The Wicked Horse Boxed Set (+Wicked Bond [5])

by Sawyer Bennett

  "Why's that?" I ask blandly.

  "You've been absent for a while... you and Rand wrapped up in each other. It's just odd you're here now. Without him."

  I shrug and still don't look at him.

  A sip of wine.

  Staring blankly at the bar top.

  "I talked to my buddy, Kyle," Bridger says in a low voice, thankfully leaving the subject of Rand and me alone. "He was noncommittal on whether he could identify the guy based on the description. I sort of got the impression he was going to poke around and find out what he could before he decides if he's going to help."

  "What does that mean?" I ask as I swivel my stool so I'm facing Bridger.

  "It means that if the hit on you was brought before the club and sanctioned, Kyle won't tell me shit. But if this was a rogue act, he might give us a tip in the right direction."

  "Oh," I say in disappointment as I swivel back to face the bar. I know Kevin's not going to roll over on anything, and that the only way to pin him to this is by finding the guy who tried to carry out the order, hoping he gives Kevin up for a plea deal or something. It sounds to me as if that's probably not going to happen, which is a cause for concern. It means I'm still vulnerable and although Richard has given me assurances, I think Kevin is a bit on the sociopathic side. I wouldn't put it past him to continue to come after me.

  "So this is it, huh?" he prods. "You're making the break from him?"

  So much for him leaving the subject of Rand and me alone. Gaze goes to my wine... wish I had about three of these in me right now. "It's the right thing to do. He deserves better than me."

  "If you say so," Bridger says mildly.

  I turn to him in surprise, finally looking at the man who most people look upon as some sort of god around here. He's been nothing short of nice and supportive of me, and I've always had the distinct impression he takes care of those he calls friends. I don't necessarily think I'm in that category, but I know damn well Rand is. So, I thought he might try to persuade me otherwise.

  For Rand's benefit.

  "You're not going to try to talk me out of this?" I ask, my eyes narrowing on him.

  "Nope," he says with a confident smile. "You're a big girl and can make your own decisions. You're also a smart girl. I've got confidence in you."

  Huh?

  I think this just affirms for me that Bridger probably recognizes those same god-awful qualities that I see in myself. He probably knows this is the best thing. This should be affirmation to me of my decision but instead it hurts me deep down to know that I must be right about myself.

  "Besides," Bridger says as almost an afterthought. "Rand just pulled into the parking lot as I was walking in. Figured he'll have plenty to say to get you to change your mind."

  "Rand's here?" I spin swiftly on my chair, looking back at the door. And sure enough, he's standing there just at the end of the short hall that leads into the main room. His gaze is pinned on me with an absolutely unreadable expression on his face.

  He stalks across the room, not looking anywhere else but at me. As he gets closer--when I can see the green of his eyes--I note they're filled with disappointment.

  When he reaches me, he spares a quick look to Bridger and lifts his chin in greeting before turning back to me. He just stares and I don't know what to say. Should I apologize? Explain my actions? Or maybe I should just own them to make the break easier.

  Before I can utter a word though, Bridger stands up and claps a hand on Rand's shoulder I'm assuming in commiseration. He gives me a guarded look and turns to head back across the room. Rand and I both watch him walk out of The Silo.

  "Why are you doing this, Cat?" Rand asks softly, and I slide my gaze back to him.

  I lay open my heart and tell him the truth. "Because I'm not good enough for you."

  I expect him to scoff, roll his eyes, and lay into me with a speech about all my fine qualities. But he doesn't. He just stares at me with the look of a man who knows the ride will be bumpy but who is prepared to hold on tight.

  "If this is what you need to do," Rand says in a neutral voice, "then you do it. Just so you know--it's not going to change my feelings about you."

  My mouth falls open as I realize he's deadly serious. "You'd sincerely be okay with me fucking someone else here tonight?"

  "No, I won't be okay with it," he says with a touch of anger in his voice and his eyes firing a little hot. "If you're going to play around with others, I want to be involved. But if you feel this is what you need to do to because you can't deal with my feelings, or maybe the feelings you have for me, then you need to do it."

