Branded (8 page)

Mac didn't move. She was still staring at him, pursing her full, pink lips. “Don't you try to sweet-talk me, Deacon Cavanaugh. Unlike those beanpoles with fake tits and faker smiles that you go out with, I know you.” She pointed at his face. “I know the country boy you were and the heartless man you've become. I know everything.”

No, Deacon thought. She didn't know everything. If she had, she might never have taken Everett up on his offer to work at the Triple C. And clearly, she'd needed that job. It was a conscious choice he and Cole and James had made long ago. To keep the truth from her. Losing Cass and dealing with a drunk for a father had been more than enough for her to handle. She hadn't needed to take on their pain and humiliation along with it.

“Why do you pick women like that, Deac?” She
verbally stumbled on, reaching behind her back and once again working her zipper. “You came from real. Why wouldn't you want real?”

His lips twitched. “Sounds like you've been spying on me, Mackenzie.”

She cocked her head, trying to get a better angle on the willful little bit of metal. “Don't have to. You're all over the rags in town. Every time I buy a tub of ice cream, there you are.”

His brow lifted. “A
tub
of ice cream?”

She glared at him. “You got a problem with that?”

“Nope.” He laughed. “No problem.”

“Good answer,” she growled softly as she continued to pull on that zipper.

That damn zipper.

“Need a hand, Mackenzie?” he asked.

“I have two.” And she brought both out from behind her back to show him.

“They don't seem to be working all that well.”

She ignored him and kept at it for the next thirty seconds. Then she let out a frustrated groan and dropped her hands to her sides. “I think it's stuck.”

“You think?” he said, chuckling.

“Shut up.”

He reached for her waist and turned her around.

She gasped.

“Drinking alone isn't a good idea,” he whispered near her ear. “You should've waited for me.”

She sighed tiredly. “I got tired of waiting for you, Deacon.”

The words were spoken softly, but Deacon heard them clear as day. His gut tightened as his fingers went to her dress, wrapped around the zipper, and eased the tiny piece of metal out of the fabric it was caught on. Mackenzie Byrd wasn't some female from the city who wanted a few nights of uncomplicated fun. She was real and familiar, and smelled like sunshine. She was his past. Or a part of it, anyway. She belonged to a different time, and no matter how grown up she was or how his body might be reacting to her hot stares and cool attitude, he didn't want any part of that time.

He stared at her back. The smooth, tan skin and the clasp of her pale blue bra. His mouth watered, and his nostrils widened to take in that warm, sunshiny scent. Even with the warnings his mind had just conjured, the urge to slip his hands inside the flared material of her dress, feel the heat of her skin against his palms, was nearly debilitating.

“I wasn't alone,” she whispered.

Deacon's fingers flexed. “What?”

She turned around, held her dress up with both hands, and lifted her dark blue gaze to his. Once again, heat and confusion battled within their
depths. “I wasn't drinking alone. I was with Elena.”

Deacon's jaw tightened, and rational thought returned in a quick, jarring manner. The woman his father had been allegedly having an affair with for years—the woman who had borne Everett's child, then kept it a secret. The woman Everett had no doubt turned to when he should've been helping his wife with her grief and protecting his sons from the terrifying effects of that grief.

Her eyes still hazy from all the alcohol she'd consumed, Mackenzie looked at him, studied him, like she was trying to read his mind. “Does it make you crazy not to have control all the time?”

His brows came together in a frown. “I always have control, Mackenzie,” he said, not sure where she was going with that line of questioning. “Even when it might not appear that way.”

Her cheeks flushed, and the confusion disappeared from her eyes. “You don't now.”

“Why do you say that?”

Without warning, she reached up, fisted the collar of his shirt in her hands, and pulled his face down to hers. Her lips captured his in a hungry, almost angry way that made the breath leave his body, then rush back in at a hundred miles per hour.
Holy shit!
What the hell?
She groaned against him, lapped at him with her tongue, then nipped
at his bottom lip with her teeth as her hands ran up his jaw and neck, then into his hair.

Fuck!
This was insane. Dangerous. But Christ, she tasted good.
Felt
good. Deacon had his hands around her waist in seconds, the pads of his fingers pressing into the small of her back until he had her flush against his body. Hot damn, she fit. Perfectly. He groaned and kissed her deeper. At some point, he thought he heard her mutter the words, “No control,” into his mouth, but he wasn't sure. Hell, he hardly cared. She was grinding her body against his, fisting his hair, making sounds that were causing his mind to melt and his dick to beg for release from the prison of his zipper.

