Relentless (Fallon Sisters Trilogy: Book #1) (18 page)

Her honest cowboy, complete with manners, and a heart the size of... yes, Texas, warmed her straight through. If she didn't move away from his sexy, long-legged body, she wouldn't be able to deny him.

"I should—"

The distinct ring of her cell phone had her clamping down on her hip, searching for it. She'd had it when she came in. "Rafe, help me find my phone. It must have fallen off."

He sat up, pulling her with him, and skimmed the shag with his hand. "Got it." Sitting her down on his lap, he handed it to her.

Bren struggled to flip it open without verifying the caller. "Yeah." She gave Rafe a nod. "It's Jeremy. He was out on an emergency call and passed Wes's place."

Rafe kept an intense gaze on her.

She nodded affirmation to Rafe as she listened to Jeremy, never taking her eyes off him. "We'll be there. Ten minutes at the most." Bren slammed the phone shut.

M
aking an ass of himself hadn't been Rafe's intention. He gripped the steering wheel. Intentions be damned, he'd had a hard-on for the woman since he'd been quartered in the back seat with her. He couldn't remember not taking advantage of a good thing when it was within arm's reach. Hell, he'd had his arms around her and didn't make a move. He'd wanted to. Damn, he'd wanted to, but he couldn't get past Tom Ryan.

But when she held fast to his hand on the steps, he'd made up his mind—meddling ghost of a husband or not—he wanted her if she'd take him up on it. And he was that close, until she questioned his past loves.

He smiled. Her temper only added to all the reasons he was attracted to her. Breaking wild things came naturally. He only hoped he didn't kill her spirit when this was over.

He'd been toting her since dinner. Close to three-thirty in the morning now, and she was still energized and working her phone tree to her underground network. Her peaches-and-cream profile and that damnedest color of red hair, which she'd pulled up in a single ponytail, made her look younger than her age.

Not that she'd shared her age. It never came up. But she was thirty-five, just like him. He'd made a point of getting to know all there was about Bren Ryan once he arrived in Clear Spring. But data and numbers couldn't prepare him for or protect him from her. Lusting after another man's wife, but especially Tom Ryan's widow, was a surefire way to complicate the plan he'd set for himself.

He had no intentions of staying once this unexpected hand played itself out.

He shook his head, still strategizing. She should have been a general the way she'd organized her band of horse-loving warriors, her cell phone still glued to her ear. She shut her phone and settled back in her seat.

"What's the plan?" he asked.

"We meet at Sweet Creek's entrance. Jeremy caught the trailer going in. He's still parked, keeping an eye out."

"What about your friend the sheriff?"

She grimaced. "I'll wait until we get there. No sense spoiling all the fun."

"If your vet is right, Bren, this could get ugly quick." Rafe's lips thinned. "Think about your boys and don't escalate this thing."

She angled her body toward him. "I agreed to let you tag along. I know what I'm doing. If I don't needle the bastard a little, let him know I'm the reason they're shipping his butt off to jail, there's no point."

He cursed under his breath. Wild mustangs had nothing on this unbridled woman. He cocked his head. "Stubbornness an inherited trait?"

She made a face at him. "I warned you, Langston. It's who I am."

And he reminded himself that was why he was falling for her. Rafe parked in front of her vet's Ford pickup and turned his lights off. He reached for her arm. "Sit tight, darlin'. You want to talk to the vet, use your cell."

She stiffened and eyed his hand. "Let go of me, Rafe." She held up her phone. "I can think past my nose."

He released her, and she called the vet with the plan. Two minivans pulled up and what looked to be more than a couple of board members emptied out onto the shoulder. He counted at least twelve of them, a mix of men and women dressed for temperatures dipping below freezing.

"Tell them to get back in their vans," Rafe said.

One of her well-shaped brows arched.

Rafe threw up his hands. "Do what you want."

"Thank you." She smiled smugly.

Rafe blew out a breath and leaned against the door. He wanted to see Wes get what was coming to him. Bren's plan would incite him. He only hoped she didn't do something foolish before the sheriff got there.

He had agreed to her plan because, at the time, it made sense. Drawing out a killer was easier than searching for one. He didn't like it, but he could keep her safe. Right? Wrong—dead wrong. And that was what scared the shit out of him. She was unpredictable, and no amount of corralling her guaranteed she wouldn't dodge Rafe's efforts to keep her safe if provoked by Wes.

