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

by Cherise Sinclair

  But he’d learned, as a Dom and the son of an abused woman, that sometimes the best response was a willing shoulder.

  And time.

  After a couple of minutes, far sooner than he liked, she pulled back. Staring at the ground, she said almost inaudibly. “Thank you. I—”

  He put a finger under her pointed chin and lifted, forcing her gaze up to his. “You can use my shoulder any time you’d like, Gin. It’s not exactly a hardship to hold you, you know.”

  “You’re…very kind.” Brow crinkled, she pulled out of his reach. “I appreciate your time. It was nice seeing you again.” With an obviously forced smile, she walked away.

  What the hell? Kind? Time? Sounded a fuck of a lot like a brush-off to him. But why?

  She’d forgiven him for being an asshole. Had liked being spanked. They’d made love, talked, cuddled. No fight, dammit. He’d walked her into Serenity Lodge before he left and…

  Before he’d left several days ago.

  He hadn’t been in touch since, and she wouldn’t be hooked into the police department’s network to know he wasn’t in reach.

  Stretching his legs, he caught up to her. “Gin, I’m sorry I didn’t call.”

  “It doesn’t—”

  “Yes, it does. C’mere.” He pulled her closer, ignoring the way she stiffened. He couldn’t blame her. Hell. Bet she thought he’d fucked her and kicked her to the curb. “My cell phone doesn’t work in the mountains, and I just got back from Search and Rescue at lunchtime today. It didn’t seem like a good plan to call you here.”

  She showed no reaction for a long minute. Finally, her gaze lifted. “You’ve been hiking since Sunday morning?”

  “Yep. Lucky for you that I showered at the station.”

  After a second, she half-smiled. “You look like you’ve been camping. Your beard is longer. Scruffier.”

  Oddly enough, he hadn’t trimmed it after his shower, thinking of giving her a new sensation in bed. Not that he’d mention it right now.

  “Did you find the kid who got lost?” Her brow was wrinkled with concern.

  He liked how she put aside her own problems for someone else’s. “I did, sweetheart. And I’ll give you the rundown later.” Unfortunately, he needed to unsettle her again. “After you tell me what happened to upset you.”

  When she took a step back, he moved with her, curving an arm around her waist. “Let’s find a place to talk.”

  The parking area stretched across the front of the facility. When he stopped at his truck and opened the passenger door, she pulled away.

  “My car’s over there.” She pointed.

  “You’re too shook up to drive, pet. Come home with me.”

  “No.” She shook her head, taking a step back.

  “Hmm.” Well, they were still new to each other, and she was obviously shaken. He’d have preferred quiet, but looked like he’d be joining Virgil after all. “Then we’ll join a couple of friends. A cop from my station—Lieutenant Masterson—and his wife are at the ClaimJumper. I’ll bring you back afterward.”

  As she stared at his truck, he could almost see the war going on in her head.

  Too much thinking. With a grunt of amusement, he lifted her, set her inside, fastened her seatbelt, and closed the door.

  When he swung into the driver’s seat, he fully expected the narrow-eyed glare she gave him.

  “I can make up my own mind, you know,” she snapped.

  “I know, Gin.” He curled a hand around her nape and took himself a slow kiss. “But I didn’t want you to think of reasons to say no. I’ve been looking forward to being with you.”

  Damned if he couldn’t feel her anger seep away, and he smiled against her lips before enjoying another kiss. She was so fucking sweet.

  * * * *

  According to Atticus, the owner of the ClaimJumper Tavern loved old-time country-western music, but occasionally could be talked into the current century if a good-looking female asked…which was how Gin ended up at the bar, asking for Keith Urban or Blake Shelton.

  She waved her hands to show how much she liked the music.

  After some grumbling in Swedish, Gustaf said, “For you, such a pretty girl, I put it on.”

  “Pretty girl?” Love it. Gin smiled. She wouldn’t let Slidell get away with calling her a girl, but the old Swede used it in a way that was adorable. Maybe because he called the men boys.

  As the music changed to She Wouldn’t Be Gone, she did a victory dance step and wiggle.

