13
I park the truck beside Conor’s motorcycle at the motel and kill the engine. My pulse roars in my ears as I scan the single-story row of rooms and hone in on the only illuminated window.
There she is.
Curtains block my view of her, but shadowy movement flickers behind them. Is she pacing? Anxious? Or does she prevent herself from feeling things, even when she’s alone?
She thinks her emotions are incognito, but she doesn’t fool me. I see through the standoffish exterior, beneath the wounds and fractures, and deep inside the nucleus of her soul.
I know her blueprint. The intricate, complex design of her. My beautiful girl is still in there, kicking and spitting to break free, and I’m going to help her do that.
My methods may not be conventional, but I know her better than anyone. I know exactly how to reach her, and I’m highly motivated.
I’m fucking starving without her.
“She looks the same.” Jarret taps his fingers on the console between us. “Even prettier, if that’s possible.”
Pretty doesn’t even come close. There’s a distinctive something about Conor that no other woman has.
Her physical beauty is indisputable and transcendent, but it’s more than that.
The multi-layered facets of her nature, the intelligence in her green eyes, the charismatic, outspoken attitude—she’s a deep well of intrigue and allurement.
A dangerously seductive woman. And she doesn’t even know it.
“She gave me the cold shoulder when she came out of the bar,” Jarret says. “I guess I deserve that, but she seemed especially withdrawn.” His voice hardens. “What did you say to her?”
“She ran into some of my mistakes.”
“Ah. Did you take care of it?”
“They won’t antagonize her again.”
Before I left the Big Sugar, I made sure every leaky mouth in the joint understood that Conor Cassidy’s here to stay. With me.
It’ll take more time and infallible finesse to make Conor understand that.
I return my attention to her motel room and consider what I’m about to do. This is the fulcrum on which our past and future come together in a dance of spinning, fighting, and forgiving.
Forgiveness is the biggest hurdle, but it’s not the only one. I need to deal with the boyfriend, her PTSD, her completion of veterinary school, and all the shit poisoning the ranch and our families.
I spent the last four years uncovering trails of deceit that stretch miles. The oil and gas drilling, the corruption in the cattle operation, the blackmail, and the bodies buried in the ravine—there’s so much she doesn’t know.
I’m prepared to tell her everything.
But not here.
I have two more threats to worry about. One will be released from prison in two weeks. The other one skipped town.
Her return to Sandbank is a risk, but my patience has run out. Her schooling’s almost complete, and I have a damn good handle on the danger against her. There isn’t a chance in hell I’m letting her go this time.
“Remember that time we locked her in the tack room?” Jarret glances at me, rubbing his jaw. “When the coyotes got past the fencing and killed all our calves?”
“I remember.” I narrow my eyes.
“She banged on that door for hours while we helped Dad clean up the slaughter. She was only what? Six? Seven? We didn’t want her to see the carnage or know what happened.
But God, I can still hear her crying to get out.
She didn’t understand why we locked her up.
Didn’t know we were just trying to protect her.
” He thumbs his ear, and his face tightens.
“Sometimes I think we shouldn’t have made that decision for her. ”
“Don’t do that.” I glare at him. “We have a plan. You were right there with me when we agreed on every detail.”
“I know. I am with you. But she’s not going to understand.”
“She will. Not right way, but she’s smart. She’ll come around.”
I’ve watched my brother kill men without a hint of hesitation or remorse. When it comes to Conor, however, he’s a soft and squishy teddy bear. It’s maddening.
“Let’s go.” I slide out of the truck and meet Jarret at the door to her room.
He knocks, and a second later, she emerges in the doorway, head cocked and red hair tumbling in sexy tangles to her hips.
Expressionless, she shifts her gaze between us, studying, probing, trying to read our intentions. “Did you hear about Levi Tibbs?”
“Yes.” I hook a thumb beneath my belt and wait for the invitation inside.
She glances at the bracelet she gave me and quickly looks away. A breath in. Out. Again. Then she steps aside and lets us pass.
“Are you going to honor the pact?” She shuts the door and leans against it. “Or are you chickening out?”
“I’ve waited six years to finish this.” I exchange a look with my brother. “We both have. The three of us are going back to the ranch to talk about—”
“No. Absolutely not.” She squares her shoulders. “We’ll talk now.”
“Do you think it’s wise”—I lower my voice—”to discuss murder plans here? The walls are thin, and the room’s too small.”