A dark pickup pulled up behind the two vans. Bren motioned toward it. "That's my officer friends from Washington County Animal Control."

"They carry guns?"

A thin white-haired man opened the driver's side door of the truck in question. He wore a black wool coat and carried a clipboard. The other was a plump woman who walked with a limp. That answered his question. Rafe scrubbed his face with his hands and pulled Bren around to face him. "They're not armed. No one in their right mind would issue them a gun. How far back you think your friend the sheriff is?"

Bren gasped and covered her mouth, her big brown eyes wide with... what?

"I forgot."

"Shit! Call him and stay in the truck." Rafe grabbed for the door, and Bren snagged his arm. "Where are you going?"

"To talk to
your
people." He motioned to the phone in her hand. "Make the call—now."

She let go and punched a number into her speed dial while Rafe searched the side pocket of the truck for his flashlight.

"That bastard!"

Bren's words brought Rafe's head up, only to catch the flash of her red hair as she slipped from the truck, her phone falling to rest on the seat.

The lights of a semi rig hauling a livestock trailer pierced the wide, dark lane leading from the winding driveway of Sweet Creek. Bren crossed in front of his truck. Rafe went for the door but stopped when the gruff voice of Sheriff Bendix sounded on Bren's phone.

Torn, Rafe remained in the truck but kept a steady eye on Bren as he grabbed the phone. "Bendix. It's Rafe Langston. Meet me ASAP at Sweet Creek Stables and bring backup." He disconnected and jumped from the truck.

The semi, moving slowly, lit up the roadway in front. People from the vans scrambled forward. Rafe broke out in a cold sweat when a slim figure with a flowing red ponytail marched out in front of the moving rig.

"Jesus. Bren, stop!"

The hiss of air brakes filled the brisk winter air, and Rafe held his breath. Too far to intercept her, he stood helpless, cursing wildly and praying to God to protect the fool woman so he could kill her himself, if she survived.

The truck lurched and stopped several feet in front of Bren.

The driver lowered his window. "What the fuck is wrong with you? Get out of the way!" He laid on the horn.

Rafe caught up to her and swung her around. Their chests collided. They were both breathing heavily. The headlights from the truck lit them up. The growl of the semi, its driver's angry shouts, and the swarm of do-gooders converging on the scene seemed to drift away. She was alive, and he'd never been so pissed off in his life.

"That's the most asinine thing I've seen you do yet. What the hell were you thinking?"

"It's—it's a cattle trailer. The cheap bastard couldn't even spring for a horse trailer!" Her eyes locked onto his. The pain in those beautiful brown eyes pierced the tough man he thought he was, and he pulled her toward him.

"I'll see that he pays, darlin'. I promise."

She pushed against him. "I need to get them out. God knows what condition they're in."

Holding her against her will was like trying to bottle the wind. He released her, his hand trailing down her arm. Then he squeezed her hand tight and said, "We do this together."

She nodded, and he let go.

"Holy shit!" The vet ran up. "You gave me a heart attack. You were this close!" The vet squeezed two fingers together.

Bren laughed and pinched his cheek.

"Ouch." He rubbed his face and gave her a less than friendly look. "What was that for?"

"To let you know I'm alive."

"Real funny." The vet reached out to Rafe. "Jeremy Breakstone. You must be Rafe. I remember you from the auction. Glad to see she's not roaming the streets alone."

Rafe shook his hand. "Glad you're here, too." He motioned toward the double-decker cattle trailer. "I'll be surprised if they'll be able to walk out on their own."

The driver was hanging out the window yelling and cursing at them to get out of the way. Rafe clenched his teeth. The more he thought about it, the angrier he got. Cattle trailers matched the height of a horse trailer. Only difference was they had two decks, cutting the height in half. Designed for cattle that were short and stocky, the setup worked real nice, not to mention doubled your numbers. But for horses it was a pine box that didn't allow for headroom. No telling how the handlers had crammed them in. One look and a horse would have been spooked senseless.