  "I need to do it?" I whisper back in question since he seems to think he knows what I need.

  "You need to do it," he reiterates. "But I'm here to tell you, Cat. You won't feel better. You'll feel worse because you'll know it hurts me. It won't make the break any easier for either of us."

  This angers me because I know he's right and I don't want him to be. I also don't want to fuck someone else, so maybe I should just really lay it on the line so we can end things on words rather than actions.

  I lean toward him, keeping my voice just above a whisper. "Do you know how much strange cock I've had in me? Multitudes of men who I didn't even know their name? Fucking me in my mouth... my pussy... my ass. I never said no. I never thought to have a tiny bit of self-respect and tell my asshole, evil husband that I wasn't doing those nasty things. I took it over and over again, and you know why? Because I liked the money and the lifestyle. I didn't want to go back to a dirty, cockroach-infested apartment or a sticky stage with a stripper pole. I whored myself out to be a wealthy woman, and I did it without regrets. Is that the type of person you could fall in love with?"

  "I know all of that," Rand says back in a low voice, and I don't detect a trace of bitterness over my "used goods" status. Instead, his voice is gentle as he reiterates, "I know all that and I don't care. But you are wrong about one thing... you do have regrets. If you didn't, it wouldn't bother you so much right now."

  I blink at him, unsure of what to say.

  He's so right.

  I regret everything I've ever done from the moment I met Samuel Vaughn. I regret marrying someone without love, for choosing money over respect, and for hurting Rand in any way.

  He leans in closer, lips hovering just inches away from mine. I breathe in, and he smells so good...

  "You do what you have to do, Cat," Rand says softly. "It's not chasing me away."

  He kisses me. Nothing but a tender kiss on the corner of my mouth.

  Then he turns away from me and walks out of The Silo.

  Chapter 23

  Rand

  I'm not a fan of Vegas. Been a handful of times, usually for a bachelor party. Not big on gambling, definitely don't want to see Cirque de Soleil or Celine, and all-you-can-eat buffets are overrated.

  This part of Vegas isn't much better. No glitzy lights. No throng of people walking around with stars in their eyes.

  Nope. Cat's mom lives in a small trailer park on the outskirts of town with nothing but flat desert as far as the eye can see. When I pull my Suburban onto the dirt path that leads into the entrance, dust kicks up and swirls all around.

  I left Cat in The Silo going on almost twenty-four hours ago.

  I left her behind and told her she needed to do what she needed to do, and I don't regret that. I can't make Cat into something she doesn't want to be. I have to let her figure things out so she accepts them.

  She has to be in control of her destiny. Of that, I'm absolutely certain.

  So I went home, packed a duffle bag with a few days' worth of clothing, and hopped in my SUV. I drove straight out of town and headed south, intent on doing something for Cat that might help her regain her identity. It's a long shot, but I don't have anything but time on my hands.

  I thought about flying because I hate long drives, but then immediately discounted it for two reasons. First, I needed space from Cat and I needed it at that moment.
Probably couldn't have caught a flight out last night and that would mean a potential run in with her at the apartment. She needed the space to figure things out as well, so I knew driving the ten-plus hours would do the trick. Secondly though, and most important, it gave Bridger time to do what he needed to do.

  As soon as I hit the road, I called him and told him I was going to find Cat's father. He seemed neither surprised nor skeptical of my actions, but just asked what he could do to help. I told him I needed to first find Cat's mom because she was the only one who knew who he was. Cat told me her mother said he abandoned them and she didn't even put the name on the birth certificate.

  No clue if that's true or not, but I'm going to find out.

  Bridger also showed me why he's got the respect of everyone in The Silo, and why people turn to him when their troubles get too much to handle.

  "I'm heading back over to The Silo now," he'd told me last night. "I'll keep an eye on her for you."

  "Let her do what she wants to do," I told him, even though the thought of her fucking someone there made my stomach knot up.