I motion at the cramped space, lack of seating, and amount of room Jarret and I take up. I don’t expect her to accept my bullshit reasoning, but it’s worth a try before I change tactics and do this the hard way.
“There’s no privacy at the ranch.” She juts her chin. “Your dad—”
“He doesn’t live there.”
“What? Why not?”
“He got tangled up with a woman. Ran off with her a few months ago. We haven’t heard from him.”
The woman is the same age as me, and that’s not the only detail I’m leaving out. John Holsten cut and ran because I gave him no choice.
“What about the ranch?” Her brow creases. “He left the business?”
“Yes. Jarret and I own and run the cattle operation now.”
“Did you buy it from him?”
We blackmailed him for it .
She takes in my unresponsive expression, and her lips press together, trapping all the questions she wants to ask. She deeply cares about the ranch, even though she won’t let herself believe that.
As a case in point, vivid impressions of horses and landscapes completely and permanently color her arms from shoulders to wrists. Her ink represents the terrain of her childhood. It’s what matters most to her.
“Those are your paintings.” I nod at her tattoos. “The ones you collected when we were kids.”
“Yeah.”
“It’s beautiful.”
And I mean it. The vibrant colors and uniqueness of the artwork exemplify her spirit and add a sexy, rebellious edge to her natural beauty. She’s the ultimate jeans and t-shirt girl. So the motorcycle, tattoos, and brazen glare—all of it suits her.
“Thank you.” Her glare narrows suspiciously.
She doesn’t trust a word that comes out of my mouth. I bet her mind’s whirling to reconcile the cheating asshole she encountered in my bedroom four years ago with the one standing before her now.
I’m the same man who loves her. It’s the circumstances that have changed.
“Pack up your things.” I widen my stance. “You’re staying at the ranch.”
“Hm.” She straightens from the door and laces her arms beneath her perfect tits. “Is this another set up? Will I find a lover in your bed? Or am I supposed to be the one you’re knocking boots with when some other poor lovesick girl shows up?”
I love the way her wicked mind works, but she’s completely off the mark.
“Don’t give me that look.” Her fists clench, and her cheeks twitch, eager for a fight. “I’m not going.”
She’s so damn feisty she could start an argument in an empty house. I’m all about wrestling and getting rowdy with her, but we’re not doing it here.
I give Jarret a nod.
Then I lunge.
My chest collides with hers. My hand covers her gasp, and I pin her against the door, restraining her with my weight.
Her huge green eyes go impossibly wide, and her vocal chords vibrate against my palm. Clawing and pulling at my arms, she’s nowhere near strong enough to move me.
A glance over my shoulder confirms Jarret is gathering her things. I return to her and adjust my hand over her mouth, ensuring she has plenty of breathing room.
“I know you have triggers.” I center my face in front of hers. “So I won’t bind your wrists.” Not yet. “Think about that while you’re scratching the hell out of my arms.”
Her chest heaves, stretching her nostrils as she squints at me furiously. She’s wondering how I know about her triggers. Or maybe she’s silently arguing that if I released her, she wouldn’t have to draw blood.
I’m not releasing her. Not ever.
Every shift and grind of her body feeds my hunger. I’ve gone too long without touching her, and the feel of her struggling and restrained beneath me awakens cravings. Dark cravings I reserve only for her.
She drives a fist into my ribs, and I bite down on my smile. She punches me again, and my dick jerks. Pissed off and worked up, with her eyes glaring and her arms swinging, she’s never been more insanely gorgeous.
It’s unreal being this close to her, smelling her and feeling the shape of her curves. My smile breaks free, and boy, does that make her hit harder. Which makes me harder.
Christ, I’m a sick son of a bitch.
“Jake.” Jarret grabs her keyring from the nightstand. “Focus.”
Right. I need to transfer her to the truck without touching her wrists, crowding her back, or drawing attention. To do that, I have to manipulate her.
A cruel lie expedited her departure from the ranch four years ago. The truth will bring her back home.
“Conor.”
She slaps and thrashes and scores my skin, wearing herself out.
“I lied.” My announcement makes her flinch.
Her eyes find mine, and she goes still, her nails digging into my arms.
“I lied about Ketchup.” With a hand over her mouth, I use the other to brush the hair from her face. “She’s alive, and I’m taking you to see her.”
Her expression twists against my fingers, devastation clashing with hope and hardening into pained fury.
“I’m sorry.” I pour every ounce of my regret into my eyes.