as I can without drawing undo attention to myself. I reach the display case and pretend to peruse its contents as one of the employees behind the counter calls out a greeting to Cadie. I keep the brim of my hat tipped down enough to hide most of my face, not wanting to take the chance that she'll recognize me even after all these years.
"Hey, Dr. Cadie!" the grinning young woman in a red Wolcott Orchard and Cider Mill T-shirt calls out happily. Doctor? Huh. I think I remember her being a vet.
"Hi, Becky," Cadie answers. "Any idea where my husband is hiding out today?"
Well, well, well, it looks like it's my lucky fucking day. I have to stifle a huge shit-eating grin.
"Last I knew, the boss man was over at the ciderhouse," the girl replies.
Boss man? Weylin runs this place? Now I'm holding back a growl as I grit my teeth together and glower unseeing at the pies in the display case. Fucking Weylin. The man takes everything from me then finds success like this? It isn't right. It makes me sick with hate and rage. I want to wreck this place, rip everything apart around me with my bare hands, and tell all these people the kind of man they're supporting by being here...a backstabbing murderer. It's all I can do to give in to the urge.
Cadie thanks the girl and walks away toward another set of double doors on the left side of the large room. I trail after her at a safe distance, and follow her outside into the beautiful crisp fall day. I'm relieved to get away from the stifling crowd inside the building and get some fresh air again. Me and crowds do not get along.
She strolls along the side of the building, calling out greetings here and there to people she passes as she goes, and into a large flagstone-paved courtyard between the building we just left and several others. The area is immaculately landscaped with pumpkins and dried cornstalks spread among them for a touch of fall decor, with more people walking and milling about. Off to the left, I can see a large group gathered in and around an open yellow and white striped tent with pumpkins for sale spread across the lawn around it.
I continue following Cadie at a distance as she walks toward a fairly large stone brick building with the words, Wolcott Ciderhouse, in a vintage script above the entrance. This structure appears to be brand new compared to the one we just exited, and can't have been here long. A chalk board sign in front announces that Wolcott's Hard Cider is served inside and its hours of operation that go late into the evenings. Shit, it's some sort of goddamn bar. My scowl at yet another indication of Rett Weylin's success is immediate, but short lived when the door to the ciderhouse opens, and I see the man himself walking out.
Time seems to stand still for a moment as I stare at the man who ruined my life twenty-two years ago and defined every moment of it ever since. Though obviously older with graying dark hair and a weathered face, I'd recognize the bastard anywhere with his pale blue eyes, strong features, and leanly muscular body dressed in a simple T-shirt, jeans, and worn work boots.
I suddenly realize that my hand is slipping under my jacket toward the butt of my Beretta as if of its own accord, and I've already taken a few steps toward him. I abruptly freeze. Fuck, what the hell am I doing? Even if I dared to open fire with all these innocent people around, it's not like a few bullets are going to hurt him. I come to my senses and lower my hand as I move away and circle around through the milling groups of people to ensure I stay upwind and out of Weylin's line of sight while covertly watching him. There's a chance he could recognize my face, and even with the pendant on, he might recognize my scent too since I was still human the last time he saw me.
Cadie walks toward him, and when he spots her, his eyes light up and are only for her as he smiles warmly at her. She approaches him, and he pulls his wife into his arms and presses a quick but not so chaste kiss to her lips before softly rubbing his nose against hers. She reaches up to thread her fingers through his hair as the two share a long and meaningful look of mutual affection and tenderness. The sight has memories of my own parents frequently sharing moments like these, but thanks to him their last moments like these ended a long time ago. My right hand twitches as once again the instant rage that hits me at that thought makes it difficult to refrain from riddling him full of bullets.
"I brought you some lunch," Cadie announces as she takes a step away and lifts the basket up for her husband to see.
"I hope you brought a lot, woman, " Rett says in a gruff yet playful tone. "I'm starving."
"When are you or any of our children not," Cadie replies with an over-dramatic eye roll. "I've spent most of the last thirty some years of my life in the kitchen thanks to all of you and your voracious appetites."
"Speaking of voracious appetites," Rett says as a wicked smirk tugs up one corner of his mouth. Then he leans in to whisper something I can't make out in his wife's ear. Her response is a girlish giggle followed by a blush of color high on her cheekbones. He bends down to kiss her again, when the sound of a phone ringing interrupts him. Thank you. Ugh. I don't think I could've stomached anymore of their infuriating affection.
Rett answers the call without sparing a glance at the screen after he pulls it out of the front pocket of his jeans. "Weylin."
His passive expression almost instantly darkens into a scowl as he listens to whoever is on the line. His jaw begins clenching and unclenching, and his knuckles whiten as he tightens his grip on the phone in his hand.
"No," he says. "That is completely unacceptable. It's not what we agreed to at all."
A few heads nearby turn at the obvious anger and irritation in his raised voice. He notices the attention he's attracting and mouths the words, "I'll be back," to his wife. Then he stalks away from her along the side of the ciderhouse, his voice rising again.
"I don't care what the distributor said," he says. "We have a signed contract that clearly states-" His harsh and clipped words are cut off as he walks around the corner of the building and disappears behind it.
I glance at Cadie to see a slightly concerned expression on her face before she shrugs and walks toward the ciderhouse entrance. She goes inside with her picnic basket still gripped in her hand, and I turn my attention back to the direction my mark took off in and follow at a sedate pace.
I can see a tall line of thick evergreen bushes that line the opposite side of the narrow path that Weylin followed behind the building, and they appear to continue along behind it. Not only that but the breeze is in my favor with him still upwind from me, a
nd I see the opportunity to end this that I've just been handed. I don't think, don't even consider the wisdom of what I'm doing, and act.
I veer to the right just before I approach the corner of the building and head in the opposite direction, glancing back briefly to see Weylin standing with his back toward the bushes as he continues his phone conversation. After a few yards, I find a small break in the bushes, and quickly squeeze through to the other side. I find myself on a stretch of empty pavement that leads back between several bland buildings that look like warehouses of some sort. This must be a private entrance for deliveries or maybe for employees too. No one is in sight as I move stealthily back toward Weylin, my left hand slipping under my jacket to grip the hilt of my knife. I silently pull the long and wickedly sharp blade from its sheath and transfer it to my right hand, holding it in a sure and practiced grip. If I manage to stay undetected long enough to come up behind Weylin, I can sever his spine at the base of his skull and end this quickly and quietly. Then I'll be long gone before anyone even finds the body, let alone realize I've been here at all.
I hone in on Weylin's scent and voice, then ease closer with one careful step after another. Within moments, I can make him out through a narrow gap between two of the shrubs. His back is still toward me as he runs a hand through his hair and sighs heavily. I stop to wait, planning on acting as soon as he ends the call. I can't risk the person on the line realizing something's wrong.
"Listen," he says more calmly into the phone pressed to his ear. "I'm sorry. You know I'm not angry at you, and I know this isn't your fault." He switches the phone to his other ear as he shifts on his feet, and I tense for the chance he might turn around and discover me. He sighs again and nods. "We can't do anything about it on a Sunday anyway, so let's sleep on it and between you, me, and Emmett we'll figure it out tomorrow. Okay?"
Rogue Heart Page 12