Branded

by Laura Wright

  I asked him why I hadn’t seen him around River Black before. Everybody knows everybody in this town. But he didn’t answer me. He had to go. But I’ll ask him tonight. That, and what his real name is.

  Maybe it’s something like Tristan or Brad or Dillon.

  Ahhhhh! What if he doesn’t want to tell me? He seems to like me calling him Sweet, just like I like him calling me Tarts. I guess I could ask my brothers, see who’s new in school. But then they’d start asking me questions, and I REALLY don’t want them in my business. They’ll ruin everything. They’ll say he’s too old for me, and they’ll tell Mom and Dad.

  I don’t think he’s too old for me. He can’t be more than eighteen, and I’m almost fourteen. It’s perfect. He’s perfect. I know, I know. I said Deac was way too old for Mac, and he was practically a man and that’s gross and everything. But it’s different somehow. He’s my brother and she’s my best friend, and Sweet is soooooo amazing.

  I still haven’t told Mac about him.

  Is that bad?

  I’ll report back later,

  Cass

  One

  “Lemon’s the clear winner, right?”

  Before Sheridan could answer, Mackenzie Byrd shoved another forkful of cake into her mouth. This time rich, creamy chocolate assaulted her tongue. Very nice. But frankly, you couldn’t go all that wrong when it came to chocolate. Unless, of course, it was covering up grasshoppers or scorpions or whatever the crazy insect-eating population was pairing their cocoa with these days.

  She swallowed, licked her lips, then reached for her napkin—which had been folded into a lovely bird of paradise and set next to her plate as soon as she’d taken a seat.

  Mac stared expectantly across the white wicker table at her. “So? What do you think? Raspberry, lemon, or chocolate?”

  Sheridan noted the look of panic on the forewoman’s face and wondered once again how she’d been roped into cake tasting with her boss’s fiancée. Oh, that’s right. She’d been strolling down the street when a hand had suddenly shot out of the Hot Buns Bakery, curled around her arm, and yanked her inside the oh-so-precious pink-and-white establishment.

  “Well?” Mac pressed good-naturedly. “Thoughts? I need them. Normally, I have them. But today, for some reason, it’s just blank upstairs.”

  A smile touched Sheridan’s lips. She really liked Mackenzie Byrd. The dark-haired, ever-grinning forewoman of the Triple C Ranch was funny and smart and took no shit from anyone—male or female—which was an attribute Sheridan wholeheartedly admired. In fact, in another life, where Sheridan didn’t work for the man she worked for, she and Mac could’ve been great friends. But as it was . . .

  “They’re all excellent,” she offered in a professional tone.

  Mac groaned and held her fork above her head, the tines stained with bits of frosting. “I know. But which one is the best?”

  “I’m not really much of a cake person, Miss Byrd.”

  Dropping back in her chair, Mac’s blue eyes narrowed. “Sheridan, seriously, you can’t call me that. We’ve talked about this.”

  The small smile that had touched Sheridan’s lips a moment ago expanded into a full-fledged grin. Yes, she really liked this woman. Such a bummer. Especially when you were lacking in friendships of the female variety. “You and Mr. Cavanaugh are engaged. I am his employee. There’s no fraternizing with the boss’s family.”

  “Oh, Lord have mercy,” Mac said with an eye roll.

  “And forgive me for saying so, Miss Byrd,” Sheridan continued, “but isn’t this something you should be doing with Mr. Cavanaugh?”

  “Deacon’s in Dallas for the next couple of days, and this needs to get done.” A slight wickedness flashed in her blue eyes. “And as his right hand, his most trusted employee—”

  “Oh, dear.”

  Mac laughed. “Come on, you know what he likes.”

  “As do you, I’m sure.”

  “He’s abandoned me in my time of need, Sheridan,” Mac said dramatically. “This wedding is a month away, and things like cake and flowers and food need to be decided on. Am I supposed to make all the decisions alone?”