Standing in the headlights of the cab wouldn't have been Rafe's first choice for waiting out the sheriff. But it kept the rig accounted for. And with Bren's groupies now surrounding them in the pool of bright lights, their animated chatter creating a hubbub of dissension toward Wes, it seemed a good time to pull the celebrity from their midst. Especially since the loudmouth driver, not liking the odds, had withdrawn into the cab with his companion and raised his window back up.

The plump officer from Animal Control rushed up. "Bren. My God—you almost got run over!" She touched Bren's shoulder like she was seeing a ghost.

"Close call." Bren smiled and motioned to the large pockets of the woman's coat. "Ellie, you bring a camera? I need to document this."

Ellie pulled out a digital camera. "You know what we need, right?"

Bren took the camera. "Oh, yeah." She'd done enough seizures, she could do them sleepwalking. She glanced over Ellie's head, the other officer moving toward them, clipping a badge to his coat. "Rob. You going to give authority to open the trailer?"

"You betcha. But I'd feel a heckuva lot better if we had law enforcement give us some backup."

Rafe stepped forward. "Sheriff's on his way."

The old man's face crinkled in question. Rafe reached out his hand. "Name's Rafe Langston. I'm a friend of Bren's."

Rafe shook the frail, bony hand of the older man. "Nice to meet ya. Rob Peterson, officer with Washington County Animal Control."

Bren slipped away and headed toward the driver's side of the cab. Rafe let go of Rob's hand and dodged Bren, blocking her path. "Hey, what are you doing?"

"You heard Ellie. I'm taking pictures." She glanced above to the driver's window and snapped a picture.

The window went down and a wad of chewing tobacco was spat out, missing them by inches. "Do it again, and I'll smash that fucking camera."

Rob walked up, his pencil neck craning up toward the driver. "Officer Peterson, Washington County Animal Control. I'm ordering you to open the trailer under Maryland's cruel and inhumane transport of horses or animals law."

The driver with a heavy, dark beard and dirty-yellow Steelers cap ignored Rob's order and keyed up a two-way radio. "We have a situation here, boss."

Rafe strained to hear the conversation, but the driver closed the window. It didn't matter. He knew damn well who the boss of this operation was. What he knew of Wes Connelly told him it wouldn't be long before he made his entrance. And when he found out "Red" was behind it...

Bren stepped up on the running board of the truck and banged on the window. The window came down halfway. "Get off my truck," the driver yelled down.

"Tell asshole that Bren Ryan's waiting for him." She shivered and crossed her arms, hugging her leather jacket to her.

Shit.
Rafe moved past the small group and looped his fingers inside the waistband of her skirt. Stumbling back, he caught her around the middle and hauled her off to the side. "Another stunt like that, Red, and I'm carrying you out of here kicking and screaming."

She beaded in on him and took a huge breath through her nose. "This is my fight, Rafe. No one else's." She pointed her finger toward the brick mansion, once dark in slumber, now awake and brightly lit several hundred yards from where they stood. "That bastard killed Tom, and he's going to—"

The crackle of stones alerted them to the darkened driveway behind the trailer, a halo of soft light heralding Wes's approach. Sirens whooped in the distance, and Rafe pulled her farther away from the driveway. "Behave yourself or your friend the sheriff will have no choice but to lock your pretty little ass up."

H
er childhood friend barreled toward her. Sporting a tough military haircut, dressed in his dark blue, bulky patrol jacket, starched white uniform shirt and dark pants, his badge glinted against the lights of the cattle truck's cab.

Bren didn't like how Kevin Bendix, when he was in sheriff mode, looked at her. Caught between the blinding headlights of Wes's pickup angled behind the trailer and the swirl of the patrol car's emergency lights, flickering eerie shades of red and blue—"fugitive" came to Bren's mind.

When Kevin reached her, there was not a glimmer of friend, only eyes as penetrating as a full-blown X-ray, looking at her like
she
was guilty.

"Nice night," Bren said, hoping levity would lighten his mood.

"Cut the crap, Bren." He frowned at her. "What am I walking into?"

Bren opened her mouth, and Kevin held up his hand.

"Short and sweet."

She put her hands on her hips. "Wes, the piece of—"

The door to Wes's pickup swung open, and Bren smiled with malice. Looked like she could tell the murdering bastard herself what she thought of him.