Brash (3 page)

As if hearing her silent promise, the figure stopped, a bottlebrush tail shooting straight up in the air. Grace held her breath.
Don't you dare turn around.
She had to get him this time. Make sure he didn't cause any more trouble. Make sure he didn't make any more babies. If only he'd be reasonable. But cats rarely were. Especially the toms. The males. Nothing could ever be simple and straightforward. One always had to connive and plot and threaten and convince.

And even then, sometimes they don't return your texts.

Who are we talking about now, Grace?
she chided herself. Cats or Cole Cavanaugh? It had taken every ounce of both her pride and her good sense to text Cole Knock-Out Cavanaugh and ask him to
come by to talk with her. The guy was 190 pounds (she was guessing, of course) of gorgeous, hard-muscled, tatted-up trouble. But she knew he and his brothers weren't going to stop looking for answers about their sister. Looking for answers in her father's direction.

She sighed. She'd wanted to believe he had none. But after their back-and-forth today, it seemed her father might have something locked away in his receding brain.

The shadow, straight tail and all, turned in a slow circle, contemplating its next move.

Oh, Dad,
she thought with deep sadness. Her dear, sweet, amazing father, who had taken on the role of both parents, pushed her to follow her dreams of working with animals—even when her grades had started slipping after the accident. When she'd barely wanted to get out of bed in the morning. He'd been her biggest supporter, her champion—even her shoulder to cry on when one charming college loser after another had broken her heart.

He knows something about Cass Cavanaugh's murder.

Her heart bled at the thought, at the realization. She'd gone over and over what he'd said this morning. What he'd implied. She knew in her gut her father hadn't hurt the Cavanaugh girl, but maybe . . .
Oh God, could he have helped Palmer cover it up?
Disappointment swirled inside her. How
could he? Why would he? Because of friendship? Or had Palmer threatened him? So many questions she wanted answered. But one thing was sure: she wasn't about to let him go to jail. Christ, he was already in a jail of sorts. She had to protect him, clear his name. She wasn't altogether sure that teaming up with Cole Cavanaugh was the answer. In fact, it could be a complete nightmare. But she wanted to know what the fighter knew, wanted to keep him close as he gained information—maybe even lead him off track if fingers started to point in the direction of her father.

The cat was weaving in and out of the hydrangeas now. Making his way toward the steps. Grace's breath caught in her throat. So close. If she could just lean in another—

Suddenly, the bottlebrush tail disappeared as large, skilled, tattooed hands scooped him up as if he were nothing fiercer than a stuffed animal.

“Lose something, Doc?” came the throaty sound of Cole Cavanaugh's voice.

Grace's heart stuttered inside her chest as she looked up. Where the hell had he come from? Her head swiveled right, took in the truck at the curb and the open gate. How hadn't she heard him drive up? Park? Open and close his door? Had she been that lost in thought?

She glanced back to him. Dressed in blue jeans, polished black cowboy boots, and a white T-shirt, Cole Cavanaugh was every bit as tall, imposing, and
fiercely rugged as his brothers—with one stunning difference: thickly muscled arms covered in vibrant ink. Grace's eyes moved down one of those arms to the huge black-and-orange tom tucked into the man's side.

“How did you do that?” she asked, finding her voice. She wasn't sure where it had disappeared to while she was staring at his forearm and the incredible artwork rendered there—a snake with a skull for a face.

“Do what?” he asked.

Realizing she was still in a crouched position, she quickly stood and gestured to the tom.

He snorted. “Pick up a little kitty cat?”

She bristled at his arrogance. If she was admitting the truth—only to herself, of course—Cole Cavanaugh was one of the sexiest men she'd ever met. But his overconfidence brought her right back to college. To those boys she'd found irresistible. No more. Not ever again. She was all about stable now. And nice, and part of the community. Like Reverend McCarron. Wayne.

She needed to remember that. Just Wayne.

“I've been trying to catch him for two weeks,” she informed Cole, brushing dirt from her jeans.

“That sucks,” he said before opening his arms and letting the cat go.