  “I believe some women would find that a blessing, Miss Byrd. Total control of the remote, so to speak.”

  Mac snorted. “I’m not that kind of woman, Miss O’Neil. Now, if we need beef for the dinner, that I can do.”

  Sheridan laughed. “What about one of your friends from high school or someone at the Triple C . . . ?”

  “My closest friend is Blue.” Sobering, she released a heavy sigh. “And he’s run away from home.”

  “Right. I’m sorry about that. I know you two are very close.”

  Mac’s eyes went kitten-wide. “Don’t say you’re sorry. Say you’ll be my wingman.”

  “Miss Byrd—”

  “Mac.”

  “You’re really stubborn—you know that?”

  She snorted. “Hell, yes, I know. Part of my charm.” She wiggled her eyebrows. “And this ‘no fraternizing with the boss’s relatives’ business ain’t gonna work anyway. James won’t like you calling him Mr. Cavanaugh when he’s kissing you.” Then she cocked her head to the side and grinned. “Or maybe he will.”

  Heat slammed into Sheridan’s cheeks, and the entire bakery seemed to shrink around her. “Wh-what?”

  As she dipped her fork into the raspberry-cream cake, Mac’s grin widened. “Oh, come on, Sheri.”

  Sheri? What the hell was happening here? This town and all its residents were getting to her, making her forget why she was here—question things that should never be questioned. She’d come to River Black to work. Not to get caught up in any local’s dramas, imaginings, or, for God’s sake, wedding plans!

  Sitting up just a little bit straighter, Sheridan said in her most controlled voice, “I’m not dating anyone. Especially not James . . . er”—she cleared her throat—“Mr. Cavanaugh.”

  If truth be told, she had noticed James Cavanaugh and his many . . . attributes. Frankly, you’d have to be blind not to. The man was something to gawk at. But professionalism demanded that looking was as far as it went.

  As she studied Sheridan, Mac popped a chunk of cake in her mouth. “So, he hasn’t asked you out?”

  “Absolutely not,” she said quickly.

  “Really? I mean, how is that possible? I swear, whenever you’re around, the guy can’t keep his eyes off you, or his tongue inside his mouth.”

  “That’s not true,” Sheridan said tightly. Although she couldn’t help but wonder if it were. Not that she was going to share that thought with the woman across the table. If Deacon got wind of her admiration of his brother, she could lose her job. And she’d worked way too hard to get to where she was to drop the ball over a pretty face.

  A very, very pretty face.

  She mentally rolled her eyes at herself.

  Something caught Mac’s attention out the window and she sniffed. “Well, well . . . speak of the devil.”

  Sheridan turned to see what she was talking about.

  “Holy cripes,” Mac remarked. “He’s got one of the mustangs out. Is he nuts? Riding that stallion down Main Street like he was a tame little pony driving to Sunday service.”

  Sheridan’s pulse jumped and her skin tightened around her muscles. A man was riding down the street atop a very rebellious-looking black-and-white horse. No. Not a man. A cowboy. The hottest cowboy she’d ever seen in her life. Dressed in jeans and a black thermal, pieces of his brown hair peeking out from under a black Stetson, James Cavanaugh kept strict command over the snorting, frustrated animal beneath him. Not by being big and loud and cruel. But with that quiet strength he always seemed to possess. It was one of the many things about him that intrigued her—one of the many things that would remain a tightly held secret from the woman across from her, if she wanted to keep her job secure.

  “Looks like he’s in the process of breaking that stallion,” Mac observed, chin lifted, eyes narrowed. “I’ve heard about his work,
but I’ve never seen him in action. Quite a sight. Eh, Sheri?”

  Sheridan was just about to tackle the “Sheri” issue when James Cavanaugh turned to look in the direction of the bakery and caught her staring out the picture window. As heat infused every cell of her body, Sheridan held his gaze. For a heartbeat, or maybe two, she forgot everything else around her. All she saw were his gorgeous blue-green eyes. Then completely without her permission, her hand lifted and gave him a small wave. To her dismay and embarrassment, he didn’t wave back. Just nodded once, then turned back to the mustang and continued down the road.

