Chapter 20
Gunner
Brie didn’t have a nightmare all night. That was the first miracle.
The second was that we both woke up just after sunrise, tangled up in each other, not shivering, not clutching at the bedsheets for dear life, but just…
at peace. Aspen’s little charm bag still sat on Brie’s nightstand, the yellow ribbon laid out like a canary feather, and whether it was the magic of the charms under our pillows or just the power of suggestion, I didn’t care.
I’d have placed a hundred charms under the mattress if it meant I got more mornings like this.
She stretched long and catlike before blinking over at me. “Did you sleep?” she asked.
“Like the dead,” I said, and meant it.
She smiled—maybe the first real one in days—and sat up; the sheets falling to her waist. I watched her for a second, just memorizing how the soft morning light painted her skin gold.
Then, she did the thing that always melted me: she went from goddess to gremlin in a split second, sticking her tongue out and making a little goblin noise as she fished for her phone on the nightstand.
“Don’t take pictures of my morning face,” I warned, rolling onto my side.
“Too late.” She snapped one anyway. Then she climbed out of bed, stark naked, and did a little victory lap around the room while she scrolled through her notifications.
If she cared that I was openly staring at her, she didn’t let on.
Honestly, at this point in our lives, the only person who could make her self-conscious was her own mother.
Brie’s morning routine was a war zone of accessories and last-minute inspiration.
She started with the wardrobe: ripped black jeans, her lucky vintage cowboy boots with the cracked turquoise leather, and a shirt that looked like it had been cut from a 1970s grandma’s curtain.
Over that, she layered on scarves, a vest, and then picked her way through a mess of necklaces on the dresser.
She selected three: one made of glass beads, one with a silver wolf pendant, and the last—a choker of braided leather with a big chunk of amethyst. She wore them all, like a shield.
Her hair, wild from sleep, took her less than a minute to tame.
She ran her fingers through the dark brown waves, tousled with blue-dyed streaks.
Mascara went on in a single pass. No blush, and her lips wore just a little tinted lip balm in dark plum.
She looked like she was about to knock over a train, or at least steal the hearts of every art critic in the Texas panhandle.
“You nervous?” I asked, sipping my coffee at the kitchen table.
She slumped into the chair across from me and made a face. “If I stop moving, I’ll start puking.”
“Then don’t stop.”
She took a deep breath, then gave me a look. “Will you come with me, or do I have to brave the gallery alone?”
I finished my coffee, then grinned at her. “I’ll drive. You can choose the playlist, but I am not starting my day with more Johnny Cash.”
“Sacrilege,” she muttered, but her hands were already on my forearm, squeezing tight.
She ducked back into the bedroom to grab her statement dress—because, as she explained to me last night, every artist needs a statement piece for the opening.
She’d gone with a floor-length gown in a sage green that set off her eyes, with bursts of violet in random panels and some kind of mesh overlay that made it shimmer like grass after a rain.
She’d hung it in one of those plastic garment bags like it was the Hope Diamond.
Today was a day for pulling the King Ranch out of the garage. My mate deserved to arrive in style on this occasion.
“Wow, I do feel special getting to ride in the lap of luxury today. You know how to make a girl feel treasured, cowboy.” She gave me a cute wink when I got her strapped into her seatbelt.
“You’re precious cargo, Maverick. Gotta be sure everybody sees I know how to treat a lady.”
I loaded her dress and tote bag full of whatever else she had packed up for the day.
We spoke little on the drive, both of us half-lost in our own heads, but it was a comfortable silence.
The kind you only get with your mate, or someone you’ve spent a thousand hours beside on a tractor or in a foxhole.
Dairyville was still mostly asleep at seven.
The bakery was just turning on its ‘Open’ sign as we passed, and the only movement on Main was a stray dog trotting down the sidewalk.
The gallery stood out on the block; its fresh new facade and awning looked modern and inviting.
I could see Lysander’s rental pulled in behind us, and park a few spots down. It idled there while we got out.
She bit her lip when I helped her out. “Stay until they get the signage up?”
“As long as you want.”
