Broken: The Cavanaugh Brothers Page 2

  A very pretty face, her inner voice persisted.

  Sheridan mentally rolled her eyes at herself.

  Thankfully, something caught Mac’s attention out the window and she turned away. “Well, well,” she said in a near-purr. “Speak of the devil.”

  Sheridan followed her line of vision and promptly forgot her middle name. What was it? Dorie? Donna?

  “Holy cripes,” Mac said, shaking her head. “He’s got one of the mustangs out. Is he nuts? Riding that stallion down Main Street like he was a tame little pony driving to Sunday service.”

  Sheridan’s pulse jumped and her skin tightened around her muscles. Delilah? Danielle? Oh, that was it. Sheridan Danielle. Her eyes widened. A man was riding down the street atop a very rebellious-looking black-and-white horse. No. Not a man. A cowboy. No. Not a cowboy. The hottest cowboy she’d ever seen in her life. Probably the hottest cowboy in existence. Dressed in jeans and a black thermal, pieces of his brown hair peeking out from under a black Stetson, James Cavanaugh kept strict command over the snorting, frustrated animal beneath him. Not by being big and loud and cruel, but with that quiet, confident strength he always seemed to possess. Quiet confidence. It was one of the things about him that intrigued her—and one of the things that would remain a tightly held secret from the woman seated across from her, if she wanted to keep her job secure and the probing questions to a minimum.

  “Looks like he’s in the process of breaking that stallion,” Mac observed, chin lifted, eyes narrowed. “I’ve heard about his work, but I’ve never seen him in action. Quite a sight, eh, Sheri?”

  Sheridan was just about to tackle the “Sheri” issue when James Cavanaugh turned to look in the direction of the bakery and caught her staring at him out the picture window. As heat infused every cell of her body, Sheridan held his gaze. For a heartbeat, or maybe two, she forgot everything else around her. Including that pesky truth about her work and her employer. All she saw was James Cavanaugh’s gorgeous blue eyes. They were probing, hypnotizing. And suddenly, completely without her permission, her hand lifted and she gave him a small wave. Which he acknowledged with a clipped nod, then turned back to the mustang and continued down the street.

  Unnerved, Sheridan blinked and the world came back into focus. What was that? she wondered, turning to face Mackenzie once again, her cheeks flaming and her breathing uneven. What had just happened? And god, what had she done? The wave . . . the staring . . .

  “That was a beautiful animal,” she managed to push out from her dry throat. Then she quickly clarified, “the mustang.”

  Amusement glittered in Mac’s eyes. “They’re his passion—that’s for sure.”

  Passion. It wasn’t a word Sheridan wanted her mind to associate with James Cavanaugh. Too late, mocked the foolish and juvenile voice inside her.

  “So, is that why he’s staying in River Black?” she asked. “To care for them?”

  Mac shrugged. “There’s a lot of reasons, I’m sure. Dealing with Everett’s will. The wedding. And there might be some new information about Cass’s passing.”

  The sudden yet soft heat in Mac’s voice gave Sheridan something solid to focus on. Cass was not only Deacon’s and James’s sister, but she had been Mac’s best friend. Sympathy rolled over the lingering unease James Cavanaugh had ignited within Sheridan.

  “But I ‘spect with the mustangs on Triple C land, James’ll be here for quite a while. I hope so anyway.” Mac’s eyes connected with Sheridan’s again and they were ripe with more questions. “For everyone’s sake.”

  Sheridan eased back her chair, placed her napkin on the table, and got to her feet. She tried not to think about how unsteady her legs felt or why that would be. She’d allowed way too much today. Discussing Deacon’s brother, the staring, the waving . . . “I should get back to the office.”

  Mac picked up her fork again and started in on the last few bites of coconut cake. “Which one are you in today?”

  “Town. But I’ll be heading out to the ranch in the afternoon.”

  “Oh. Maybe I’ll see you there.” She shrugged. “I want to take another look at the spot we may use for the ceremony.”

  “I’m sure whatever you decide will be lovely, Miss Byrd.”

