Brash

Broken

“Fans of Wright's Cavanaugh brothers will delight in this passionate family and the fascinating small-town characters. The emotional barriers that separate her main couple are remarkably understandable and refreshingly genuine, making their journey a compelling and touching one.”

—
RT Book Reviews

“Explosive chemistry between James and Sheridan. . . . The steamy sex between them was so wonderfully done . . . a fantastic, sexy romance.”

—The Reading Cafe

“I love this series so much . . . a sexy cowboy romance. . . . I fell in love with James, the sexy horse whisperer.”

—Reading in Pajamas

Branded

“A sexy hero, a sassy heroine, and a compelling story line,
Branded
is all that and more—I loved it!”

—Lorelei James,
New York Times
bestselling author of
Unraveled

“Secrets, sins, and spurs—Laura Wright's Cavanaugh brothers will brand your heart!”

—Skye Jordan,
New York Times
bestselling author of
Reckless

“Deacon and Mackenzie . . . are strong and passionate, and the chemistry between them sizzles. Wright tells a story filled with heart, genuine characters,
and natural dialogue. Add good pacing and a well-developed plot, and Wright's latest is one that will not disappoint.”

—
RT Book Reviews

“Saddle up for a sexy and thrilling ride! Laura Wright's cowboys are sinfully hot.”

—
New York Times
bestselling author Elisabeth Naughton

“Deadly secrets, explosive sex, four brothers in a fight over a sprawling Texas ranch. . . . Ms. Wright has penned a real page-turner.”

—Kaki Warner, bestselling author of
Behind His Blue Eyes

“Saddle up for a sexy, intensely emotional ride with cowboys who put the ‘wild' in Wild West. Laura Wright never disappoints!”

—
New York Times
bestselling author Alexandra Ivy

PRAISE FOR

LAURA WRIGHT'S OTHER NOVELS

“I can't wait for more from Laura Wright.”

—
New York Times
bestselling author Nalini Singh

“Laura Wright knows how to lure you in and hold you captive until the last page.”

—
New York Times
bestselling author Larissa Ione

“The pacing is steady and the action plentiful, while the plot is full of twists and the passion . . . is hot and electrifying.”

—
RT Book Reviews
(4 stars)

“Absorbing and edgy . . . an enthralling read.”

—
New York Times
bestselling author Lara Adrian

“Grabs you by the heartstrings from the first page. . . . [The] complexity of emotion is what makes Laura Wright's books so engrossing.”

—Sizzling Hot Book Reviews

“If you haven't experienced this series yet, you are totally missing out.”

—Literal Addiction

“Laura Wright has done it again and totally blew me away.”

—Book Monster Reviews

“Very sexy.”

—Dear Author

“A sweep-off-your-feet romance.”

—Leontine's Book Realm

“A must read.”

—The Romance Readers Connection

“Deeply satisfying.”

—
Sacramento Book Review

“Certain to make it onto your list of favorite books and will leave you thirsty for more.”

—Romance Reviews Today

“Page-turning tension and blistering sensuality.”

—
Publishers Weekly
(starred review)

The Cavanaugh Brothers Series

Branded

Broken

Mark of the Vampire Series

Eternal Hunger

Eternal Kiss

Eternal Blood

(A Penguin Special)

Eternal Captive

Eternal Beast

Eternal Beauty

(A Penguin Special)

Eternal Demon

Eternal Sin

Published by the Penguin Group

Penguin Group (USA) LLC, 375 Hudson Street,

New York, New York 10014

USA|Canada|UK|Ireland|Australia|New Zealand|India|South Africa|China

penguin.com

A Penguin Random House Company

First published by Signet Eclipse, an imprint of New American Library,

a division of Penguin Group (USA) LLC

Copyright © Laura Wright, 2015

Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

SIGNET ECLIPSE and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) LLC.

