Holiday Rider (The Cartwright Family #3)

Chapter 1

Willow Cartwright

"Gotcha!" I shout, curling my arms around Emma and tugging her onto the sofa. "Time for the tickle monster!"

"Aunt Willow! No!" she screeches, her eyes wide, cheeks pink.

I barely flick my fingers over her belly.

She twists under my grasp, squealing louder.

"Willow! The phone's for you," Dad announces.

I don't give Emma any relief. "Who is it?"

Laughter peals out of her.

Dad replies, "Sheriff's office."

The hairs on my arms rise. I stop torturing my niece to pin my gaze on Dad. "What's going on?"

Emma wiggles off my lap and darts across the room.

A mix of amusement and disapproval fills Dad's expression. He answers, "Sounds like a few of your clients misbehaved."

"A few?"

"Sheriff said two of your guys got into it with some other bull rider at The Buck and Bruise. They're all in custody, waiting to be bailed out."

Irritation fills me. I blurt out, "They got into a bar fight on Christmas?"

Dad's lips twitch, but then his gaze sharpens back into disdain.

I groan and rise, brushing past him as I mutter, "I should let them rot until the New Year."

A chuckle escapes him. He calls out, "Hallway phone."

I shake my head, releasing a tense breath.

The last thing I want to do is go into town on Christmas night.

It's one of my family's favorite holidays, and besides, it's almost the kids' bedtime.

I glance out the window, peering at the multicolored glow of the festive lights through the blanket of white snow, and pick up the phone.

My stomach twists, but I put on my professional voice and offer, "Merry Christmas. This is Willow Cartwright. How can I help you?"

"Merry Christmas, Willow. I'm sorry to bother you," Sheriff Lorall states.

"It's okay, sir. Which of my riders decided to be the prize idiots?" I twist the cord around my fingers. I've done it since I was a kid, always letting it dig into my skin until I can't take it anymore, as if it'll protect me from whatever is coming.

He lowers his voice. "Jericho Boone and Colt Remington."

"Seriously?" I'm surprised. Jericho and Colt aren't clients who normally get into trouble, especially not petty bar fights.

They're experienced bull riders who compete individually and in the 5-on-5 team format.

They take their careers seriously and, if anything, stop the younger guys on the team from making stupid decisions.

"Yes, ma'am," the sheriff confirms.

"Is bail the usual two grand apiece?" I question, stepping closer to the cold glass.

He clears his throat. "Yes, that's correct. However, we can waive it since it's Christmas."

"Really? What's the catch?" I ask, focusing on a red lightbulb on the fence that flickers before it burns out.

Sheriff Lorall explains, "Danny's offered not to press charges if he's paid sixty thousand in cash for damages."

"Sixty thousand!" I erupt, my pulse hammering in my throat, violent and uncontrollable.

"Unfortunately, yes."

"Isn't that a bit excessive?" I question.

"Umm... Well, in fairness, it looks like a bomb exploded. They broke a lot of tables and chairs. Shards of glass everywhere. And you know that mirror that covers the entire back wall?"

My gut drops. I close my eyes, gritting through my teeth, "What about it?"

"It's in a million pieces all over the floor. And that isn't a cheap fix," he states.

I take deliberate, slow breaths, trying to eliminate the building anger.

He clears his throat again, asking, "What should I tell Danny? He said the offer is only good for another hour."

I gently bang my head against the window and then hold it firmly against the chilled glass, squeezing my eyes tight.

Sixty grand.

They have a rodeo this week.

I should let them deal with the consequences.

If I do, they'll lose their sponsors, and I'll need to find two new clients.

"Ma'am?" the sheriff pushes.

I cave. "Tell Danny I'm on my way. But the roads are bad, so tell him not to leave if it takes me longer than an hour."

"Will do," he says.

I put the phone down and climb the staircase. I go into my closet and push my palm against the safe. There's a loud click, and the door opens.

My non-costume jewelry is on one shelf. Important documents are on the second. The bottom one contains one hundred thousand dollars in neat stacks of hundred-dollar bills.

Begrudgingly, I grab sixty thousand and try to stop my heart from slamming against my ribs, but it's pointless. I lock the safe, then grab an overnight bag. I stick the cash inside, and more anger festers in my chest.

"Idiots," I mumble as I step out of my room and rush down the hallway, knowing Danny isn't going to wait too long. He's got my riders by the balls, and he knows it. I'm sure the damage is excessive, but sixty thousand has to have some extra padding for his inconvenience.

I can't really blame him.

He's being greedy.

They're lucky he won't press charges.