  "You got it, brother," he replied. "And for what it's worth, you're doing the right thing."

  "Going to find her father?"

  "No," he said solemnly. "Letting her figure herself out. Only way it's going to work between you two."

  The words were a small comfort as I traveled mile after mile to Nevada. But even his wise words started to dull when I saw Vegas come into view around eight AM. I went straight to the Bellagio and checked in.

  Pulled my clothes off and fell on the bed in an exhausted heap.

  Sleep came easily despite my worries.

  When I woke up around five, Bridger had sent me a text with Trish Lyons' address and two additional words, Good luck.

  After a quick shower and a room service meal, I got my Suburban from the valet and headed out of town to hopefully get the information I need.

  I navigate the neat rows of trailers, all fairly well-kept with underpinning and permanent decks built on although they all have some age on them. As I pull up to Trish's home, I see a silver sedan parked perpendicular to the porch steps, and I hope it's hers. I'm prepared to camp out and wait if it's not, but I'd sure like to get this over with because I doubt it's going to be pleasant.

  I park behind the silver car and shut my engine off. As I open the driver's door, I see a flutter of movement at the window so I know someone's definitely in there.

  By the time I exit my SUV and hit the top porch step, the front door is opening, leaving the screen door in place as a barrier. I assume that's Cat's mom staring out at me, but I can't be sure as they look nothing alike. This woman is shorter than Cat by several inches and has thinning blonde hair that's pulled back into a bun. Her skin is overly tan and although she can't be more than mid-forties, the damage from the sun creates an almost leather-like look that adds hard years onto her.

  "Can I help you?" she asks in a voice that's unfriendly and brusque.

  "Trish Lyons?" I counter.

  She could deny it, but I can tell by the look on her face that it's her. Still, she plays dumb. "Depends who's asking."

  I don't have time for this shit. "My name is Rand Bishop. I'm a friend of your daughter's. I want to find her father, and I want you to tell me his name. I'm prepared to pay well for the information."

  Her face morphs from skepticism to interest the minute I mention money. Her hand shoots out, and she pushes the screen door open. "Come on inside and we'll talk."

  I step inside, pleased to find the interior cool. Her house is well kept but a little worn. Carpet and furniture looking as if it dated back to Cat's childhood days. I glance around and don't see a single picture of Cat and while it doesn't necessarily surprise me, it does sadden me. This woman hasn't minded taking money from Cat over the last several years but she doesn't care enough about her to even have her photograph on display.

  "Would you like something to drink?" she asks me as I follow her into the kitchen that sits right beside the living room with a short, half-wall divider between the spaces.

  "No thanks," I say.

  She sits at the small, round table in the center, nodding at the chair opposite of her. I take a seat, lean back, and clasp my hands on the table.

  "How much money are you willing to pay me for the name of Cat's father?" she asks, her eyes now gleaming with the possibilities.

  "Ten thousand," I say, ready to haggle with this woman. She's going to try to squeeze everything out of me, no doubt.

  "That won't do it," she says and rubs a finger over her chin thoughtfully. "But twenty-five would."

  I know I can get her down more because I recognize the lust for the money in her gaze. But I want something more than just the name of Cat's father from her, so I tell her, "Done. However, after this, you don't ever ask your daughter for another dime. You can contact her to inquire as to how she's doing, wish her happy birthday, or just in general try to be a mother. But you don't squeeze her for money ever again."

  Rather than respond to my offer, she says, "That husband of hers is dead. I expect she's inherited a ton of money. Seems like I'm selling out short at twenty-five now that I think about it."

  I could lie to this woman, tell her that Cat didn't get any inheritance, but that doesn't necessarily sit right with me. So I hedge a little and tell her the truth as it stands today. "Cat doesn't have anything other than a little bit of money she got from pawning her jewelry. She was kicked out of her home and told she'd been cut out of the will. She's working a job right now making fifteen bucks an hour. She's got nothing to give you."

  That was all truth. Her eyes are calculating as she considers what I've said.