ISBN 978-1-101-62617-7

PUBLISHER'S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

May 5, 2002

Dear Diary,

I think Sweet's right. Someone is following us. This is what happened. I was at the drugstore today after school. I was hoping maybe Sweet would come in because I haven't seen or heard from him in three days. And it's where we first locked eyes and all. I really wanted to know why he didn't meet me the other night like he said he was going to. I wanted to know if it was because of the kiss. I practiced it on my hand a couple of times, and I didn't think it was all that bad. Well, he did come in. He was buying all sorts of strange things like headache medicine and baking soda. He looked surprised to see me. But when I went up to him, he smiled his amazing smile and told me he'd meet me behind the diner in ten minutes.

Diary, I waited for a half hour, and he didn't come. Why would he do that? Did something happen to him? Does he just not like me anymore?

My brain tells me to hate him, but my heart tells my brain to shut up. Who do I listen to?

Stupid boys.

Okay, here's the weird part. When I was walking over to the diner, I felt someone's eyes on me. I looked all around and didn't see no one. But I swear they were there!

What if it's one of my brothers?

Maybe they discovered what we've been doing!!

I could ask 'em? Or talk to Mac? I'm so confused. I hate how my heart feels right now. Heavy and broken.

Cass

Cole Cavanaugh watched as Johnny Blair dropped his needle into the red ink, then resumed his special brand of torture.

“You gonna tell me what this stands for, man?” Johnny asked, working the final curve of a
C
on Cole's shoulder. “Or do I need to guess?”

Cole smirked at the Austin-based artist who had inked nearly every one of his tats. “Guess away, brother.”

Black brows lifted over pale green eyes. “Woman's initials?”

Cole snorted. “Hell, no.”

The guy chuckled, the two small studs in his lower lip flattening against his teeth. “Your next victim in the ring?”

“Nah, man. That joker's blood on my knuckles is all the stain I need.” He glanced down at the
finished artwork. “These three
C
's are for the ranch where I grew up.”

Johnny placed the tat gun on the metal side table beside Cole's chair. “I didn't know you were a ranch boy, Cavanaugh.”

“Born and bred.”

“And now branded,” the man said as he cleaned Cole's skin, then slathered some A&D ointment on it.

“Let's get to bandaging,” Cole said, not wanting to go any further into discussions about the Triple C and how he grew up and why he left. Some shit needed to stay private outside River Black. “I have training in an hour.”

Johnny shook his head but grabbed the bandages and tape. “Will it do any good if I tell you to wait until tomorrow? Give this some time to heal?”

Tomorrow wouldn't be possible. He was heading back to the ranch tonight. “Thirteen tats and I've never had a problem.”

“Fine,” Johnny said. “I'm gonna wrap it up extra good, but if someone knocks you there, it's going to hurt like a motherfucker.”

“I'm counting on it,” Cole said without thinking.

“Damn,” Johnny said, fitting the bandage. “Had no idea you were such a masochist.”

He wasn't. Not really. Well, maybe in the beginning, right after Cass had been taken, after he'd
left home and gone underground. Maybe then he'd wanted to feel the pain. Hell, maybe he'd thought he deserved it. But now it was all about vengeance. Every fight. Every bruise. Every drop of blood. It belonged to the one who got away . . . with murder.

He eyed the tattoo artist. “Just makes my adrenaline rush. Heightens my awareness. Fuels the fight. That kind of thing.”

“When's your match?” Johnny asked him.

“Next week.”

“Who you beatin' down?”

“Fred Fontana.”

The man's head jerked up fast. “Oh, shit.”

Oh, shit's right,
Cole thought with a dry grin. Fred Omega Fontana had a rep for nearly killing anyone who stepped into the ring with him. He was the one bastard Cole had yet to beat. The ungettable get. The ultimate in vengeance.

“You ready?” Johnny asked as he pushed back in his chair and stripped off his gloves. “Physically? Mentally? All that shit?”

“Hell, yeah,” Cole told him.

But the words were forced. So was the hard-ass show he was putting on. The fire and fury that normally pulsed in his blood this close to a fight weren't there. Maybe too much had happened lately. Marriages and engagements. Inheriting the Triple C along with his brothers. Including a brother he never knew he had. And too many damn
memories assaulting him at every turn. It was why he'd decided to get the Triple C brand inked into his skin. He was hoping it would put that wicked heat, that anger, that venom he'd felt when he'd run from the place back into his gut and heart. Because, fuck him, if it didn't show up and do its job in the ring next week, the hope of finding out the truth about his sister's death wasn't the only thing he was going to lose. He might very well lose his life.