What in the world made them do this?

Jagger steps out of the game room and bumps into me. He teases, "Whoa. Where's the fire?"

"Sorry. I have to bail Jericho and Colt out of jail."

My brother's cocky smirk appears. "What for?"

"It's not funny," I reprimand.

"I'll be the judge of that. What did they do?" he prods.

"They destroyed The Buck and Bruise. Now Danny wants sixty thousand to not press charges and sweep it under the rug."

Jagger whistles. "Damn. Who did they get into it with?"

"I don't know. Honestly, I don't care. But Danny won't wait forever before he pulls the deal off the table, so now I get to drive through a snowstorm on Christmas. So if you'll kindly move." I flit my fingers in front of him.

He crosses his arms. "Think again, Willow."

"I don't have time for your games, Jagger," I scold, and try to step around his muscular frame.

He steps with me, creating a wall I can't escape.

"Jagger! This is serious!"

His eyes turn to slits. "How much wine have you had today?"

I freeze, think back, then wince, admitting, "A lot."

Arrogance floods his expression. "That's what I thought. You shouldn't be behind the wheel, especially in this weather. I'll take you."

"You've been drinking too," I point out, but I know he's right. I shouldn't be driving with or without the freak blizzard conditions we’re experiencing.

"I had two beers today. All day. Haven't drank since dinner," he claims.

I reach up and touch his forehead. "Are you feeling okay?"

He chuckles. "Yes."

I peer closer. "Why haven't you had more than that?"

"None of your business. But you can thank me for leaving the warm house to help you save your ass." He smugly grins.

I tilt my head and glare at him.

"It's Christmas, so you have to be nice," he taunts, then grabs my bag, tossing it over his shoulder.

"Fine. Let's go," I mutter, then duck past him and jog down the stairs. I reach for the hooks, tug my coat off one, then yank open the front door.

A chill wind slices razors across my face. I jerk my head backward.

"Put your coat on, Willow," Jagger orders as he puts the cash down and grabs his jacket. He slips into it, reaches for the bag, and ducks out into the snow.

I obey, then follow him, fighting the flakes slapping into me.

He opens my door and then races around the truck.

I pull myself up into the cab and shut the door.

Jagger slides inside beside me, turns on the engine, then picks up the snow brush. He gets out, scrapes the ice off the windows, then gets back in. He accelerates down the driveway, gripping the wheel and asking, "What was the fight over?"

"How do I know?"

"You didn't ask?"

I huff. "No. When the sheriff told me I could pony up sixty grand or have my riders charged with disorderly conduct or possibly assault and battery, I didn't decide to have a gossip session about why they decided to be morons on Christmas."

"Touché," Jagger offers, then directs his concentration on the barely visible road.

"It's really bad out," I state, unable to see anything but the huge, wet flakes slamming into the windshield.

"Sure is," Jagger replies, then turns on a country music channel playing only Christmas music.

We barely talk for the rest of the ride. It takes over an hour to get into town. When we pull into the police station, my annoyance resurfaces.

Jagger parks near the entrance.

Eager to get this over with, I open the door, sliding into the icy-cold air.

I move cautiously, each step pressing into the thin veil of snow that's crept back over the cleared path.

My only focus is to get my riders out of the slammer and return home at a decent hour.

More anger fills me, and I push the door open, barely feeling the warmth.

Lucinda, an officer I've known since I was a little girl, looks up from her desk. She comments, "Merry Christmas. Sheriff said to send you back when you get here. Assuming you don't need me to instruct you where to go?"

Sighing, I reply, "Unfortunately not. Merry Christmas."

She smiles, and a loud buzz fills the room.

I nod and push the metal door open, with Jagger on my heels. Stale air grows thicker the farther down the hallway I walk.

"I hate this place," he mumbles.

"Then it's good you've been staying out of it," I point out, remembering several bar fights he'd been in over the years, mostly with my other brothers.

A muscle jumps in his jaw. He points, directing, "This isn't about me. Besides, I'm an angel. Go pay off Danny so your riders can win this week."

I snark, "You're an angel with black wings," and turn the corner, stepping into an open area with several officers sitting at desks.

Sheriff Lorall stops talking and pins his stern expression on us. "Willow. Jagger."

Danny jumps up from his seat. He picks up his cowboy hat and points it at me, drawling, "Your riders destroyed my bar!"

A borderline toxic mix of guilt, shame, and rage churns in my chest, burning hotter with every passing second. Fire crawls across my cheeks, drowning me in further embarrassment.

These are my clients.

My riders.

This is a reflection on my agency.