  Unnerved, she blinked and the world came back into focus. What was that? she wondered, turning back to face Mackenzie, her cheeks flaming and her breathing uneven. What had just happened?

  “That was a beautiful animal,” she managed to say, then quickly added, “The mustang.”

  Mac nodded, amusement in her eyes. “They’re his passion—that’s for sure.”

  “Do you think he’s going to stay at the Triple C to care for them?”

  Mac shrugged. “There’s a lot that ain’t decided over there. With Everett’s will. The wedding. And maybe new information about Cass’s passing.”

  The soft heat in Mac’s voice gave Sheridan something solid to focus on. Cass was not only Deacon’s and James’s sister, but she had been Mac’s best friend. Sympathy rolled over the lingering unease James Cavanaugh had ignited within her.

  “But I ’spect James’ll be here for quite a while. I hope so anyway.” Mac’s eyes connected with Sheridan’s again, and they were ripe with more questions. “For everyone’s sake.”

  Sheridan eased back in her chair, placed her napkin on the table, and got to her feet. She tried not to think about how unsteady her legs felt, or why that would be. “I need to get back to the office.”

  “Which one you in today?” Mac asked, taking up her fork again.

  “Town. But I’ll be heading out to the ranch in the afternoon.”

  “Well, maybe I’ll see you there.”

  “Sounds good.”

  Sheridan turned to go, but Mac grabbed her hand. “Hey.”

  Sheridan turned, brows drifting together.

  Mac chewed her lip for a second. “I’m sorry. I know you’re here to work. Deacon’s your boss and you don’t want any problems with that. I’m being an asshole.”

  Sheridan couldn’t help but respond to Mac’s forthright ways and gave her a bright smile. “No problem. And, Miss Byrd, I’m here for whatever you need.” She slipped her hand away from Mac’s grasp and headed for the door. But halfway there, she stopped and glanced back. “I think the chocolate cake would be a wonderful choice. Like Charles Shulz said, ‘All you need is love. But a little chocolate now and then doesn’t hurt.’”

  • • •

  James slid off the mustang’s back and gave the young creature a few strokes down his warm neck. Bringing a nearly wild animal into town wasn’t the best idea he’d ever come up with, but Comet—that’s what he was calling the stallion for now—needed to be looked at. And after all the mini bombs Dr. Grace Hunter had been dropping lately regarding her father and what the ex-Sheriff of River Black did or didn’t know about Cass’s killer, James needed to give her another small push.

  As he moved his hand down the stallion’s withers and back, Comet eyed him suspiciously. You using me, cowboy? he seemed to be asking. Because I’m fine. Nothing but a little scratch. What say we head back through town toward home, see if that pretty redhead with the sexy gray eyes is still in the bakery? Get us a slice of carrot cake or somethin’.

  James frowned. None of what had just come ticker-taping through his mind was from the stallion or his cautious gaze. Hell no. That was all him. And, unfortunately, not the first time he’d been entertaining thoughts like that. Since he’d come upon Sheridan O’Neil in the rain, stranded on the side of the road near Triple C, her eyes, that mouth, hell, that ass had been assaulting his mind fast and furious. They were the kinds of thoughts that normally made him antsy, made him get out the duffel, pack up his duds, and head to one of the many hang-your-hat spots he’d purchased over the past five years or so.

  But this time, he didn’t have the luxury of a quick and painless departure. There were too many glass balls being tossed into the air here in River Black. Someone needed to stand beneath them. Catch them before they fell and shattered. Did some permanent damage. So the unwise attraction to Sheridan O’Neil? Hell, he’d be ignoring that. Because women, in his experience, were the most fragile of glass balls in the world. And his track record for catching those falling ones was dismal.