*   *   *

“You have issues, Belle,” Grace Hunter told her passenger, an aging basset hound who had just howled her damn head off as they drove past the Triple C ranch.

And it wasn't the first time.

Any time Belle got within spitting distance of where Cole Cavanaugh hung his hat, the dog howled.

Grace glanced over at the pup, sitting on her cute rump, buckled in, head out the open window of Grace's blue 1960 Dodge pickup, long ears flapping in the breeze. “He's not interested in you, Miss Girl. He was only out for information.”

Belle ignored the reminder that Cole Cavanaugh's visit to the vet clinic a few days ago—under the pretense that he wanted to adopt the basset hound—was a lie. As soon as Grace had slipped out of the office, that rat bastard had gone through her files and found out where her ill and aging father was living.

“He hasn't been back in days,” she reminded Belle as she got onto the highway. “Probably off practicing for that bloodbath he calls a job.” She grimaced at the thought. She'd never actually been to a fight, but she imagined it was horrific. “You don't want that kind of guy buying your kibble, now do you?”

This time Belle turned to look at her. Droopy eyes and a glorious frown.

“Someone who beats people up for a living?” Grace asked.

The basset hound barked.

“Yeah, yeah, I know he's good-looking and unpredictable, and charming in an overbearing way,” Grace continued, “but let me tell you from experience: that combination is nothing but trouble. Those kinds of guys are all
Love 'em and leave 'em
. Or in my case,
Screw 'em and take off in the middle of the night
.” Grace exhaled heavily as she recalled the majority of her college dating experiences.

Belle seemed unconvinced, and once again turned to stare out the window.

“Fine. Don't say I didn't warn you. But when he breaks your heart, don't come crying to me.”

For exactly thirty seconds, she held on to that threat. Then she caved. Oh, who was she kidding? Sweet Belle could come crying to her anytime, and Grace would take her in her arms and let her know it was okay. Then, later, when they were sharing a pint of ice cream, she would gently
counsel the canine that if she wanted a real future with someone who would be there for her through thick and thin, she needed to look for stable instead of stunning, reliable instead of reactive. And instead of inked-up skin and hard waves of muscles, a balanced, tender, soulful heart.

She pulled off the highway and headed toward the center of town. Speaking of tender hearts, she was going to see her dad today. See if she could get him to clear up this mess with Caleb Palmer. Not only was her father's best friend in jail for assaulting James Cavanaugh's fiancée, he'd claimed to know something about Cass Cavanaugh's abduction and murder.
God, what happened all those years ago?
she thought as she turned into the Barrington Ridge Senior Care parking lot and found a space. And what had happened to Caleb? Except for her time spent in school, Grace had known the man fairly well. She'd never seen a bad side to him. But, clearly, a monster resided within. He'd hurt Sheridan O'Neil, could've killed her, and Grace prayed he'd never get out of jail. Now all she was interested in was clearing her father's name. Making sure everyone knew that he wasn't connected to Caleb's actions and insinuations. Hell, she didn't want him connected to Caleb in any way, if she could help it. No visits, no phone calls. Maybe then she could finally get the Cavanaughs off her back.

Especially the tattooed one.

With Belle leashed and walking beside her, Grace
entered the front door of the care facility and headed down the hall. Gentle piano music played from the overhead speakers and the scent of cleaning products and breakfast foods hung thickly in the air. Barrington Ridge had cleared her request to bring Belle along. Her dad had owned a dog for many years—one that had been at his side or in his patrol car nearly day and night—and Grace was hopeful the canine would stir his memory. Or at the very least keep him calm and lucid while they talked.

“Awww, ain't she sweet?” one of the nurses remarked as they passed by.

“Hiya, Grace,” another one called from behind the desk.

“Morning, Elisabeth, Bev,” Grace returned cheerfully. She pointed to her father's door. “He awake?”