  A huge man seated on a barstool laughed. “Hey there. I haven’t seen you here before.”

  “Ah, I don’t come in here very often.”

  “Well, I’m glad you did. Get you a drink?” With a gap-toothed grin, he reached for her right hand.

  Her chest seized up, and her skin went icy. She jolted backward. “No. I mean, no, thank you. I’m with friends.”

  “She’s with me, Barney.” When Atticus pulled her against him, the rush of relief was disconcerting.

  Barney shrugged amiably. “Oh, well.”

  My stars, she was acting like an idiot. What had set her off like that? Pulling in a breath, she gave the man a nice smile. “Have a good evening.”

  “You too, missy.”

  Atticus jerked his chin up at the guy and guided her away toward their table in the back. To Gin’s delight, Atticus’s coworker, Lieutenant Masterson, had turned out to be Summer’s husband.

  At the table, Summer was pouring glasses of beer. The nurse’s blonde hair was loose and shone brightly against her fluffy blue sweater.

  Her husband sat in a chair next to her, one thickly muscled arm behind her back. His brown cowboy hat was a few shades darker than his sandy hair. He looked to be a smidge taller than Atticus and maybe an inch broader in the shoulders. Pretty darn big, really, and it was difficult to imagine petite Kallie as his cousin.

  Even if Gin lived in Bear Flat for a decade, she doubted she’d get all the relationships worked out.

  Politely, Virgil rose and pulled out a chair for her. “Good work with Gustaf and the music.”

  “Thanks. He’s quite a tough sell.”

  “Sit here, baby.” Unsmiling, Atticus helped her into the chair as if she were a ninety-year-old cripple. With a walker.

  “Thank you.” I think.

  “Now hold still.” He curled his fingers around her right hand and tugged her sweater sleeve up.

  Red-black bruises at the wrist showed where Slash had grabbed her.

  Mouth compressed, he bent her arm up. His firm grip on her hand prevented any attempt to pull away as he ran a finger over her swollen forearm.

  She flinched. It still hurt, and no wonder. A thick purple-black line marked where the inmate had slammed her arm against the desk’s edge.

  “This what had you upset at the prison?” Although Atticus’s face had darkened, his voice was even. Controlled.

  “Um.” Being among friends had let her escape the memory, but… She bit her lip, realizing why she’d almost panicked with the man sitting at the bar. Because he’d reached for her hand like Slash had. Atticus had noticed. “You’re very observant.”

  “A-huh. Nice try at evasion. Now tell me what happened.” The stern set of his jaw and continued hold on her arm made her bones feel like Jell-O.

  Beside her, Virgil gripped her left hand and pulled up the sleeve. After a quick check, he told Atticus, “Nothing here.” At her surprised look, he squeezed her fingers. “We’re cops. Seeing marks on a woman tends to upset us. Now answer your Dom.”

  “He’s not—” Her protest died when Atticus lifted a brow. Well, maybe he had been her Dom for one night—okay, two. But still… “Fine,” she huffed. “An inmate came on to me sexually, so I summoned help. Before the guard arrived, the inmate lost his temper and slammed my arm on the desk.”

  “Jesus,” Atticus growled and traced a finger over the black bruising. “He could have busted your arm.”

  Summer’s face paled.

  “I’m
fine,” Gin said hastily.

  “The CO was slow getting to you,” Atticus said with far too much comprehension. His gaze cleared, and he cupped her cheek. “I seriously don’t like you working there.”

  His concern made her eyes pool with tears. Preston hadn’t worried about her. If she’d been upset about a violent client, he’d never asked how it was going. If she were safe.

  During a tropical storm, a tree had come down on her car. When she got home three frightening hours late, he’d been watching a movie.

  When she was sick, he’d visit friends to ensure he didn’t catch anything.

  She’d never realized how…unloved…his indifference had made her feel.

  With a wavery smile, she looked into Atticus’s gunmetal blue eyes. “I’ll be fine. And this inmate won’t be back to see me again.”

  “Gang member?” Virgil frowned at her.