  “Mr. Cavanaugh?” Dr. Grace Hunter emerged from the small veterinary clinic and came down the path toward him. She was a pretty thing. Cole’s type all the way. Probably why his little brother’s voice changed when he talked about her. Small, lots of curves, thick, dark hair. She came to stand in front of Comet, her green eyes so wary, James wondered if he’d lost the battle before the war had even begun.

  “Morning, Doc,” he said.

  Her gaze shifted to the stallion. “Something wrong with your horse here?”

  “Matter of fact. And since you couldn’t come out to the ranch, I thought I’d come to you.”

  “Right,” she said quickly. “Sorry about that. I’m just really swamped at the moment.”

  He took a gander at the empty parking lot. “I can see that.”

  “So, a flesh wound on his hindquarters, you say?” She headed around back to check things out.

  “I did the best I could to treat it, but it didn’t seem to heal, and then it started to look infected.”

  She gave Comet, who was uneasy at best, a gentle pat on the croup, then ran her hand down his thigh. “Probably something still inside the wound.” She took out her bag and rifled through it. “I’m going to clean it up first, and then we’ll see what we’ve got.”

  James watched her work, watched as she used Comet as a protective barrier between herself and him. Anything to discourage a real conversation between them. When he could get a ten-second glimpse of her, he found himself impressed by her skills. She had a calm and gentle way about her, yet was unwilling to take any bullshit from the animal she was treating. The perfect country doc.

  After a minute or two, she held up a pair of silver tweezers, a thin strip of brown pinched between the tips. “Looks like we’ve got a wood splinter. From a fence, no doubt. I’m going to put some topical on it, but I’m also going to prescribe some antibiotics.”

  “Sounds good,” James said, rubbing Comet’s neck. “Then after that, maybe we can talk.”

  She didn’t say anything.

  “Dr. Hunter—” James started up.

  “Nothing to talk about, Mr. Cavanaugh,” she answered abruptly, her focus remaining on the horse’s hindquarters. “I told you and your brothers. What I said in the Bull’s Eye, what I thought I heard from my daddy, it was a mistake.”

  It took supreme effort in that moment to lock down James’s simmering frustration. This woman didn’t understand the magnitude of the situation they were all in. Her father might very well hold the key to a twelve-year mystery. The hell of his sister’s murder. All those years of not knowing what had happened to Cass. Of who had happened to Cass.

  His gut tightened. His sister had lain dead and alone, no comfort and no justice. That would not stand. James and his brothers owed the truth to the sister they all had failed. But he knew that to get that truth, he and Deacon and Cole had to handle this skittish woman with care, and he summoned his calmest voice. “If you’d just let one of us speak with your father—”

  “No,” she said tightly. She stood up, her bag in hand, her eyes lifting to connect with his. “My father is ill. Not right in his mind. He’s medicated. He didn’t know what he was saying. He doesn’t even remember saying it.”

  James bit back the urge to snarl, And my sister is dead. “You said he had the diary—”

  “It was just ramblings,” she insisted, her tone a
s tense as her body language. “From the past. Something he remembered in the past. Something he’d wanted to find, no doubt, and hadn’t.”

  Who was she really trying to convince, him or herself? He ground his molars. Shit. Didn’t matter, and he wasn’t going to bother with arguing. Not now. The woman in front of him was trying to protect her father and pushing her would just make her dig her heels in and resist more. For now, he’d back off.

  But they’d find a way to get the information somehow.

  “Thank you for patching him up, Doc,” James said in a careful voice.

  She looked momentarily startled, as if the last thing she had expected from him was to drop the subject. Then relief and professional distance settled over her features. “I’ll get that prescription.”

  He watched her walk up the path, then disappear inside the clinic. Maybe this was a wild-goose chase. Maybe Sheriff Hunter was just a sick old man with wild ravings about a past he couldn’t remember, a past that didn’t exist. But, either way, the Cavanaugh brothers were going to find out the truth.

  About Cass’s disappearance.

  And her killer.