Momentarily stunned, Grace watched the tom drop to his paws. “Wait— Don't—” Then it took off down the path. “Dammit!” She pushed past Cole
and ran after it. When she reached the bottom of the driveway, she stopped and stared out into the blackness. Unbelievable. She scrubbed a hand over her face. He was gone. Shocked and pissed, she whirled around. “Why the hell did you do that?” she yelled. “What is your problem, Cavanaugh?”

Cole looked baffled. “He wanted out of my arms.”

“I don't give a shit!”

“He wanted out of here.”

“He needed to be caught.”

“Says you.” One pale eyebrow jerked up. “Not everything is meant to be caught, Doc.”

She stared back, shaking her head.
So arrogant
. She didn't know what Belle saw in him. “That's you talking. About yourself.”

“An animal's an animal, honey.”

Honey?!?
“This is a stray, Cole.”

He just stared at her. Unfazed, uninterested.

“He needed to be fixed,” she continued.

A slow grin moved over his face. Grace might've found it debilitatingly sexy if she wasn't ready to knock the guy over the head with a tree branch.

“Guys gotta look out for each other,” he said with a shrug.

That was it. Fuming, she stalked toward him. Didn't stop until she was a couple of inches from his face. “You think this is funny, Cavanaugh?”

The smile remained as he stared down at her. He was all sharp angles and full lips, and his eyes
were disquieting. They were the color of obsidian. She'd never seen that color on a human. Cats, sure. But not on a human. His nostrils flared as if taking in her scent. She wondered what he caught. Peach shampoo with a side of hard-core vitriol?

“Do you have any idea how many homeless kittens you just helped create?” she said through tightly gritted teeth.

His expression changed in an instant. From casual to wary. “No.”

“'Course not. And those kittens are liable to starve, or be eaten by a coyote, or hit by a truck. Or unceremoniously euthanized, if they ever even make it to a shelter, which are in short supply around here.”

He pulled in a sharp breath, and for the first time Grace saw a thread of understanding cross his features. Or was it regret? Hell, at this point, she'd take either one.

“Look, I'm sorry, okay?” he said. “I'll help you find him.”

She shook her head, feeling dispirited. “He's long gone.”

“Well, we can try. It's something.”

“Please don't pretend you care.”

“I'm not pretending.”

She looked up at him into those onyx eyes, trying to see the forest for the trees, as her dad used to say. But all she got was a wall.

His nostrils flared. “Maybe you should tell me why I'm here, Grace.”

Yeah, maybe.

They were close. Too close. It was making her a little dizzy. And a little stupid. If he leaned down, even an inch or two. And if she arched up on her toes a little . . .

Yes. Definitely stupid.

She stepped back. “Why don't you come inside.” God, she hated how breathy her voice sounded. Breathy girls didn't make good decisions. Probably because oxygen wasn't getting to their brains.

His brows lowered. “What's inside?” he asked suspiciously.

“Just want to talk to you.”

“We can do that out here.”

“Jeez. Are you afraid of me or something?”

“Kind of,” he admitted wryly. “You sure that restraining order's been dropped?”

A touch of a smile curved her lips. “Yes. I took care of it this afternoon.” She turned and headed for the porch steps. “But, you know, if you don't trust me, you can always use my phone to call and check.”

“I got my own phone, thanks. And just so we're clear, Doc, I don't trust you at all.”

At the top of the steps, Grace turned around. Cole was still standing at the bottom, all tall and wicked and undeniably breath-stealing. Had she
made a huge mistake in asking him here? Trying to work with him instead of against him? Clearly, she had an innate weakness for bad boys. One she'd thought she'd left behind in the dorms half a decade ago. But obviously that attraction to unreliable charm was back—with menace and fortitude.

And tats.

She inhaled deeply.
Come on, Grace
.
Shake it off.
Get a clue.
This was important, what she was trying to do for her father. And she wasn't going to allow some silly attraction to ruin the chance to keep her father's last years comfortable and stable and healthy.

“I'll see you inside, Cole,” she said, then turned on her heel and headed for the house, the tomcat's mating call behind her on the breeze.

