Master of Freedom: A Mountain Masters Novella (Mountain Masters & Dark Haven Book 5)

by Cherise Sinclair

  She flinched.

  He wanted to apologize…until he remembered his brother’s spiral into hopelessness. God, Sawyer, fight it. Frustration chilled his voice even further. “Yeah, I do.”

  Her expression went blank, and she bent to pet the dog.

  Unaware of the discussion, Jake was refilling coffee cups. “Atticus, did Kallie give you an invite to the party in a couple weeks? Some of the Dark Haven members from San Francisco plan to come. And guests are welcome.” Jake glanced at Gin and raised his brows.

  No fucking way. “I’ll be working.” Whatever night it was.

  Chapter Four

  “Sawyer, I want you to think about what I said. Be ready to talk about your thoughts next time.” The prison social worker waited for him to respond.

  Sawyer Ware scowled. What the hell did the woman want anyway? He’d fucked up his life—nothing new there—and his screw-up had killed his best friend. He didn’t need counseling to acknowledge his guilt and to know he wasn’t worth shit.

  Never had been; never would be. His abusive asshole of a stepfather had made that clear. If he hadn’t learned the lesson, Mr. Dickwad Slidell had ground it in further. The counselor had told him repeatedly he deserved to be in prison, shouldn’t be alive, should have died in the crash instead of Ezra.

  His nightmares said the same. Night after night. Sawyer would hear his best friend yell, would jerk his attention back to the dark highway, squint into the glaring oncoming lights. Wrong lane. Rip the wheel to the right—overreacting. Car fishtailing, tires screeching, losing traction. At the edge, the tires caught only gravel, lost traction. The car slid right off the road—and rolled down the steep mountainside.

  The memory had his fingers clamping onto the chair arms. Why couldn’t it have been me who died? Every minute he lived was a minute Ezra should have had.

  He shoved up out of his seat.

  The pretty counselor watched him with concern. “Sawyer—”

  “Done here.”

  Where Slidell hadn’t hesitated to tell him he deserved every moment of misery, this one worried about him. She’d even asked if he’d considered suicide. He’d thought about it, truth be told. There was no way he could pay back what he’d done, although, at one time, he’d had a forlorn hope of doing something to settle up. But now…exerting the effort to off himself would take more energy than he could summon.

  Slidell was a shit therapist, but at least the bastard hadn’t nagged at him for answers. This one wanted too badly to help him.

  On the plus side, Ms. Virginia was nicer. Smelled better. And her slow, southern drawl was soft on the ears. Yet, as he nodded to her, he realized how far gone he was. Even after this long in prison, a curvy female rang no bells.

  After regarding him steadily, Ms. Virginia rose. “All right.” He vaguely remembered how she’d set out her guidelines…including saying if he needed a session to stop, he could tell her. Considering how Shit-for-Brains Slidell had kept him there no matter what, always hammering at him, Sawyer did appreciate the chance to escape.

  Escape, hell. There was no escape. Not for him.

  As the correctional officer fell into step to escort him back to his cell, Sawyer felt as if he were walking through sludge, through a world of shadows and despair.

  Gin chewed on her lower lip as she watched Sawyer Ware depart. His self-hatred had him mired so deep he wasn’t seeing any light. His previous caseworker had made it worse.

  Howard Slidell. Bless his heart, the counselor himself needed therapy. He had some serious issues. Maybe making his caseload feel guilty was effective with some, but inmates like Sawyer already had enough guilt to drown them.

  Ex-military, suffering from PTSD, he’d not adapted back to civilian life well, then he and his best friend had overindulged and the friend had died. Sawyer’d barely missed felony charges, but, as if to compensate, the judge had given him the middle sentence of two years in a state prison.

  Unlike many inmates, Sawyer felt as if he deserved incarceration and anything worse the world could throw at him.

  If only she could get through to the man. His despair was tangible…and worsening. He sure wasn’t listening to anything she said. Maybe because she was female; maybe because she’d never been to war. Who knew?

  She frowned. Who else might have an impact on him? Did he have family she could call in for a session? Or maybe a friend?