  Sheridan turned to go, but Mac grabbed her hand. “Hey.”

  Preparing to be scolded once again for the formality, Sheridan turned back.

  Mac was chewing her lip. She looked sheepish. “Look, I’m sorry. I know you’re here to work. Deacon’s your boss and you don’t want any problems with that. I’m being a pushy jackass.”

  Sheridan gave the woman an easy, but decidedly professional smile. “It’s no problem. And, Miss Byrd, I’m here for whatever you need.” She slipped her hand out of Mac’s grasp and turned and headed for the door. But halfway there, she paused and glanced back. Professionalism was one thing, but truth in bakery goods was another. “I think the coconut cake would be the perfect choice.”

  Mac looked surprised, and she called back, “But you didn’t even try it.”

  Sheridan nodded at the empty plate in front of the forewoman. “‘This above all: To thine own self, be true.’”

  Ah, Shakespeare, she mused as she exited Hot Buns Bakery and started down the street. He always knew the perfect thing to say.

  • • •

  James slid off the mustang’s back and gave the young creature a few strokes down his warm neck. Bringing a nearly wild animal into town wasn’t the best idea he’d ever come up with, but Comet—that’s what he was calling the stallion for now—needed to be looked at. And after all the mini bombs Dr. Grace Hunter had been dropping lately regarding her father, the ex-sheriff of River Black, and what he did or didn’t know about Cass’s killer, James wanted another chance to see if he could get any more information out of her.

  As he moved his hand down the stallion’s withers and back, Comet eyed him suspiciously. You using me, cowboy? he seemed to be asking. Because I’m sound. Nothing but a little scratch. What d’you say we head back through town toward home, see if that pretty redhead with the sexy gray eyes is still in the bakery? Get us a slice of carrot cake or somethin’.

  James frowned. None of what had just come ticker-taping through his mind was from the stallion or his cautious gaze. That was all him. And unfortunately, it was not the first time he’d been having thoughts like those. Ever since he’d come upon Sheridan O’Neil in the rain a few weeks back, stranded on the side of the road near the Triple C, her beautiful wary eyes, that smart mouth—hell, that spectacular ass—had been assaulting his mind fast and furious. They were the kinds of thoughts that normally made him antsy, made him get out the duffel, pack up his duds, and head to one of the many hang-your-hat spots he’d purchased over the past five years or so.

  But this time he didn’t have the luxury of a quick and painless departure. There were too many glass balls in the air here in River Black. Someone needed to stand beneath ’em. Catch them before they fell and shattered and did some permanent damage. So the unwise attraction to his brother’s citified employee? Hell, he’d be ignoring that. Because women, in his experience, were even more fragile than glass balls. And his track record for catching the fallen ones was dismal at best.

  “Mr. Cavanaugh?” Dr. Grace Hunter emerged from the small veterinary clinic and started down the path toward him. She was a pretty thing. Small, lots of curves, thick dark hair. Cole’s type all the way. Probably why his little brother’s voice changed to a wolf’s growl whenever he talked about her. She came to stand in front of Comet, her green eyes so guarded James wondered if he’d lost the battle before the war had even begun. Not that he gave a damn. She was going to talk—tell him something. She couldn’t avoid the Cavanaugh brothers forever. Not after dangling a goddamn carrot in front of their starving faces, then yanking it away.

  “Morning, Doc,” he said.

  Her gaze shifted to the sta
llion. “Something wrong with your horse?”

  “Matter of fact. And since you couldn’t come out to the ranch, I thought I’d come to you.”

  “Right,” she said quickly. “Sorry about that. I’m just really swamped at the moment.”

  He took a gander at the empty parking lot. “Yeah, I see that.”

  She ignored him. “So, a flesh wound on his hindquarters, you say?” She headed around back to check things out.

  “I did the best I could to treat it, but it didn’t seem to heal, and then it started to look infected.”

  She gave Comet, who was uneasy at best, a gentle pat on the croup, then ran her hand down his thigh. “Probably something still inside the wound.” She took out her bag and riffled through it. “I’m going to clean it up first, and then we’ll see what we got.”

