Relentless (Fallon Sisters Trilogy: Book #1) (7 page)

They moved toward the bleachers. This time Bren made sure her eldest sat next to her. She leaned into him. "I'm sorry. Friends?"

He nudged her back playfully. "Think you can handle it?"

"For you, I'll try."

Aiden shot a covert look around, no doubt checking to see if there were witnesses, and placed his hand on top of hers. He gave it a quick squeeze before pulling away. That was progress, Aiden-style, and the friction between the two lifted.

The auction started ten minutes late. Several horses were paraded through the chute. The cacophony of Lyle's calls echoed against the corrugated metal walls and ceiling. Horses were prodded and poked through the chute, their eyes wide with fright and ears pricked up in watchful attentiveness. That was what bothered Bren most about this particular sale barn—Lyle Jameson was just plain mean.

Finn huddled next to Bren, his hands pushed deep in his pockets. "You cold?" she asked him.

"A little."

She motioned to Jeremy. "We're going to get some hot chocolate. You want some?"

"No thanks."

Bren nudged Aiden. "You staying or coming?" He stood up. "Coming."

They cleared the bleachers and stepped outside. Bren could see her breath every time she exhaled. The stars twinkled like diamonds against a soft, black velvet sky. The moon, only a sliver, sat high in the west. With no cloud cover, the air was brisk, and she shivered against the collar of her barn coat as she stood at the concession stand.

She glanced around. Finn and Aiden had taken off toward a pen of mismatched farm animals waiting to be auctioned.

"Can I help you?"

"Three hot chocolates."

The stomping of feet came toward her, and Finn ran up, his coat flapping. "Mom! We saw the funniest goat."

"Finn. It's freezing." She bent down and zipped his coat. "Remember what I said when we left the barn? Mittens." She reached for his hands and found he was wearing his mittens and tugged the matching cap from his pocket and pulled it on his head. "And hat must be on."

"Mom, Aiden's not wearing his."

Bren peered up. Aiden quickly zipped his coat, and then his eyes followed something in the distance. Bren followed his line of sight. Jenny Smithson, a cute blonde, headed into the sale barn with several other teenagers.

"The hat's lame." Aiden folded his arms, his face unsmiling.

Bren knew when to pick her battles, and this wasn't one of them. She pulled Finn around by his coat. "Don't worry about your brother."

She paid for the hot chocolate and handed each of them a warm Styrofoam cup before grabbing hers. "Let's go. I'm working tonight. Remember?"

She didn't want to give Jeremy a reason to regret offering her a job. Plus the job and all her other duties managing the horse rescue left little time to mope. Now, for vengeance—she'd make time. Only she'd promised to stay clear of Wes. But if he found her, he'd pay her back. She needed to get to him first.

Bren's two-way went off, and she jostled her hot chocolate, spilling it on her gloves. "Shit." She steadied the cup on the top of a barrel nearby and pulled off the hot, wet glove. She grabbed for her two-way phone inside her coat pocket.

"Yeah."

"I've got a horse down. You need to get in here." Jeremy's voice breathed deep in her ear.

"On my way," she said. "Aiden. Watch your brother."

Aiden lifted his head. "What?"

"Your brother." She pointed toward Finn who was kicking stones. "Watch him."

Bren jogged the fifty feet to the barn. When she entered, she noticed a group forming around the rail. The crowd and her adrenaline made her break out in a sweat. She pulled off her coat and tossed it at the foot of the bleachers. She pushed aside the gawkers, squeezed through the rail, and took a deep breath.

At the bottom of the chute lay a black colt on its side. Bren's heart stopped. "What happened?"

Jeremy remained crouched next to the colt. "Spooked the mother. She trampled him."

"Damn it!" Bren came around to the colt's head.

Jeremy checked his pupils while Bren felt for broken bones.

"Knocked him cold." Bren lifted her chin toward the mare.

Jeremy nodded.

This was the typical crap Bren complained about the most. These horses were frightened, the lights blinding. Lyle paraded them too close together, making injuries like this inevitable.

Within minutes, the colt came to. He didn't appear to have any sustained injuries. Jeremy brought him to his feet and began walking him around the twenty-foot squared-off area of the chute. He then motioned to one of Lyle's men. "Lead him in the back into one of the stalls."

"Breakstone, I'm bidding on that pair," Wes yelled over the rail.