He needed to stop this, end this stupidity before it got out of hand. Before she got the wrong idea. Or he did. But in that moment, his mind and his body just didn't give a fuck. About anything. He'd never had this kind of reaction to a woman. Ever. Never felt like he wanted to slow things down and speed them up all at the same time. Never felt like he was going to explode, come, just from a round of goddamn necking.

With a growl of need, he took her mouth hard, tasting her, lifting her up and heading for the bed. Instantly, she wrapped her legs around his waist, and Deacon felt the heat—the wet heat—of her sex through both cotton and denim. Christ, he
wanted her. Would've taken her right there in one of the Triple C's flowery guest rooms. Stripped her bare, licked her up and down, then slid inside that warm, wet heat if the shrill ring of her cell phone hadn't stopped him.

It was like a damn ice bath over both their heads.
Ring
.
Ring
. She unwrapped her legs from his waist.
Ring
. Her feet hit the floor. Fuck, Deacon cursed silently. He released her, didn't even get to look in her eyes before he did.

Mackenzie was off, diving onto the bed for the phone.

“Blue? Blue, is that you?” she said, her words sounding a lot clearer than they had before. “Where the hell are you?”

Jaw tight, nostrils flared in frustration, Deacon just stood there, staring at her, feeling like a huge asshole. How the hell could he have made such a stupid mistake? With both of them being impaired? She was drunk and emotional. And he was curious and horny. Christ, he still was. He needed to get out of the room. Needed to get a football field between them.

Her eyes lifted as she talked, catching his gaze. They were stormy blue and passion filled, and they made his gut clench and the erection behind his zipper grow impossibly harder. Mother of God, what had he done?

He gave her a cool smile. “Night, Mackenzie. Keep it down, all right?”

He didn't wait for a response. Just turned and walked out. Left the heat and the scent of sunshine and a past he wanted nothing to do with behind.

•   •   •

“Sleeping under the stars?” Mac repeated, her tone a little sharp as her body fought its way back from complete and total erotic desperation.

Stupid tequila.

Stupid woman.

Her eyes locked on the door. Deacon had just left, and she was doing everything possible to try to remember how to breathe. Her chest felt tight, her skin felt hot, and every square inch between her trembling thighs was wet. She closed her eyes and swallowed. If Blue hadn't called, she was pretty sure she'd be hitting the sheets right now with the man who wanted to destroy her home and her job.

“What's wrong with you?” Blue asked over the line, though he was the one who sounded utterly bereft. “You're out of breath. Are you sick?”

“I'm fine.” Just unbelievably stupid.

“You sure?” he asked. “Your message was nuts. I could barely understand it.”

She was never drinking tequila again. “It's been a long day.”
And it's going to be an even longer
night if I can't calm the hell down
. She rolled her eyes at the thought.

“You need some sleep, Mac. Shit, we all do. I'll talk to you tomorrow, okay?”

What was wrong with her? She was sitting here, chastising herself for grabbing Deacon Cavanaugh by the collar and kissing him like it was the most normal and natural thing in the world when her friend was going through something ten times more disturbing. “Hey, wait. Blue?”

“Yeah?”

“You gotta know . . .”

“What?'

“That I'm here for you. Always.”

He was silent for a moment; then he said, “I appreciate that. But first I need to decide where it is I actually am, you know?”

“Sure. Yeah.” She wanted to push again, tell him he belonged here, always would, that Elena loved him and he should at least listen to what she had to say before he did anything rash or went off half-cocked. But that's not why she'd called him up tonight. She'd wanted to know if he was okay. Safe. Now that she knew, she could let him think and stew in peace.

“Say howdy to the stars for me?” she said. “Especially the Big Dipper.”

“You got it.” She could practically hear him smile through the receiver.

“And take the day off tomorrow,” she continued.

“Mac—”

“That's not coming from me,” she said quickly. “That's an order from your foreman, cowboy.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

She smiled. “Night, Blue.”

“Night, Mac.”

The wash of calm that moved over her when she hit the end button was a stark contrast to the hot frenzy of emotion and feeling and hunger she'd felt when she'd answered the phone a short time ago. But that's how it was. Blue made her feel grounded and safe. While Deacon Cavanaugh, it turned out, made her do things she never thought she was capable of. And feel things she hadn't even known were inside of her.