  James watched her work, watched as she used Comet as a protective barrier between herself and him. Anything to discourage a real conversation between them. She had to know that wouldn’t work. That, hell, he wasn’t giving up that easily. When he did manage to get a ten-second glimpse of her, he found himself impressed by her manner and skills. He’d been gone from River Black for a long time—long enough for a few new businesses, like RB Animal Care, to open up. But he’d heard about the young vet’s skill and nature. And true to telling, she had a calm, gentle way about her, yet was unwilling to take any bullshit from the animal she was treating. Damn fine recipe for a good country doc.

  After a minute or two, she held up a pair of silver tweezers, a thin strip of brown pinched between the tips. “Looks like we got a wood splinter. From a fence, no doubt. I’m going to put some topical on the wound, but I’m also going to prescribe antibiotics.”

  “Sounds good,” James said, rubbing Comet’s neck. “Then after maybe we can talk.”

  She didn’t answer him.

  “Dr. Hunter—” James began.

  “There’s nothing to talk about, Mr. Cavanaugh,” she answered abruptly, her focus remaining on the horse’s hindquarters. “I told you and your brothers. Several times, in fact. What I said in the Bull’s Eye, what I thought I heard from my daddy, it was a mistake.”

  Yeah, she’d been saying that for days. Every time he or Deac or Cole tried to get her to talk. She’d made a mistake. Her daddy wasn’t right in the mind. Dementia had set in. What horseshit. None of them believed her. Well, they didn’t want to believe her. Because with just a couple of words—Diary existed. My father has it—she’d brought on something all three of them had lost a long time ago.

  Hope.

  It took supreme effort in that moment to tamp down the frustration simmering inside James. This woman didn’t understand the magnitude of that word—what she’d started—what she couldn’t undo. No matter what she said now, or tried to get them to believe, in their minds her father might very well hold the key to a twelve-year-old mystery. To the truth—the hell of his sister’s murder, and every damn day afterward.

  His gut tightened. All that time not knowing what had happened to Cass. Or who had happened to Cass. His sister had lay dead and alone, with no comfort and no justice. That would not stand. James and his brothers owed the truth to the sister they had all failed. But with the way the vet was playing this, he knew that to get that truth, he and Deacon and Cole had to go easy. Break down the real reason she was backpedaling on that declaration she’d made at the Bull’s Eye.

  He summoned his calmest voice. “If you’d just let one of us speak with your father—”

  “No,” she said tightly. She stood up, her bag in hand, her eyes lifting to connect with his. “My father’s ill. His mind’s not his own anymore. He’s highly medicated.”

  James bit back the urge to snarl, And my sister is dead. “We wouldn’t push him, Doc. You could be there to make sure. We just want to ask him about what he said to you—”

  “He didn’t know what he was saying,” she interrupted caustically. “He doesn’t even remember saying it.”

  “What about the diary? Have you even looked for it?”

  “I looked in all his belongings. There’s no diary,” she insisted, her tone as tense as her body language. “It was just ramblings. Something he’d wanted to find, no doubt, and hadn’t.”

  James ground his molars. Clearly, the woman in front of him was trying to protect her father and backing her into a corner wasn’t going to make her tell him the truth. It would just make her dig her heels in further. For now, he’d leave it. He and Deac and Cole would have to find another way to get the information they needed.

  “Well, thank you for patching him up, Doc,” James said in a careful voice. “Better be on my way.”

  Grace looked momentarily startled, as if the last thing she expected was for him to drop the subject. Then relief and professional distance settled over her features. “I’ll get that prescription.”

  He watched her walk up the path, then disappear inside the clinic. Was it possible? Could it actually be possible that Sheriff Hunter was just a sick old man with wild ravings about a past he couldn’t remember, a past that didn’t exist? Hell, he didn’t know. But he was going to find out. Because discovering and revealing the truth about Cass’s disappearance and her killer was the only way the Cavanaugh brothers could honor the sister they loved.

  The sister they had failed to protect.