Bren clenched her hands and turned around. "Go to hell, Connelly."

Wes stood like a peacock in his plumage, dressed in a three-piece suit and red power tie. His head and face, ruddy and pocked and shades darker against the thick, silver nest of hair, always reminded her of a cork getting ready to pop.

"Lyle?"The word, slippery with intent, fell from Wes's lips. His buddy, his alibi and co-conspirator, surely caught his meaning, even if she and everyone else didn't. The only thing she knew was it didn't bode well for her. Wes's cold, steely eyes continued to hold her gaze. Bren shook with anger and fear. Kill buyers didn't normally bid on colts—small with little meat, they'd cost more to house and fatten up. He was paying her back for the newspaper ad.

"What's your bid?" Lyle tapped the gavel in his hand.

"Jeremy, can't you—"

"Five twenty-five for the pair."

Jeremy's expression hardened. "Come on, Jameson. Bren's right—auction them next Friday. This one," he said, motioning to the colt he held by the halter, "needs to be checked out." He nodded to the broodmare presently tied off toward the end of the chute, snorting and pulling against the rope, her eyes wild with unpredictability. "That one is about to go berserk."

"Time is money, Lyle," Wes added.

Lyle shrugged. "Sorry, Doc. He's got a point."

Bren's head ached. Watching Tweedledee and Tweedledum, she wanted to smack their heads together.

The colt's eyes were wide and awake as he danced on his hooves nervously under the fluorescent lights. He gave a snort and whinny. Jeremy handed him off to her. "He's all yours."

No. The colt and the mare were a pair now, thanks to Wes—a more expensive pair.

Lyle grabbed his gavel. "You bidding, Bren?"

Bren's heart quickened. She and Finn had seen this colt earlier. Finn had fallen in love with him at first sight. She'd been thinking of bidding. She'd promised Finn a colt. If she didn't bid, they'd be Wes's. He'd ship the frightened pair off to Mexico for twenty-eight cents a pound in deplorable conditions, take a hit on the colt, and call it even, knowing he'd gotten his revenge.

Cost be damned.
"Five thirty-five."

"Seven hundred." A wicked grin curled the ends of Wes's lips.

Bren took a step, tempted to charge the son of a bitch and knock him on his sanctimonious ass.

Finn leaned over the rail. "Mom?" His voice quivered with uncertainty.

She nodded in his direction. "It's okay, baby."

Straightening, Bren set her eyes on Wes, who grabbed an old lawn chair sitting askew on the dirt floor of the sale barn. He loosened his tie and popped the top button of his white dress shirt, then slipped out of his navy suit jacket, folding it neatly in half and placing it over the rail. Searching his pants pockets, he pulled out a thin cheroot, ignoring the straw strewn about on the dirt floor and bales stacked in the corners and against every available wall space.

Bren tightened her grip on the rope as Wes lit up. The colt's eyes flashed, exposing the whites in the corner as he attempted to rear. She held tight, keeping him grounded, and spoke to him soothingly. The colt let out another snort and a whinny and settled down. Wes sat back into the lawn chair and crossed his legs, taking several drags off his cheroot.

"You know you're stealing this colt from a seven-year-old boy," she said.

"You're bidding, not the boy."

Finn's head turned from her to Wes. He stood alone on the dirt floor, clenching his small little hands by his side. David and Goliath. That was their only shot to save this colt, and she was taking it. Bren patted the colt and moved toward the rail. Spying a wooden crate in the corner, she motioned toward Aiden. "Grab the crate for Finn."

Aiden pulled it over by the rail.

"Hop up, sweetheart." It was a large step, but he managed with the help of his brother.

Bren pulled out a wad of bills—her first week's pay from Jeremy since starting as his assistant and a thousand-dollar donation she'd picked up on the way to the sale barn and planned to use for feed and supplies—and handed it to Finn through the rails. "He's your horse, baby, and you're going to have to fight for him."

He nodded and took the money.

Bren gave him a peck on the top of his head and then lifted her chin toward Wes. "Just so we're straight. This is my son Finn. He's seven and far more mature than you'll ever be. He loves this colt, and he's willing to go toe-to-toe with you to get him."

Wes pursed his lips, his silver eyes twinkling with anticipation under his brows.

It wasn't the money now, it was the principle. She'd eat cold cereal for breakfast, lunch, and dinner to prove
this
point.