With a groan, she pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around her legs. If Blue hadn't called . . . Lord, if Blue hadn't called . . . They'd have slept together, she was sure of it. And what would that have meant? She was supposed to have Blue's back, not the back . . . and the front, and the sides, and the face of the man who was trying to take them all down.

This time when she groaned, she buried her face against her knees.

As much as you're trying to melt into this bed and disappear from the realities of this situation, you can't.

Tomorrow she was going to have to face this—face him. Tell him she was drunk and not thinking clearly. Tell him that what had happened between them was a mistake. Never to be repeated again.

Scooting off the bed, she went to the door and closed it. Locked it. Then peeled off the dress that had started it all.

Cole had hit twenty miles today and his thighs were burning like a sonofabitch. He growled as he left the country road and headed into town. Just the way he liked it. Pushing his body to the absolute limit was a high and all, but it was the pain that really flipped the switch inside of him. Whether it came from a killer run, a punch to the kidneys, or a knee to the temple, he'd realized long ago pain was the best and only way to deal with his emotional rage.

Before that, before the UFC ring, he'd wondered if jail might be the place for him. Locked up. Someone else controlling his emotions and his actions.

Even at seven a.m., the small town of River Black was hopping. The sun blazed overhead, already too damn hot for being awake only an hour. The market, bank, and post office had a steady stream of customers coming in and going out;
same for the RB Feed and Tack. It was strange to be back home, the pain of the past already taking hold, reaching inside his chest and pulling out his guts. And the longer he remained, the harder it was going to get.

Maybe he should just sell his share of the Triple C to Deacon and get out. Get back to his training. After all, none of this shit mattered to him. So Everett had another kid, cheated on their mom . . . Who the hell cared? Relationships were for suckers, and happily-ever-afters lasted as long as the sex remained hot.

In just four short weeks, Cole had the match of a lifetime. The biggest one of his career. That's what mattered. The match. The win.

Realizing too late what street he'd just turned down, Cole jogged toward Marabelle's Diner. That gut inside him, the gut that had been turned inside out and upside down over the past twenty-four hours, now shrank to the size of a fucking nail head. Marabelle's had been the last place his family had eaten together. Breakfast, maybe an hour later than it was now, Cole thought. And a few hours before his mother had asked him and his brothers to take Cass to the movies.

His eyes cut to the packed diner, noticing the new sign, the new paint, the new patio. Cole was about to kick up speed and leave the place and its memories in the dust when he spotted James
sitting outside on that new patio. He was at a table for two, no food in front of him, but a couple of coffee cups. And there was a dark-haired woman across from him.

Cole wasn't sure, but he thought he recognized her. For a second, he contemplated jogging over and saying hello, but just at that moment, James glanced up and spotted him. There was no look of embarrassment or shame on the man's face, but there was also no sign of an invitation to join them or even acknowledge them. In fact, after a second or two, James turned back to face the woman.

Cole kept on running. Damn, James had always been so fucking secretive about his life and where he was in his head. But in the past year, things had gotten worse. He and Cole had talked maybe once a month or so since they walked out of River Black ten years ago, but it had dropped to every four or so lately. Same with Deac. They'd all just become strangers.

Something about being back here, back home, Everett gone, the ranch's future unclear—and a possible brother they'd known nothing about—it made Cole crave more from Deacon and James. Maybe that was a pussy thing to want, but there it was.

Eyes trained on the road ahead, sweat pouring off him, he took off, sprinting back toward the Triple C.

•   •   •

“I'll be staying here longer than expected, Sheridan.” Phone to his ear, Deacon headed out of the house, across the porch, and down the steps. “I may need you to come for a few days.”

Which would mean opening the River Black office space and apartment he'd bought a few years back. He'd furnished and stocked it well, but he'd need to get it cleaned and have the AC checked before his assistant arrived. He couldn't have her conducting business in a hot and dusty three-room space above the Feed and Tack. River Black had a small hotel and she could stay there if she liked. He'd invite her to the Triple C, but with what was going down, he didn't think she'd be comfortable.

He heard the buzz of office life around her as she answered. “Of course, sir. Do you want me to liaise with your housekeeper? I can bring anything you may need.”