Not surprisingly, the vet had one of those homes that reeked of cute and quaint and nesting. Yellow cottage with red shutters on a nice bit of land, a couple of bedrooms, probably painted pale blue with lots of white bed stuff. Not that he'd seen the bedrooms. Or was planning on it. He was just guessing by how the living room and kitchen looked. Brick fireplace as the focus, not a TV. Seriously, how did she watch the Cowboys? Couches and chair, worn leather and prints. Clean and comfortably neat. And it smelled good. Well, everything except the long-eared thing that had attacked him the minute he'd stepped inside the house.

Now that thing's head was resting on his thigh.
Damn dog,
Cole thought as he stroked her head and massive ears.

The vet entered the room from the kitchen.
After telling him to take a seat, she'd hustled her fine ass in there and started brewing up something. Coffee or tea, looked like from the two steaming mugs in her hand.
Yeah, buddy, focus on her hands. Nothing else is safe.
Her face held too many emotions. Same with the gorgeous green eyes framed by the longest damn lashes in the world. Then there was everything from the neck down. Jeans that took every sexy curve at ninety miles an hour. Bare feet. Shit. Nothing sexier than bare feet. Except maybe fitted tank tops with a hint of pale pink bra showing.

“Coffee?” she asked, rounding the table before the couch.

He shook his head. He loved coffee, and that shit smelled really good. But he wasn't getting any more comfortable here than was necessary. Miss Secrets and Restraining Order was trouble. He wanted to hear what she had to say, then get out.

“You gonna tell me why I'm here, or should I guess?” he said in a terse tone.

She placed the coffee before him on the table, then slipped into the chair to his right, curled her leg underneath her. “Do you have somewhere to be, Mr. Cavanaugh?”

His eyes narrowed. Why wasn't his asshole attitude putting her off today? Seriously, what was she playing at?

“Belle looks very content,” she added, sipping her coffee.

“She's droolin' on my pants.”

“And that bothers you?”

“'Course it bothers me.”

“And to think,” she said evenly, “you were so interested in adopting her. What could have changed, I wonder?”

“Didn't know how much she drooled?” Yeah, the adopting thing. It had been his cover, his lie, to get into her office and find out where her father was being stashed. Who would've thought the long-eared drooler would get under his skin, make him wonder if he could handle being a dog owner.

“I suppose I could order her to get down,” Grace remarked, then grimaced. “It's just, she's been through so much—”

Nostrils flared, Cole ground out, “Right. Okay, Doc. We both know the dog's fine. But my patience with you is wearing real thin.”

Her eyes lost their momentary luster and she released a weighty sigh. “I've decided to help you.”

“Help me with what?”

She didn't get to the point right away. Which seemed to be her way of not dealing with the hard or uncomfortable shit. “You need to understand, I was just trying to protect my dad.”

“Not following you, honey. And now Belle here is snoring—so you'd better speak up.”

“I still want to protect my dad—” She pushed
on as though he hadn't said a thing. “His good name. But I also want to help you. You and your brothers, and Mac. I want to help you find out what happened to your sister.”

Cole flinched, and every muscle in his body tensed. This wasn't what he'd expected. An offer to “help.” She'd tried to keep him away from her father, and from the truth—had put out a restraining order, for fuck's sake. Why the complete turnaround? What was she doing?

“How're you going to help us?” he asked. “What do you have to offer now that your dad isn't really . . . all there upstairs?”

It was her turn to flinch. “I'm not exactly sure. We can visit him again. Try again. Maybe Mr. Palmer—”

“Palmer isn't having visitors,” he finished. “Won't talk to anyone. Deac tried. Can't get any info off the bastard.”

She looked a little stunned by this. “Well, then Mrs. Palmer and their daughter—”

“Are not working at the bakery.” He sniffed at her. “Albert Lee's had to close the place until he can find someone else. Christ Almighty. You know less about this town than me, and I've been in Austin training for the past two days.”

She bit her lip and looked like she was struggling internally. But after a moment, the hard lines around her mouth smoothed and she blinked at him. “We could find the boy.”