  The mental health secretary could do some research and find someone since there’d undoubtedly be paperwork Gin didn’t know how to do. The warden was a bit of a slacker, but the California Department of Corrections & Rehabilitation did like its regulations and rules.

  Typing quickly, she sent the secretary an e-mail with the request. If having a family member in didn’t work, she’d figure out something else.

  Giving up wasn’t in the job description.

  Truly, these inmates were quite a test of her skills—some had diagnoses she’d only seen in textbooks—but she’d always liked challenges.

  But this might not be the best place for her. She could now see that her years working with adolescents might have had a greater impact on them than she’d realized. Her inmates were showing her how a youthful intervention might have set them straight and kept them out of prison.

  She wanted to go back to that. And, oh, she really did miss working with children.

  Then again, some guys here could simply break her heart. Like Sawyer Ware. She wanted to scold him like a big sister, to ask him, “What were you thinking?” then slap him upside the head and tell him to get over it.

  He needed help so badly—and she would darn well get through to him somehow—yet, true healing would have to come from within him.

  Just like she had to bring about her own cures.

  Homesick? She was pretty well past that.

  Lovelorn? She studied her hands, watching how they flattened on the desktop. At least the BDSM weekend had given a fast shove to getting her over her ex-fiancé.

  Lonely? Well, in only three days, Trigger had relieved much of the loneliness, which had been the main reason she’d missed Preston. Her lips quirked.

  Sad to say, the dog was far better company.

  If only Trigger didn’t remind her of Atticus. If only she could stop dreaming about the sexy, commanding Dom and that amazing night of stars and crisp mountain air, of wood smoke and his piercingly blue eyes. Of rough rope and her inability to move away from hard hands intent on giving her pleasure.

  If only that night hadn’t been followed by a morning of harsh words and open dislike.

  When she’d talked with Kallie and Becca on Monday, she’d told them how much she’d enjoyed the BDSM lessons. She’d spoken the honest truth. Thank goodness they were still new friends or she wouldn’t have managed to dodge their questions about Atticus.

  She shook her head. Watching Westerns made a girl believe that the heroic cowboy was supposed to fall head over heels in love, win the heroine, and ride off with her into the sunset.

  Instead, her big cowboy had got shed of her like he’d discovered a booger on his boot. So much for romantic tales.

  At least she wouldn’t have to see him again. Considering his antipathy to prisons, Dom Atticus Whoever probably avoided this facility like the plague.

  Chapter Five

  One week later, seated behind her sterile steel desk, Gin watched Sawyer walk into her office. She could swear he moved slower each week, as if every movement and thought was being dragged out of a hole.

  With a grunt, he sank down into the facing seat and frowned. “What’s with the extra chair?”

  “You noticed. That’s something, at least.”

  A tap on the door caught her attention. Gin looked up and felt as if she’d run smack into a tree trunk. “You,” she breathed.

  “Gin.” Atticus stood in the door, and her world shifted sideways as his steely blue eyes met hers.

  What in the name of heaven was he doing here? In her office? Where she worked? Trying to h
ide her reaction, she clasped her hands on the desktop.

  He still looked at her as if she’d killed his prize horse or something.

  Her anger sparked to life like a misfiring Bic lighter.

  “Excuse me, but I’m in the middle of a session.” She had to be pleased that her voice remained even.

  “I’m aware,” he said politely. “But the e-mail you sent indicated this time and this room.”

  E-mail. The secretary had arranged for Sawyer’s brother to attend the session today. “You’re… You’re not brothers.”

  “Yep.” His voice sounded like an iced-over gravel road. “Atticus Ware.” Without waiting for her invitation, he hooked the empty chair with his boot, moving it so he could sit beside his…brother?

  Seriously? But now she saw the similarities between the two men. Atticus had collarbone length, dark brown hair; Sawyer’s was the same color, clipped short. The dark blue eyes were the same, as were the strong jawlines and long noses. Sawyer had more bulk in the shoulders, Atticus was slighter taller and leaner and far more tanned.

  They were brothers. No wonder Atticus had looked familiar.