She leaned up, kissed my cheek, then pressed her forehead to mine. “I love you.”
“Back at you, Maverick.”
She grinned, then headed for the door. I watched her strut up the front steps—scarf blowing, boots clomping, every inch the artist she’d always wanted to be. She stopped at the door, fumbling for keys, then glanced back and gave me a thumbs-up.
I caught movement in the corner of my eye—Lysander and Inez walked up, all smiles.
Lysander’s platinum hair was runway coiffed, and he looked dressed like he was making a pit stop at a fashion runway before they got started for the day.
Inez, for her part, was wearing a paint-stained jumpsuit and carrying a dress bag and tote that likely carried her shoes and other items to prep for this evening.
The two of them approached Brie, and Lysander immediately placed a hand on her shoulder, the way you might steady someone on a balance beam.
My jaw tightened. I had no real reason to dislike the man, except that he was too smooth by half, and every interaction he had with Brie seemed one inch closer to crossing a line.
I made myself unclench. This was Brie’s world today, not mine.
I made my way down the sidewalk with Brie’s things in tow; hat pulled down close to my eyes, while I kept watch.
Bronc always said you could spot a threat a mile off if you looked for the one person acting like he didn’t belong.
I watched the sidewalk, the street, the gallery windows, counting the seconds until I saw Brie’s silhouette pass behind the glass.
It took ten minutes for the crews of workers to show up. The contractor came in for finishing touches. Next came the florist with tall vases of wildflowers. They reminded me of Brie so much I caught myself smiling.
Harper blew into her studio to help Big Papa set up the tables for Aspen, and the food.
Then the company hired to install the sign backed a big truck up to the curb.
They unloaded a blue scissor lift, the backup alarm beeping incessantly.
I watched it all, running silent mental notes.
No one acted suspicious, no one lingered where they shouldn’t.
Lysander took charge, charming the install crew and flirting shamelessly with the florist, who was at least thirty years his senior and blushing like a schoolgirl.
Inez painted set pieces on the sidewalk with a five-year-old’s sense of decorum.
It was all normal, all above board, and yet, every time I saw Lysander’s hand brush Brie’s arm or back, I felt a jolt of something like static up my spine.
That was my problem to fix, not hers.
When the gallery sign went up, Brie ran outside and did a little spin under the awning, arms flung wide, not caring who saw. I snapped a picture of her as I leaned against my truck, then set it as my phone’s background, because fuck it, I was soft like that.
She saw me, grinned, and mouthed, “It’s beautiful.”
I nodded and whispered, “Not as beautiful as you.”
Then, I blew her a kiss, got in the truck, and started the engine. As I pulled away, I checked the rearview. Lysander was still watching her, but there was something different in his face this time—something almost admiring.
I told myself it was fine. Everything was under control. She should be admired. She was fucking magnificent, and even a man who preferred males for sexual partners couldn’t deny her appeal.
Still, I made a note to come back at lunch, just to check the perimeter.
Some habits died hard.
The new Iron Valor clubhouse was much improved over the one that had been blown to hell by the Greenbriar pack several months ago.
Juliet was a hell of a Luna and had been raised as New York royalty; old money.
So she brought a sense of style and a tiny touch of class to the joint.
But thank fuck she had become more Iron Valor than any East Coast hoity-toity rich girl, so the clubhouse was warm and inviting.
The building was three stories if you counted the basement.
A pretty front porch ran the length of the building, and the great room was warm and inviting for family gatherings.
The basement was where the adults did their thing; strictly a kid-free zone.
Our officer meeting room was down there.
It was as no-nonsense as Bronc. But Wrecker had decked it out with all the tech we’d ever need.
Wide screens were mounted on the walls for video conferencing and watching surveillance cams. Network hubs were on every wall. We were set for any emergency.
I let myself in through the kitchen entrance and followed the sound of raised voices to the meeting room.
The air was thick with the smell of fresh biscuits and sausage gravy, plus a percussive undercurrent of dark roast that could probably eat a hole in your stomach lining.
Ms. Pearl always cooked for the officers on big days; she’d made enough food to feed a cavalry platoon, which was about right for our crew.