A hum started deep in Cole's gut. “What boy?” he ground out. Though he knew. He knew exactly who she meant. And when she'd said the word, his head had nearly exploded.

“The one who came to River Black,” she continued. “The boy your sister liked.”

With gentle hands, he eased Belle off his lap. “How do you know about that? About him?”

Her gaze fell and she stared into her coffee cup. “You asked my dad about him the day you . . . visited,” she nearly whispered.

“The sheriff remembered that, did he?”

“He has his moments.” Her eyes came up. They were wide and worried and confused.

“And in those moments did he give you any clue who the boy was? Is?”

“If he had, I'd have already gone looking. I would've told you and your brothers.”

He grinned darkly. “Really?”

“Yes, really.” She hesitated then. “You don't know who he is, right? What happened to him?”

“Happened to him?” Cole repeated with a snort. “Shit, Doc. No one even knew his real name. Cass called him Sweet.”

“But you tried to look for him . . .”

He gave her a sharp glare. Years and years of looking, digging, asking, praying. Nothing. His mouth thinned. “What are you doing, Doc? And why?”

She bit her lip. “What do you mean?”

“There was nothing you wanted less than to help me.”

“That's not true. What I wanted—what I still want—is to keep my father safe and protected.” Her eyes tried to pierce the brick wall he'd erected. “But you believe he's a part of Cass's disappearance. That he knows something.”

“Oh yeah,” he said without hesitation.

She blanched, but pressed on. “So I propose working together, instead of against each other. Sharing information. You want to find out the truth about your sister's murder, and I want to prove my father had nothing to do with it.”

Cole felt as if he'd been sucker-punched. It was the words “sister's murder” that did it. Always did it. This woman . . . this woman who had fought with him, avoided him, treated him like a criminal—which maybe he was sorta guilty of—now wanted to partner up. He couldn't imagine it. What? The Dynamic Duo of Death and Destruction?

“What do you think?” she asked.

“I think it's batshit crazy.”

“So you'll do it, then.”

He looked at her funny. Couldn't tell if she was serious or playing around. Hard to know with this woman.

She shrugged. “Batshit crazy seems to be how you roll, Cobra.”

His chest tightened and one pale brow lifted.
She knew what he was called in the ring. “You doing research on me, Doc?”

“A little,” she admitted.

He sniffed, looked away. This was nuts. If he believed what she was selling, that she wanted to protect her father, prove his innocence, then why would she want to work with someone who believed the opposite? Then again . . .

He found her gaze again. Studied her. He'd have access to her father and to everything the ex-sheriff had on Palmer. Hell, if he didn't want to reveal something he found, then he wouldn't. He'd grown damn skilled at masking his thoughts and feelings.

He took a deep breath, blew it out. Then nodded. “Agreed.”

“Oh.” Relief seemed to wash over her. “Great. Okay.” She started to get up. “Well, then . . . maybe tomorrow or the following day we could meet—”

“Tomorrow?” he interrupted with a dark laugh, staying exactly where he was.

“Well, yeah. We should start as soon as possible.”

“Exactly. We start tonight.”

Her eyes widened. “Tonight. But it's getting—”

“Needs to be tonight, darlin'. I have to get back to Austin tomorrow. Training. Not sure when I'm coming back. Day, days . . . week. After the fight.”

“Your fight's next week, isn't it?”

He nodded. Wondered how much research she'd done on him. Maybe he'd do a little on her too. “You have a computer here?”

“Two laptops.”

“Okay.” He took a breath. “Let's start from the beginning. Granted, we've done it before, but let's go over newspapers, school records, anything we can find from that year. Good portion should be online. See who was new in town, new at school, all that.”

“I have all of my father's files.”

He glanced up, his gut starting to churn. “That so?”

She stared right back at him. “There's a ton of them.”

“I'm sure.”

“Never thought to look through them . . . until now.”

“How lucky for me,” he said, tone dangerous. “And hopefully for Cass.”

She went pale. “They're in the garage.”

He stood. “Well, let's start there.”

