The Bequest

by Hope Anika

  No matter that she’d always handled things like that. It was time to change the program. No more fisticuffs—not unless absolutely necessary.

  Define absolutely.

  “Nah. That was how it was gonna happen.” Rafe shook his head. “That’s who she is.”

  Who I am, too. He just didn’t realize it.

  “You really gonna call family services?” he wanted to know.

  “I don’t know. They’ll probably take Ruby away if I do.”

  He sobered. “Yeah.”

  The waitress chose that moment to return. She was short and round, with freshly dyed honey-colored hair, bright pink lipstick and reading glasses that threatened to slide off the tip of her nose. She smiled widely at Rafe and blinked at Cheyenne’s scar and scowled down at the small handheld computer she carried.

  “Stupid thing.” She poked it a few times. “I hate technology.”

  “We should form a club,” Cheyenne told her.

  “It’s supposed to go back to the main screen, but it always gets stuck on the á la cart dinner menu, when I didn’t even enter á la cart because it’s eleven in the morning and—no, no, no, you stupid thing—”

  She muttered under her breath and continued to poke angrily at the device’s touch screen.

  “Can I help?” Rafe asked, watching her.

  The woman glanced up at him. “Do you think you could?”

  He held out a hand, and she gave it over with a sigh of relief.

  “Thank God,” she said.

  Three deft touches later, he handed it back to her. “I minimized the á la carte menu and put it down in the right hand corner. You can just pull it up if you need to.”

  “Hallelujah!” she said and sighed. “I’m too old for this techno-crap.”

  “You and me both, sister,” Cheyenne said.

  “It’s not that hard,” Rafe told them. “You just gotta play with it.”

  “Hmph,” the waitress said. “Now, young man, what can I get you?”

  Cheyenne looked at Rafe. “You’re up.”

  He hesitated, and Cheyenne scowled at him.

  “Eat,” she ordered. “Whatever you want. Or I’ll order one of everything, and we’ll be eating hash browns until next Tuesday.”

  “Bacon cheeseburger,” he said.

  “You want fries with that, honey?”

  He looked at Cheyenne.

  “Whatever you want,” she repeated.

  “Yes, please,” he said.

  “You want regular or sweet potato?”

  He looked confused by the question. It was obvious he was unfamiliar with the whole dining out experience. He’d perused the menu as though it was the first one he’d ever laid eyes on and ordering was clearly a novelty.

  Holy shite. If Georgia wasn’t already dead, Cheyenne would have killed her.

  “I like the sweet potato,” the waitress told him. “But sugar is my crack, so.” She shrugged. “The regular are good, too.”

  Another look at Cheyenne.

  “Let’s go with regular for now,” she said.

  “And to drink?” the waitress prompted.

  “Um...milk?”

  “Good boy.” She looked at Cheyenne. “And for you?”

  Screw it. “Chicken fried steak and eggs, over medium, potatoes, no toast. Coffee and a large milk.” Cheyenne handed her their menus. “Thank you.”

  “You bet. I’ll be right back with your milk and coffee.”

  Then she was gone. Rafe looked around, studied the other diners, glanced out the window next to them where the sun was struggling to break through the mass of gray slowly churning toward Lake Michigan, and then turned sharply when a crash came from the kitchen, followed by a noisy stream of Spanish.

  “Have you never been to a restaurant before?” Cheyenne asked him.

  Color flooded his cheeks. He shrugged. “McDonalds.”

  “Your mom didn’t take you out?”

  “Nah. We went to a museum once, when I was seven. But that’s it.”

  “How often did you see her?”

  “Almost every summer.”

  “Did you live with her during the summer?”

  He picked up his silverware and unwrapped the napkin that secured it. “No. She just came to visit.”

  “Did you ever live with her?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  Those dual-colored eyes met hers, and Cheyenne was struck again by how unique and beautiful they were. “She didn’t like me much.”

  The fury which had remained quiet for the last few hours stirred within her. “She was…sick. You know that, right?”

  He smoothed the napkin, pressed out the wrinkles. “She was my ma.”