Phone to her ear, Beverly nodded. “Just finished his breakfast 'bout ten minutes ago.”

“Thanks,” Grace said, moving down the corridor as Belle tried to sniff every inch of the floor, wall, and desks.

Bright sunlight and the heavy scent of bacon welcomed Grace as she entered the room. As usual, her father was seated at the small table near the window. He liked the light and the breeze, just as he had at home. His nose was in a magazine and he was flipping through the pages at lightning speed. Steam rose from a coffee cup to his right.

“What are we reading today, Dad?” she asked, coming over and slipping into one of the chairs beside him. “Fishing or dirt bike racing?”

Peter Hunter glanced up and smiled brightly when he saw her. At sixty-three, he was still a very handsome man. Had all of his dark hair, and those hazel eyes—when lucid—were sharp and curious. “Gracie?”

Grace's heart ballooned inside her chest and exploded in a rush of gratefulness. It was the way of it now. Every time she walked into his room, she wondered if his eyes would flash with warm recognition or cool disinterest.

“Hi, Dad,” she said with gentle warmth, leaning forward. This was the man who had become her everything when her mother had passed from a car accident when she was ten. This was the man who had tucked her into bed at night, made her spaghetti and s'mores, and green smoothies when she was on a health kick. The man who had let her stay up late and told her stories about his adventures as sheriff. Protected her, loved her, treated her like she was the most special thing in the world. Made her believe she could be anything she wanted to be.

Her hero.

She reached for his hand and gave it a squeeze. He squeezed back.

“Who's the mongrel?” he asked good-naturedly.

Grace grinned. “This is Belle. She's a friend of mine.”

Her father reached down and gave the basset hound, who had been waiting patiently beside the table, a pat on the head and a rub under the chin. Belle leaned into him and licked his hand. For a moment it seemed as though her father was as content and happy and clear as she'd seen him of late. But after a moment, his face fell and he pulled his hand away. “Those eyes . . . she looks about as miserable as I feel,” he ground out bitterly.

Grace pushed back the wall of pain that threatened to steal her hope and faith. “Why are you miserable, Dad?”

“Stuck in here when I have a job to do,” he explained, his chin lifting in that way it always did when he talked about his work as a sheriff. “People out there who need me. If I'm not sprung soon, I could lose my job, Gracie. Your mama doesn't bring in enough midwifing.”

God, it hurt her so much to hear him talk about the past as though it was the present. Thinking her mom was still alive. But hurt didn't help him, and it sure didn't do anything to protect his good name.

“Dad,” she began gently. “I need you to tell me about Mr. Palmer.”

His dark brows rose and he looked momentarily interested. “Caleb?”

She nodded.

“Well, honey, he is my very best friend.” A hint of a smile played about his lips. “Good man. Right good man. Always there for me. That's how friends should be. Don't you forget that.”

Grace reached down and started stroking Belle's head. “He's done something terrible.”

Her father didn't even hesitate before answering. “No, no, baby. Not him.”

“Yes, Dad,” she insisted, breath caught in her lungs, bracing herself for what was coming. “He hurt a woman.”

“What do you mean, hurt?” He sat back in his chair looking utterly dumbstruck for a moment. Then his skin went cow udder white and he gasped. “Lord Almighty! He takin' the blame for that, is he?”

Shit
. So her father had already heard about the attack. Grace would have to speak to Bev and Elisabeth. In his condition, he shouldn't be hearing about such upsetting things from anyone but her.

“He admitted it, Dad. There were witnesses and a police report. And the woman's going to testify against him.”

A sad smile touched Peter Hunter's mouth. “How can she, baby? She's dead.”

A boulder the size of Texas rolled through Grace and sat there, festering in her belly. Her pulse pounded savagely in her blood. Instead of asking him to clarify his words or continue, she wanted,
more than anything, to get up and walk out. But she had to ask, didn't she? It's why she'd come. To find out what he knew. To find out the truth.

“Who are you talking about, Dad?” she began softly.

“That girl, Gracie dear.” His gaze shifted to his magazine and he started thumbing through the pages once again. “Cass Cavanaugh.”