  "But I do have money... lots of it, and twenty-five thousand is more than fair to pay for a name and a final payoff for you to leave Cat alone."

  "What does she hope to gain by finding him?" she asks, not because she cares for Cat but because she's trying to see if there's another angle to exploit.

  I ignore the question because she doesn't deserve to hear anything about Cat's need to find herself. It's partly this woman's fault that her daughter is so lost. Instead, I say, "I'll give you half now for the name and the other half when I find him."

  "What if you don't find him?" she asks, leaning forward with shrewd eyes.

  "If I don't find him, then you don't get the rest of the money." I lean forward and hold her stare.

  "That doesn't seem fair," she pouts.

  "Take it or leave it." I was done negotiating and I knew she was going to take it. No way she was turning her nose up at $12,500 in cash right now.

  Trish stands up from the table and walks back into the living room. I don't follow but watch her pull a small box out of a rattan chest on one end of the couch. She opens it up, riffles through, and comes back to me, sullenly handing me a piece of paper.

  I take it from her and see it's a computer printout of a news article dated February 3, 2003. There's a grainy picture of a man wearing a military uniform with a beret. The title says, "Fort Bragg Soldier Awarded Bronze Star".

  "I would Google him every now and then," she says, nodding down to the paper in my hand. "Found that a few years ago, but not really sure why I kept it. Was just curiosity, I guess."

  My eyes move back and forth as I read the short article:

  Fort Bragg, NC (AP): Sergeant Major Allen Henning with the 82nd Airborne Division was awarded the Bronze Star with Valor for selfless actions he undertook in Afghanistan that saved the lives of numerous soldiers. Sergeant Major Henning, along with fourteen other soldiers, came under enemy fire while stationed at Forward Operating Base Eagle in the Balad district of Afghanistan. After identifying the shooter in an Afghani uniform, who had already shot two soldiers under Henning's command, Sergeant Major Henning managed to return cover fire to enable others to get to safety. He then managed to wound the assailant, effectively disarming him and ensuring his quick capture by U.S. Forces.

  The article goes
on to say that Allen Henning is from Green Bay, Wisconsin and had joined the Army in 1990 at the age of eighteen. I know Cat is twenty-four, born in 1991, so if this is her father, that would have made him nineteen at the time.

  I look up to Trish, who doesn't hold an ounce of fondness on her face for the man who gave her a daughter.

  "What's the story with you two?" I ask bluntly.

  She grimaces and sits back down at the table. "I was living with a friend in Fayetteville, North Carolina and met Allen there. He'd been in the Army only a few months stationed at Ft. Bragg. We had a brief affair and then I came back to Vegas. He apparently went on to do quite well for himself."

  "Define brief affair," I push at her.

  She shrugs. "We were together maybe four months. Because we were young and stupid, we were fucking like rabbits with no protection. I got pregnant and never told him."

  "Why not?" I ask, trying not to let my lip curl up in disdain at her.

  "He was gung ho about the Army, and I sure as shit didn't want to lead that type of life. He got sent to some school at a base in Alabama. He wanted me to wait for him back at Fort Bragg but as soon as he left, I used that opportunity to come back home to Vegas."

  "You just left without telling him you were leaving?"

  "Knew he'd try to talk me out of it. If he'd known I was pregnant, he would have followed me to Vegas. Allen was just one of those upstanding people, always doing the right thing. Was kind of dull actually."

  Man, this woman is cracked in the head.

  "If you didn't want to be tied down, why in the world would you even keep the baby?" I have to ask her. Because in the few minutes I've been in this woman's presence, I can tell she has no business being a mother.

  "I didn't have the funds to get back to Vegas. Told my mom I was pregnant and abandoned, which wasn't the entire truth, but she wired me money to get home. She made me promise to keep the baby though as she didn't believe in abortion. So I had Catherine and lived with my mom for about three years. She pretty much took care of the baby until she died from a sudden brain aneurysm, then I had to step up to the plate and become a mom."

  Yeah, lady... you most certainly didn't step up to the plate.