  Yes, and wasn’t that the crux of it all?

  “Mine was touched, too,” Cheyenne told him. “I can relate.”

  His gaze lingered on the scar that marred her cheek. “Did she do that?”

  So much for only moving forward. But Cheyenne had known better, no matter how much she liked to pretend different. “Yes.”

  She braced herself for the next question, but he only said, “Who was the guy with the Jeep?”

  And she knew that eventually she would have to tell him what had happened to her that night, but not here. Not now.

  Not yet.

  “He looked like a cop,” Rafe added. “Or a soldier.”

  Cheyenne nodded, impressed—and more than a little dismayed. For a ten year old, the kid was astute as hell. Bad enough that Blackheart felt the need to trail after her like a bad theme song, but it hadn’t occurred to her Rafe might spot him. Which only made her an idiot, because at Rafe’s age, she would have spotted him, too. And although she was still wrestling with how much she should tell him, she knew she wouldn’t lie. He deserved the truth.

  “Navy SEAL,” she said. “Retired.”

  “Why’s he hanging around?” Rafe’s gaze narrowed. “Is it because of her?”

  Well, there would be no fooling this kid. So much for the Tooth Fairy.

  Cheyenne sat back. “Did you know she was CIA?”

  “CIA?” His eyes grew so big they looked like they might drop out of his head. “CIA?”

  His voice rose, and Cheyenne put a hand on his arm and squeezed. It was a strange thing to do—to touch someone of her own accord—but it felt appropriate, and it seemed to calm him.

  “Are you kidding?” he demanded.

  “No.”

  “That’s crazy.”

  Cheyenne had to agree. “Yes.”

  “CIA,” he said again. “Holy shit.”

  Which she didn’t reprimand him for, even though she probably should have. The stunned look on his face made it impossible.

  “So…” He shook his head. “Maybe that was it.”

  “Was what?”

  That eerie, beautiful gaze met hers. “Why she didn’t want me.”

  Cheyenne’s heart fluttered in her chest. “What do you mean?”

  “Maybe she had a reason. Maybe…maybe it wasn’t safe.”

  Oh, guaranteed. But Cheyenne doubted it was Rafe whom Georgia had been protecting. She would not, however, point that out. Let him believe what he wanted; a dead woman was not going to argue.

  “CIA,” he said for a third time. “Damn.”

  “You’re impressed?”

  He seemed to think about that. “She was a good liar. That probably made her a good spy. But…it doesn’t change anything, I guess. I still got the shaft, and she got…whatever she wanted.”

  Very astute. Son of a nutcracker.

  “What does that have to do with a Navy SEAL?” he asked.

  For a long moment, Cheyenne said nothing. This was the tricky part, because while Rafe deserved the truth, she didn’t want to scare the bejesus out of him. Those damn bombs were Blackheart’s problem—she would not let them become Rafe’s problem.

  “Your mom took something from him,” she said finally. “And he wants it back.”

  “What?” />
  Cheyenne stared at him, and he stared back. Before she could summon an appropriate non-lie that wouldn’t freak him out, Will Blackheart suddenly materialized and said, “A weapons cache.”

  He stood next to the table, free of his shoulder holster but still monochromatic in all black. His arms crossed his massive chest, and his legs were braced like a fighter’s. His folded sunglasses hung from the collar of his tee. He looked grim and tense and dangerous, and at the sight of him, Rafe paled.

  “You’re a jackass,” Cheyenne told him.

  He turned that pale gaze on her, and she cursed the color that immediately flushed her cheeks. “Because I told him the truth?”

  “Because you’re a jackass.” She looked at Rafe. “Don’t worry. He’s all bark.”

  “Am I now?”

  She heard the taunt in those words—her cheeks were on fire—but she didn’t deign to look at him. “Like one of those little purse dogs. All yap.”

  Rafe appeared skeptical. “He looks like a wolf.”

  “Woof,” Will said. When Cheyenne looked at him, she found him staring at Rafe with an intensity she didn’t at all appreciate.

  “I warned you about this,” she said softly.