  After a second, she realized he hadn’t been surprised to see her today. Not in the least. She straightened. “You knew. You knew that morning that I’d been assigned to your brother.”

  She had a mind to throw her chair at him, the good-for-nothing snake.

  “Sawyer mentioned his therapist was from the south,” Atticus answered curtly.

  Humiliation washed through her, heating her anger further. She’d trusted him to tie her up. He’d touched her intimately, given her an orgasm. They’d shared something. But because she worked in a prison, he thought she was scum.

  Even worse, he hadn’t explained who he was. “You didn’t think I should know you were Sawyer’s brother?” Her voice came out as sharp as the shards of betrayal ripping through her.

  “Nope.” His unrelenting gaze stayed on her as he settled himself with his long legs extended.

  When Sawyer snorted, she glanced at him. Hmm… Rather than his usual slumping posture, he’d tilted back in his chair, legs stretched out in front of him like Atticus’s. He was watching the…show. Nothing before had caught his interest. She’d even gone back and reviewed security tapes to see if anything had ever roused the man.

  But now…

  “Well, then, let’s begin.” She gave Atticus a stony look and folded her hands on the desk. “I’ve worked with Sawyer for a few weeks and—”

  Atticus straightened. “You mean months.”

  “No. I mean weeks. I’ve only been in California for about two months now.”

  Atticus’s eyes narrowed as if he thought she was lying. Slowly, the animosity disappeared from his face. “Hell,” he muttered, rubbing his hand over his beard.

  She remembered the feel of his beard and how… She gave her head a shake. The past was over. And she didn’t give a flying hoot what the man thought.

  He wasn’t important and neither was she. Her concern was Sawyer. Soldiering on, she said in a cool tone, “Mr. Ware, I believe Sawyer feels condemned by everyone for what he did. He thinks he’s hated by anyone who knew Ezra.”

  She set her emotions aside and opened herself to anything that might point her in the right direction. “Am I right, Sawyer?”

  The animation faded from Sawyer’s face, his shoulders slumped again, and he angled away from his brother.

  It was like seeing someone die.

  She turned to Atticus and saw shock and dismay on his face. Then his mouth compressed and raw anger lit his eyes.

  He surged to his feet.

  Oh hellfire, what had she done? “Atticus—”

  His glance of warning seared the words from her throat. Seizing Sawyer’s prison shirt, he leaned in to force a face-to-face confrontation. “You stupid dick.”

  Sawyer’s face drained of color. He stared at his brother like a rabbit waiting to be slaughtered.

  “You. Fucked. Up.” Atticus shook him with each word.

  Gin started to rise, then realized Atticus was in total control. All anger had disappeared, leaving only resolve behind.

  Hurried footsteps came down the hall, and the door opened. Gin held up her hand to stop the guard. Someone must have heard the shouting.

  “You were drunk. And stupid. And driving,” Atticus grated out. “But Ezra’s alcohol level was even higher. If he’d taken the wheel, he’d have been as messed up.”

  Sawyer’s eyes were wide and alive with emotion. “I killed him,” he said hoarsely.

  “You made a choice. If you hadn’t swerved off the road, a family would have died,” Atticus said. “Remember what Mom said when we screwed up? ‘Nobody escapes this life without making mistakes. Some of them will hurt others.’”

  “Yeah.” The single word was guttural and yet held a dawning hope.

  “Yeah. After a screw-up, you fix everything you can, grab hold, and do better next time. That’s the mission, bro.” Using the shirt he’d fisted, Atticus thumped his brother against the back of the chair. “Am I clear?”

  “Fucking Dom,” Sawyer said under his breath.

  “Am. I. Clear?”

  Sawyer wrapped his fingers around his brother’s hand, which still held his shirt, preventing another shaking. “Oorah, jarhead.”

  “So says the SEAL.” The corner of Atticus’s mouth tipped up. “For the record, asshole, I don’t hate you; I love you. Don’t forget it again.”

  He released his brother and straightened. He glanced at his empty chair and shoved it out of his way with his boot. The look he shot Gin was unreadable. “Interesting sessions you have, Gin. I’ll be seeing you again.”