  “One of the neo-Nazis who came in recently.” According to the sergeant, their subculture tended toward irrational violence. She gave Virgil a wry look. “I was surprised that—at least in prison—a lot of established gangs require respect for female medical personnel. Apparently the skinheads go to the other extreme and hate women.”

  After a minute, Atticus took his chair beside her, still holding her fingers. He handed her a beer, took one for himself, and lifted it. “Here’s to the southern magnolia moving to a better job.” After the clicking of glasses and agreement, he brushed his lips over her cheek. “Although I’m grateful for the help you gave my brother.”

  He’d noticed the change in Sawyer. Happiness filled her.

  As Virgil sat back, looking more like a cowboy than a cop, Gin glanced at Atticus. Black cowboy hat, battered boots, jeans belted with a rodeo buckle, and denim western shirt. Both guys looked as if they’d come in off the range. “Tell me, does the police station list horseback riding and roping as job skills?”

  “Hell, they won’t even let me wear my hat.” Virgil grinned. “Tell you what, some of those skills come in handy, like the way Atticus tracked down the teenager.”

  “Will he be all right?” Summer asked.

  “He’ll be in the hospital overnight, but looks like mostly dehydration and frostbite,” Virgil said. “I daresay he’s pretty grateful to be alive.”

  “Might have found him sooner, but I got sidetracked following two of his friends.” Atticus’s eyes crinkled. “They weren’t very grateful. Maybe because I caught them bare-ass naked and fornicating their fucking heads off.”

  Gin choked on her beer.

  “I haven’t been called names like that in years,” Atticus said. “And that was the girl.”

  Summer was giggling. “The law enforcement career is a challenging one.”

  Atticus flicked a glance at Virgil. “Can see you don’t get much sympathy from your woman.”

  “She makes it up to me in other ways,” Virgil murmured, running the backs of his fingers over her cheek.

  Summer flushed a dark red and turned to Gin. “Ah…so, I didn’t get a chance to ask last time we met. You’d said the prison was very different. So what did you do in Louisiana? Not a prison?”

  “Not even close. I worked in a mental health center that specialized in families and children. I loved it.” Oh, she really had.

  Atticus tilted his head, watching her silently.

  “Then why didn’t you pick something like that instead of a prison?” Summer asked.

  “I should have.” Gin pulled in a breath. “But I lost a client. He was only seventeen.” So angry, so messed up. His mother and stepfather hadn’t listened to her, hadn’t instituted the precautions she’d recommended. Something had set him off. He’d taken every drug offered at a party, stolen a car…and driven straight into a semi.

  Sometimes a person was simply too troubled to make wise choices. That was what had happened with Sawyer, after all. Her seventeen-year-old client had suffered from an alcoholic, abusive father. Sawyer had suffered through a war. Both were victims. At least Sawyer was alive to turn his life around.

  “Didn’t trust yourself because of that?” Virgil asked.

  Gin nodded. “Losing someone under my care…”

  “Leaves you wondering what you might have missed, might have done differently. And even if everyone says you did it all exactly right, you still feel guilty.” The nurse’s gaze held a matching pain.

  When both Atticus and Virgil nodded, Gin realized a cop’s type of protection and nurturing was different from a counselors…and yet very much the same.

  “Doesn’t seem like you to cut and run,” Atticus said, surprising her.

  “Well, I ran away because I broke up with my fiancé. But relocating gave me a chance to try something new.” She smiled wryly. “Moving here was good. The career choice…perhaps not so much.”

  “Quit,” Atticus said.

  “Please. I can’t walk out. Even if I could, I have a duty to my cases.” Like your brother.

  He watched her for a long moment before nodding. “So be it.”

  That was nice—that he could let a subject drop. Without arguing until he got his way.

  Instead, he tilted his head, listening to the beginning of Tim McGraw’s slow, sweet song She’s My Kind of Rain.

  “Come, baby. You got us good music from Gustaf—let’s dance.” He pulled her out of her chair and to the tiny space that only a blind person would consider a dance floor.

  “I don’t think there’s enough room,” she said.

  With an arm around her waist, he pulled her close and set one muscular leg between her thighs. “Means we have to dance closer.”