  He looked at her. “Tick-tock,” he replied, equally softly.

  “This is not how this is going to happen,” she growled.

  When she moved to stand, his hand shot out and cupped her shoulder.

  “Relax,” he admonished, his massive hand squeezing with deceptive gentleness as he pushed her back down; such effortless, casual strength. Good thing she didn’t break easily…but the bolt of awareness that shot through her was another matter entirely. Violence she knew and understood. But sex…

  How ruinous it had the potential to be. No wonder it had built and destroyed empires.

  Because she was pissed off and just getting angrier, and Rafe was looking at her with fear in his eyes—she should not feel anything other than the need to run Will Blackheart through with something serrated and sharp. And yet—

  “We’re on the same side,” he told Rafe, who wisely continued to look skeptical. “She’s just used to being the lone gunman.”

  “Jackass,” she repeated and tried to shrug him off.

  “I told you, no more names.” He released her shoulder only to lean down and cup her hip. “Sets a bad example.”

  Then he slid her bodily along the bench of the booth, until he could slide in next to her, and before she could protest—or pull her baton from her pocket and smack him with it—he was seated next to her, a warm, immoveable wall of pine-scented man. His thigh pressed against hers, and she scooted over, only to have him follow until there was no escape. He leaned back and laid an arm along the top of the booth behind her.

  Territorial bastard.

  Or perhaps just intimidation. He was capable of either. Both.

  “You—” Cheyenne began, but the waitress chose that moment to return with the milk and coffee.

  “Here we go,” she said and put Rafe’s milk down in front of him. Cheyenne’s milk followed, then coffee. She had another set of silverware and a second coffee cup on her tray, both of which were placed before Will. Cheyenne silently cursed her efficiency.

  “Will you be eating?” she asked him pleasantly, menu in hand.

  “Yes, ma’am, I’d like that.” He gave her a wide smile, and Cheyenne blinked at the dimples that suddenly creased his cheeks. “Thank you.”

  Stinking dimples!

  “My pleasure,” the waitress said, smiling in return as she handed him the menu.

  “What’s your favorite?” he asked her, and Cheyenne watched in bemusement as the older woman flushed with pleasure at the attention.

  “Well, the waffles are good—and Jose is the best omelet maker around. You can just chose the ingredients you’d like, and Jose will make it special for you.”

  “Well, now, that sounds mighty tempting.” He gave her another smile, dimples winking. “I might have to try that.”

  Cheyenne stared at him, instantly recognizing the smooth, good-old-boy charm that shaped his manner, the easy-going charisma and warm, appreciative courtesy. Another echo of Hank she did not care to witness. He hadn’t even tried to use those dimples on her. No, it had been all intimidation and aggression and brute goddamn force.

  Real. He’d been real. Damaged and angry and honest.

  “And that’s supposed to mean something?” she muttered.

  “What’s that?” the waitress asked.

  “Nothing.”

  Rafe sipped his milk and watched her with a worried expression. Cheyenne told herself beating Will with her baton would only get her arrested.

  “I’ll take the Denver omelet, a side of bacon, a side of sausage, potatoes, toast, a side of waffles, OJ and coffee.” He handed the menu back. “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “You’re very welcome.” She winked at him. “And thank you for your service to our country! It’s good to see you home.”

  Then she filled his coffee cup and whirled away.

  “How did she know that?” Cheyenne demanded.

  “The tat,” Rafe said.

  “Tat?” she repeated blankly.

  “That one.” He pointed to the small tattoo on the inside of Blackheart’s left forearm—a three-pronged spear, like the kind Neptune was always depicted holding. A tattoo that sat at the base of a massive, ugly twist of what looked like fresh scar tissue and made an uncomfortable ripple of awareness move through Cheyenne.

  She slaughtered my team and left me to die in the Afghan desert.

  “You’ve seen this before?” Will asked Rafe, touching the tattoo.

  Rafe shrugged. “One of the guys in the ‘hood had one. But he didn’t fight no more. Said he got hit by a…IBD?”

  “IED. Improvised explosive device.”