“That's not necessary,” Deacon said, heading for the large red barn. What he needed was a good, hard ride. It had been way too long since he'd been in the saddle. “I'll be back on Friday for the dinner with Breyer. I'll pick up a few things then.”

“Oh,” Sheridan said, her tone slightly confused. “Are you sure you don't want me to reschedule the dinner? If you need to stay—”

“This meeting will happen, Sheridan.” His tone sharpened. “I'm not letting Breyer slip through my fingers again. I'll take the
Long Horn
in and back.”

“Very good, sir. I'll make sure everything is confirmed. And shall I contact Ms. Monroe?”

He paused just outside the barn doors, which were spread wide, giving him a panoramic view of the immaculate stalls, horses that were well fed and cared for, and one of the farm dogs stretched out and snoring. “Yes,” he said tightly. “And make sure Pamela knows who we're having dinner with and where.”

“I'll take care of it, sir.”

His eyes cut to the right, and instantly his chest tightened with awareness. The ranch's foreman was saddling her horse in the crossties. Christ, he'd thought Mac would be gone by now. Up and out and on the land. Deacon's gaze roamed over her, trying to memorize every inch. He felt like a lecherous bastard, but he couldn't seem to help himself. Dressed in a pale green tank top and tight jeans that were tucked into roughed-up cowboy boots, she was all tan skin, lean muscle, and dangerously sexy curves.

“Sir?”

“I'm still here, Sheridan,” he said.

Mac's head came around, and her gorgeous blue eyes locked with his. She gave him a quick, tight smile, then returned to her horse.

“I just received the call you've been waiting for,” Sheridan said. “An employee from Genetics Free should be there by two o'clock. Ty is flying him over.”

“Perfect.”

Mackenzie was tightening the girth beneath her black gelding, the muscles in her toned arms bunching with the effort. Christ, just staring at her made Deacon's hands twitch and his blood heat. He hadn't slept for shit last night thinking about her, how her mouth had felt on his, how her hands had dug into his skull, how her hips had ground against his cock. And the sounds she'd made . . .

His nostrils flared. He'd have to address it. Make sure she knew—and hell, he knew—that it wasn't happening again. Allowing her any kind of power over him would be a huge mistake and could end up costing him the Triple C.

“Anything else, sir?” Sheridan asked, once again cutting into his thoughts.

“No. Thank you, Sheridan.”

He ended the call, then placed his phone in his pocket and strode into the barn. He thought about moving right on past the beautiful foreman who was truly a perfect combination of hard and soft, and checking out the Triple C's horseflesh. But when he reached her gelding, she turned to acknowledge him.

“Mornin', Deacon.”

“Mackenzie.”

“You're up early,” she said with a trace of guarded humor in her tone.

“Always,” he returned. In fact, he'd been up since dawn, working, handling business overseas.

“So where's the suit and tie?” Her eyes worked up and down his body, took in his jeans, boots, and white T-shirt. “You look like a cowboy in that getup.”

“I am a cowboy, Mac. Nothin'll take that out of me.”

Her eyes softened a touch. “I'm glad to hear it.”

Deacon stared at her, knowing he should be moving along. Doing what he'd come out here to do. Ride a horse until they were both exhausted and covered in sweat. But those eyes of hers, they held him hostage. And they weren't the only things. It was something about the way the warm sunlight pushed through the cracks in the barn walls, hitting her with a thousand spotlights. She just glowed, her face, her skin, even her thick, dark hair that was braided and hanging over one tanned shoulder.

His fingers twitched as he imagined wrapping them around that braid and easing her toward him.

Damn,
he groaned silently. He needed to end this. These thoughts were crazy. Beneath him. Unlike him in every way.

Her horse lifted its head then and nudged Deacon's shoulder. He reached out and gave the black gelding a few strokes on the neck. “Gorgeous animal.”

“Yes, he is,” she agreed, smiling as she turned back to the overo. “His name's Gypsy, and he's all mine.” Her voice softened. “Thanks to Everett.”

Though the acknowledgment triggered quick irritation inside Deacon, he pushed it away. She thought the world of Everett, and nothing was going to change that. Except for maybe knowing the truth about what had happened all those years ago. And he wasn't doing any sharing.

“So you going on a pleasure ride?” he asked as she reached for a bridle from a hook nearby. “Or is this work?”

“I told Blue to take the day off. The cowboys are moving cattle, so me and my hangover are going solo to fix some fences.”