She turned and headed for the door. When they were just passing through, she asked, “Did you eat? Dinner?”

“I ordered,” he muttered to himself.

But she heard it. She turned and gave him a curious look, her green eyes touched with momentary humor. He didn't like it. Tension and anger, and maybe even a thread of unease, were much easier
to deal with around her. “I was at the Bull's Eye with my family,” he explained. “Ordered a burger. Didn't get the chance to eat it.”

“Should I ask why?”

“Nope,” he said, following her down the hallway.

“Okay . . .” She laughed softly. “Well, I don't have any meat in the house at the moment. In fact, the cupboards are pretty bare.”

“Don't worry about it.” Last thing he needed was her fixing him food. Or maybe the last thing he needed was her giving a shit if he ate at all. He didn't like it. Ex-Sheriff Hunter's daughter all thoughtful, soft . . .

“I'll make grilled cheese!” she announced brightly once they came to the front door. “Wait.” She turned around. “Do you like grilled cheese?”

Christ. Who didn't like grilled cheese? “It's fine, but there's really no need.”

“Actually, there is,” she said. “I'm starving too.”

“Didn't say I was starving—”

She moved past him, away from the front door, and the garage, no doubt. “Two grilled cheeses and some tomato soup coming up.” She motioned for him to follow. “If we're pulling an all-nighter, we'll need our strength . . .”

Her words trailed off as they headed into the kitchen, but the phrase
all-nighter
, and the way her perfect ass was swinging from side to side as she walked, was trying to chip away at Cole's prefight abstinence brick wall.

He turned away and cursed as Belle trotted along happily beside him.

*   *   *

He loved this land. Loved it like a father loves a child. Not that he'd know what that felt like. But he could imagine.

Spying the moonlit house spread out in the distance, Blue urged Barbarella into a canter. The spirited red roan tossed her head, but irritatingly obliged. She was still pissed at him for taking off, staying at the motel out on Route 12 and leaving her unexercised for weeks.

“Had to clear my mind, Rella,” he'd told her during tack-up.

She'd snorted at him, then refused the bit. The human equivalent of being flipped off.

“And talk with Cowgirl,” he'd added.

The horse wasn't having any of his excuses. And maybe she didn't like the idea that he had been spilling his guts to another female. To a woman he'd never met—and probably never would. A woman he hadn't been able to stop thinking about for months now. A woman who got him, made him feel understood. Someone he could trust in a time when he couldn't trust anyone.

Passing by the house, Blue noticed the light from the kitchen blazed warmly. He should be talking to
her
. His mom. Needed to have it out with her. Know the truth about her affair with Everett Cavanaugh. His gut tightened at the idea.
Was he ready to hear the truth? And after keeping it a secret, all these years, that Everett—his mentor, friend, and fellow cowboy—was his father, could she be counted on to give it to him?

“How long you been out there?” Frank called to him as he came to a halt at the barn door.

The young cowboy was barely out of high school, but he was one of the best hands Blue had ever seen. Whoever took this place on had better recognize that.

“Since 'bout noon,” Blue answered, dismounting. “Was out fixing fences near the oaks.”

The cowboy whistled through his teeth. “Damn. How'd you find your way back in the dark?”

Blue chuckled. “Could do it with my eyes closed. So could Barbarella here. We know every inch of this ranch like it's the back of my hand. Like it's . . .”
Mine. My home.

When Blue didn't finish the thought aloud, Frank pressed, “Like what?”

“Nothing.” He led Rella into the barn and into her stall. Sure, he was back at the Triple C, doing what he'd been doing since he and his mom came to live there. But it didn't mean anything was decided or settled. Not with his mom, not with his three newly discovered brothers, and not with the fate of the Triple C.

“None of the Cavanaughs are around, if you're looking for 'em,” Frank called before heading into the barn's small office.

Blue knew exactly where they were. And he wasn't looking for them. They'd gone to the Bull's Eye with their women. No doubt they were having a few beers as they discussed his future. The ranch's future. Well, they could talk all they wanted. But the only one deciding Blue Cavanaugh's future would be himself.