  Before she could respond, the door closed behind him.

  See him again? The slimy dog had known she was Sawyer’s counselor. Had thought she was incompetent. After pulling in a furious breath, Gin looked at Sawyer. And stilled.

  He had tears in his eyes.

  Okay. Okay. Even if she’d only managed to speak once and hadn’t directed the long session she’d planned, Atticus had—had done the job.

  Her brows drew together. How would she react if she believed someone had messed up her sister—if she had a sister? Considering how little Sawyer talked, maybe his brother hadn’t known about the change in counselors.

  Putting Atticus out of her mind, she sat back in her chair, eyes on Sawyer, and watched the intervention start to work.

  Chapter Six

  Spring was in the air. Friday had arrived, and Gin was free for the weekend. She rolled down her windows, letting the brisk mountain wind erase the pervasive stench of the prison.

  For hours after she returned home, she could smell the place, as if every inhalation held the suppressed anger, despair, and hopelessness.

  With a grunt of frustration, she kicked on her ride-the-roads playlist with Roger Miller’s King of the Road and let the music flow around her.

  Heavens, but this had been a nasty day. Sex offenders. Of all the inmates, she found them to be the worst. And the one she’d had in session today had shown no remorse at all. He didn’t think he’d done anything wrong in raping a child.

  It purely made her nauseous.

  Trying to escape the feeling, she stomped the accelerator, whipping around the curves and glorying in how her low-slung car clung to the road.

  As forest gave way to small farms, she slowed. Everywhere she looked was color. Vibrant spring-green grass had sprung up along the road shoulder. Leaves were filling in the deciduous trees. Tiny lupines created purple swaths across a pasture. Yellow flowers in the ditches were bright enough to rival the sun.

  In town, a banner strung high across the intersection proclaimed: BEAR FLAT WILDFLOWER FESTIVAL. Below it, sawhorses blocked off Main Street.

  Gin’s mood lifted at the sight of colorful booths lining the street and on the boardwalk. A band at the end was playing a country-western tune of Willie Nelson’s.

  An SUV pulled away from the curb, the b
ack filled with children who waved cheerfully at her. Laughing, she waved back and parked in their spot.

  Once out of her car, she frowned down at her clothes. Since the recommended prison attire was “baggy,” Kallie’d given her some of Jake’s old sweaters. The oversized man’s sweater she wore was perfect for the prison, but way too blah for a spring festival.

  But if she wore only the tank beneath it, she’d freeze.

  Hadn’t she left something in the trunk?

  She had. She peeled off Jake’s sweater and donned the green, three-quarter sleeved cardigan. The open knit draped nicely around her. And surprise, she had a figure again.

  After slinging her purse over one shoulder, she locked her car and headed toward the fun.

  “Gin.” Her name was called in a deep baritone voice. Atticus was exiting a Ford Taurus, which he’d parked in the street. In the very center.

  Typical arrogant police officer, right? Even his walk was strong, almost predatory.

  And yet…her body quickened at the sight of him. She sternly told it to behave. The man—even if he should be polite for a change—was Sawyer’s brother and, by Department of Corrections’ policy, off-limits to her.

  Having watched Gin changing clothes, Atticus smothered a grin as he left his unmarked vehicle. Couldn’t blame her for not wanting to look like a box—the recommended style for women entering a prison. He’d far rather see her in something that showed off her curvy figure and brightened her moss-green eyes.

  He’d hoped to run into her.

  Three days ago, she’d orchestrated the “intervention” which had turned his brother around. Because Sawyer was different. Sure, he wasn’t back to the light-hearted, gung-ho person he’d been when they were growing up. But since his TOD in Afghanistan, he’d grown increasingly withdrawn.

  He’d never gotten drunk though.

  No, Ezra had been the one who’d enjoyed being blitzed. He’d probably goaded Sawyer into going past his usual limits. Like Atticus, Sawyer didn’t like giving up control to anyone or anything. He’d been a control freak even before the SEALS. After his discharge, he’d consumed even less.