  “Yeah. Couldn’t hear after that. Said they didn’t want him no more.”

  A dark smile touched Will’s mouth. “Sounds about right.”

  Cheyenne sat up and took a sip of her coffee. She knew bitterness when she heard it. Clearly, she wasn’t going to halt this conversation—but she could learn from it.

  “It’s a trident,” Will continued. “He was probably a SEAL.”

  “Like you,” Rafe said, watching him closely.

  “Yes.” Will offered Rafe his hand. “Will Blackheart, former U.S. Navy SEAL. It’s good to meet you, Rafferty.”

  “Rafe.” Rafe shook his hand and eyed him with a surprisingly hard look of assessment. “Former?”

  Another dark, faint smile. “They don’t want me anymore, either.”

  For a long moment, Rafe only watched him. Then, “What kind?”

  “What kind of what?”

  “What kind of weapons?”

  The brevity with which he asked made Cheyenne reach out and touch his arm again, but he only stared at Will, waiting.

  “Dirty bombs,” Will replied.

  Rafe blinked in confusion.

  “Dirty bombs are conventional explosives with a disbursement of radioactive material attached,” Cheyenne explained. “Like smoke bombs…an explosive component, but instead of smoke, they’re filled with something radioactive.”

  “Radioactive,” he repeated. His voice wavered. “Like…nuclear?”

  “Similar,” she said, matter of fact. “But not the same. Nuclear explosions are much larger in scale.”

  “But…a bomb is a bomb,” he said.

  “Yes,” Will said.

  “Jesus Christ,” he said. He sat back, closed his eyes and swallowed. Cheyenne squeezed his arm and tried to ignore the unexpected tightness threatening to close her throat.

  “It’s okay,” she whispered. “It’s not your fault.”

  Because she knew exactly what it was to feel responsible for your crazy mother and her crazy actions. Inexplicable, illogical, irrational—wrong—but dogged and unswayed by reason. As if there was something that could have been done to prevent that moment of madness.

 
; Just one thing. Something you should have known.

  It was a relentless haunting, one Cheyenne still experienced. And seeing it in Rafe only made her hate Georgia more.

  You must forgive her.

  When pigs fucking flew.

  Rafe opened his eyes and looked at Will with the gaze of an old man. “What did she do?”

  For a long moment there was only silence. Part of Cheyenne wanted to know everything, but another part wanted to cover Rafe’s ears—and her own—to protect them from the ugliness, because she knew it would be ugly. Malevolent and vile.

  “She stole them,” Will replied finally.

  “No,” Rafe snarled. “What did she do?”

  Tears burned Cheyenne’s throat, but she didn’t interfere. Rafe’s arm was thin and fragile, his skin cool beneath her hand.

  “She slaughtered my team, took the cache and left me for dead.”

  “Did she shoot you?”

  “Her or someone with her.” Will shrugged. “It was dark, and we were in the middle of a sandstorm. It’s hard to say who fired the rounds.”

  “Is that what happened to your arm?” Rafe’s chin trembled, but his gaze didn’t waver. He held Will’s pale blue stare without flinching.

  “My arm, my hip, and my left lung,” Will said.

  “Balls,” Cheyenne muttered.

  “But you survived,” Rafe said.

  “I had no choice,” Will told him. “I had to sound the alarm.”

  Cheyenne knew better than to try to envision what that meant, but her imagination made the attempt anyway and drew her gaze back to the mass of scar tissue that covered over half of his forearm. His leg and lung, too. What had he done—crawled back to his base? Jesus. He was fit enough.

  And stubborn enough.

  Damn it, she didn’t want to like him. But she was beginning to respect him.

  “Cheyenne said she worked for the CIA,” Rafe said, but it was clear he was asking for confirmation, which Cheyenne tried not to take personally.

  “Yes,” Will said.

  “Are the CIA and the military connected?” she asked him, curious.

  “Everything is connected.”

  “So the CIA is privy to operations being carried out by US Navy SEAL teams?”

  “If it’s a response to a threat made to national security, yes.”