  The feeling of being plastered against his hard, powerful body was divine.

  When he cupped his hand over her rear end, she squirmed. “Atticus. Behave.”

  He chuckled. “Wiggle some more.”

  “You’re impossible.”

  “And you’re fucking soft.” He rubbed his chin in her hair. “I’m sorry you got hurt, baby.”

  Darn it. How could she stay annoyed with him when he was so sympathetic? And made her so hot. His touch, his hold, made her remember everything he’d done to her in his bed. Made her…long…for more.

  He felt the way she’d melted against him and growled in approval. And then just held her, swaying with the music.

  With his warm embrace and his silence, the lingering tension from the attack drained out of her. Sighing, she contentedly rested her head on his shoulder.

  All too soon, the music changed, turning to Kelly Clarkson’s Stronger (What Doesn’t Kill You).

  Darn. “That was wonderful. Thank you.” When Atticus’s embrace loosened, Gin stepped back and headed off the floor.

  “Not so fast, darlin’. Don’t southern girls know how to dance?” Moving smoothly to the beat, he grasped her right hand, frowned, and switched to her uninjured arm to swing her out. He spun her back and smoothly recaptured her again without losing a step. “Yep, you do.”

  He twirled her again and pulled her into a side-by-side turn.

  Following his strong lead easily, she laughed in amazement, “You swing dance.”

  He grinned. “Amazing the skills a guy can acquire when riding rodeo. At the time, it was a good way to meet women.”

  She bet he’d scored a ton of buckle bunnies. “And now?”

  He pulled her up against him, rocking her close enough she could feel he was half-erect. “Now it’s a good way to hold just one.”

  Oh. Oh no. No. Not just one. She needed to nip this in the bud. “I like being held. And I’m enjoying being a friend with benefits,” she said carefully. “This is very nice. Can we stick to just this?”

  “And she draws a line in the sand,” he murmured. His eyes held hers. Level. Unreadable. “I hear what you’re saying.”

  * * * *

  He’d heard what she’d said all right, Atticus thought. Hours later, in Gin’s bed, he remained awake, savoring the lush body draped across him. She’d had a rough day; he’d made sure she had a gentle
and thoroughly carnal night.

  Although he’d planned to let her rest after the first round, she’d donned a golden nightie with dainty ruffles and lace, looking so innocently feminine that he couldn’t resist. And he’d felt almost depraved when he’d tossed her on the bed, set her on hands and knees, pushed the nightie up, and taken her from behind. Then again, her shock at his unexpected actions hadn’t kept her from coming long and hard.

  Considering the amount of lingerie she owned, the woman was liable to be the death of him.

  Well satiated, she slept deeply now. Her head rested on his chest, her fragrant hair spilling over his shoulder and arm. His hand curved over one bare ass cheek. Fuck, but he liked her round ass.

  Friends with benefits, huh?

  His mouth twisted with a silent laugh. After years of straightforwardly telling women that he wasn’t interested in a relationship, he undoubtedly deserved getting the words back.

  And he didn’t like it.

  Because this time, he wanted more. He’d never met anyone like Gin. Fuck, she was fun. Spirited. Independent. And yet he was thinking her need to give, to nurture, to submit, was equal to his need to protect, to tend, to dominate.

  They matched, she liked him, the chemistry was amazing…but she was backing away.

  What the hell had happened to make her put up all those barriers? Something to do with her ex-fiancé?

  At the foot of the bed, her dog snuffled and resettled. His heavy head rested on Atticus’s ankle, his body along Gin’s legs.

  How did Trigger manage to get under her defenses? Outdone by a skinny Labrador. Way to go, Ware.

  But, dogs didn’t push; Doms did.

  Atticus smiled grimly. Once he found out what made her raise the barriers…then he’d help her tear them down.

  Friends with benefits, my ass.

  Chapter Eleven

  On Mondays, the prison mental health department held their weekly staff meetings. Everywhere Gin had worked, meetings were an unavoidable chore. Unfortunately, this place held Howard Slidell and his prisoner-bashing rants.

  And today would be worse.