As she slipped the bridle over the gelding's head, she paused for a moment. “I could use some help.” She glanced up, her eyes shuttered now. “What do you think? You up for it?”

There was something in the way she'd asked that made warning bells go off inside of him. “You want me to help fix something I'm just going to break later?”

Her jaw went rigid, and for a moment, Deacon thought she was going to pitch some choice curse
words his way. Shoot, he wouldn't blame her if she had. But then she took a deep breath, let it out, and shrugged.

“It's an invitation, Deacon. Plain and simple.” She cocked her head. “You either accept or you don't.”

A loud whinny echoed throughout the barn, making Gypsy dance in place a bit. Deacon glanced past the gelding's head to a stall farther down on the left. A beautiful chestnut mare with wicked eyes had her head out. She had to be close to seventeen hands and she was glaring something fierce at him. He liked her instantly.

“What's that girl's name?” he asked Mackenzie.

“Trouble.”

His eyes cut to her. “You're kiddin'.”

She shook her head, her eyes suddenly bright with amusement. “Funny you spotted her, but I suppose trouble attracts trouble.”

He shot her a wicked grin. “No doubt about that.”

He left the overo and walked over to the mare. He waited for her to dip her head an inch, give him some clue that she had a submissive bone in her body. When she didn't—when the black-eyed beauty flared her nostrils and pulled in his scent instead, Deacon laughed.

“She do all right with your gelding?” he called.

“Far as I know,” Mackenzie said. “You're coming with me?”

He ran his hand up the mare's blaze. “Fixing fences,” he muttered. At the damn Triple C. “Christ.”

“Is that a yes, cowboy?” she called.

Hell
. “That's a yes, foreman.”

“Good. Glad to have you along.” She paused a moment, then said in a slightly sarcastic tone, “But maybe you want to take on something a little tamer. After all, you've been riding nothing but elevators for . . . What's it been now? Since you took to the saddle?”

Deacon glanced over his shoulder, spied her looking at him with those challenging blue eyes. His heart fairly turned over. Shit, what had he just gotten himself into?

“Ten years?” she asked, her mouth rising at the corners.

One dark eyebrow lifted. “Not that long.”

“Well, she's a handful . . .”

“Not to worry, darlin',” he said easily, giving the mare a good rub on her neck. “I have a way with challenging females.”

Mackenzie's eyes widened and her cheeks went pink. “You don't say,” she muttered dryly, unclipping her horse.

“And riding doesn't leave you,” he added, watching her. “Not when it's in your blood.”

“Well, I guess we'll see about that.” She started
to lead her horse out of the barn; then she stopped and glanced back at him. “Should I wait for you to tack up, city boy?”

Deacon grinned. “You go on ahead, darlin'. I'll catch up.”

“You don't even know where I'm headed.” She reached for her gray Stetson, which was hanging from a hook on the wall, and dropped it on her head.

Deacon's eyes ran the length of her, from boots to Stetson and everything in between. Good Lord, she made his insides melt like a tarred road in August.

“Don't worry.” He grabbed the mare's halter. “I'll find you.”

Her eyes danced with amusement. “Getting cocky ain't gonna help your sense of direction none. But I have to say, I'm dying to see you try.”

Without waiting for him to respond, she turned and headed out of the barn, her denim-clad ass swaying like she was hearing music inside her head.

Deacon turned away from the dangerous sight with a low growl. Oh, he'd find her all right. Not just because he knew her scent now, or because he was a helluva tracker, but because he knew every inch of this land. His land. Knew where fences got busted most often, where the water gaps happened after the rain.

He opened the stall door and eyed Trouble.
“You and me, we got a job to do. You like huntin' for treasure?”

She tossed her head and snorted.

“That's what I thought.” He chuckled.

But when he went to halter her, she slipped her head in the red nylon without even a whisper of apprehension.

•   •   •

Mac had fixed two fences and was just pulling up to a water gap when she heard him, heard the sound of hooves hitting earth a mile or so off. Tipping her hat back and squinting her eyes against the sun, she spotted him. Riding hell-bent for leather across the meadow, horse and rider looking like they'd been together for years. She shook her head and pushed out a breath. She'd known he'd find her. Just like he'd said, he was still a part of this land. No matter what had happened to make him hate it so. It was why she'd asked him along. She needed to find out why, needed to see if she could change his mind before it was too late.