  Two

  “That’s not going to be acceptable, Mr. Palmer.” Sheridan stood on the porch steps of her boss’s new ranch property with her back to the late-afternoon sun and her eyes on the contractor she was ever having issues with. “Your quote included all materials for the work.”

  The man, who looked to be in his midfifties, tipped his hat back and regarded her with an almost parental glare of frustration. “Things change when you work over a long period of time, honey.”

  Honey. So, we’re going to play that game, are we? “That’s not my problem, Mr. Palmer,” she said. She may not have been wearing one of her power suits, but her don’t-try-to-screw-me-over attitude transcended both attire and office building.

  “Prices for materials aren’t fixed,” the man continued.

  “Of course they’re not,” Sheridan agreed. “Which is something you should’ve factored into the estimate.”

  He chuckled softly. “You’re new to these parts. We do things a little different ’round here.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Yup.”

  “And if I decide not to accept that excuse?”

  His shoulders lifted and lowered in a carefree shrug. “Then maybe we can’t get the work done on time, sweetheart.”

  Sheridan stepped down so she was face-to-face with the man. If there was one thing she had grown accustomed to and knew how to handle, it was a certain brand of men in business. The ones with the disease her aging, single, working mother had called Bastard-Male-Itis. The one, during her second year of business school, Sheridan had renamed Underestimate Me, Assholery in honor of a particularly douchey econ professor.

  “You could walk away from this project, Mr. Palmer,” she stated evenly. “Refuse to honor your agreement with Mr. Cavanaugh. But understand if you do so, you’ll be hit with a lawsuit so devastatingly fierce and impossible to fight, it will not only bankrupt you, it will bury your entire family in debt.”

  He blanched, but his eyes flared with anger.

  “Wait. I’m not done,” she continued coolly. “Or you can choose to stick around and finish the job you signed on to do in a timely and cost-effective manner.”

  His expression pinched, he looked her over. “Well, aren’t you somethin’?”

  “I need your answer, Mr. Palmer.” She eyed him sharply. “But if you do choose to stick around, know this—and I’m only going to say it once—my name isn’t sweetheart, honey, baby, or sugar. It’s Ms. O’Neil.”

  Palmer’s jaw flicked with tension.

&nbs
p; Mom would be proud, Sheridan thought, her eyes pinned to the man before her. As a salesgirl at Sears for twenty-two years, the other Ms. O’Neil had never been called anything but Georgia.

  “Do we understand each other, Mr. Palmer?” she pressed.

  Before he could answer, someone called out from the driveway below, “There a problem here?”

  The male voice brought Sheridan’s head around and her heart plummeting into her belly. James Cavanaugh and his massive black horse were parked about fifteen feet away, at the end of the stepping stones leading up to the porch. How hadn’t she heard him ride up? Moments ago, she’d been verbally kicking ass; now she couldn’t seem to find her voice. That was not like her. She did not melt in front of men. Ever. Well, not exactly ever. There had been a little melting when she’d ridden on his horse with him a couple weeks ago, and in his car with him. And then there was the crazy window wave at the bakery today . . . Oh Lord, he looked so intense, so gorgeous, so imposing on top of that stallion. But truly it was his eyes, those twin pools of probing, hungry ocean water that really turned her knees to melted butter.

  She sounded crazy. Crazy and slightly infatuated. She was going to have to watch that. Only disappointment and pain came with unsteady limbs.

  “No problem,” the contractor said, though his tone hinted otherwise. He pulled off his hat and wiped his brow with his shirt sleeve.

  “Mr. Palmer and I were just coming to an understanding,” Sheridan said, clearing her throat. “One I’m assuming we won’t have to repeat again.”

  James walked his horse to the very edge of the stone path, his gaze shifting to the man beside her. “That right, Caleb?”

  Caleb? Dammit. So, they knew each other. She supposed that wasn’t a surprise considering how small the town was. Odds were then that James was probably going to take the older man’s side in their dispute. Or at least smooth Palmer’s ruffled feathers. Long-held relationships, nepotism, they trumped most any issue in business. And around here—with the Stetson-wearing boys’ club—she guessed it was probably even more so.