Wes settled into the lawn chair and placed his hands behind his head. "Okay, little man, let's get to it."

Lyle began his auctioneer rhetoric. "Seven twenty-five, seven twenty-five, do I hear—?"

"Seven seventy-five," called Wes.

Finn gave Bren a look of uncertainty and she nodded to him. "You're good. Bid in twenty-fives."

Finn nodded and looked at the colt standing idly by. He offered his first bid. "Eight hundred."

Wes countered, and Finn bumped him by twenty-five each time. Lyle's voice continued in auctioneer mode. Bren smiled inwardly. She was so proud of Finn. She'd put him in an awkward situation and he'd rallied, his voice growing stronger with every counter. The crowd cheered each time Finn upped the ante and moaned when Wes topped it. The bid was up to nine seventy-five after Wes's counter, and Finn looked to Bren for guidance, his sweet face flushed.

"Mom?" He raised his eyebrows and squinched his nose to adjust his glasses.

She wanted to hug him. She nodded assurance, and he continued.

The bid had risen to a thousand fifty, and it was Wes's turn. He leaned forward in his chair and took a long drag off his cheroot, then dropped it to the floor, flattening it with his expensive black leather dress shoe. He took a breath and eyed Lyle conspiratorially. Something passed between the two; Bren wasn't sure what that meant for Finn, and she clenched her hands to her side.

Wes let out a chuckle and pushed back in his chair. "I'd say you made a fair enough profit, Lyle, wouldn't you?"

And then it hit Bren like a hoof to the head. This was never about wanting the colt and his mother for slaughter; Wes wanted to make a point. He controlled the sale barn, both he and Lyle. And together they controlled her, since a fair amount of her rescues came from auction.

Kill buying was only pocket change for Wes. He only did it for recreation, which irritated Bren more than if he were doing it to eke out a living. His moneymaker was the Clear Spring Horsemen's Club, where the affluent came to play. Since Bren and anyone she knew were working class, Wes's world was a distant planet and inaccessible.

The gavel came down and the words "gone" reverberated up to the peak of the barn. Finn pumped his little arm in celebration, his cheering section whooped and hollered, and Bren's blood boiled in her veins.

"Why, you jackass," she seethed and started in Wes's direction.

Wes stood and moved toward the rail. His ruddy complexion deepened, and his cheeks puffed with indignation. "You pull another stunt like last month, and I'll see your ass in jail, girl." He pointed his thick, blunt finger her way.

Bren, still in the chute, moved to the left where Wes stood, her body pressed up against the rail, their faces inches apart. "Screw you."

Wes reached out to grab Bren, and she jumped back. The broodmare to her left reared hard, the rope snapping from the rail.

To her right, a dark form came at Bren, jumping the rail and knocking her to the ground. She rolled with it. The air popped from her lungs and she struggled to breathe.

Strong arms held her in place. "Don't move," the stranger ordered in a deep male voice she didn't recognize.

Bren looked up. The broodmare snorted and kicked after being cornered by one of Lyle's men. Another pulled on its rope, leading the mare out of the chute. A third man snagged the colt's lead, walking him around behind the mare.

Wes still clenched the rail. "Damn fool."

Bren tried to wrestle free to get to Wes, but the arms around her tightened, and her captor whispered against her ear, "Relax, honey."

Bren didn't miss the drawl in his voice.

She squirmed. "I'm not your—"

"You don't need to thank me, darlin'."

He was mocking her, which made her blood run hot. His arms remained wrapped around her waist, his muscular biceps pillowing her breast. Strong, jean-clad legs held her legs between his, and she was on the verge of hyperventilating.

"Get off me!" She pulled hard against his hold.

He opened his hands wide, and she tumbled out of his grasp, her face scant inches from the mix of dirt, straw, and manure on the barn floor.

"Jerk," she mumbled before grabbing the first pair of hands, only to find Robert Connelly hoisting her up. Tall and blond and wearing a well-tailored navy suit, there was no denying the successful accountant he'd become. Too bad for him he'd returned to Clear Spring, leaving the Baltimore firm to run his father's books.

"Hey, Bren." Robert's eyes, a light shade of sympathetic blue, met hers through a pair of gold wire-framed glasses.

Slightly embarrassed by her show of bravado earlier, and the fact it was directed at his father, her cheeks warmed. "Thanks, but I'm the enemy, remember?"