Final Scream

by Lisa Jackson

Genres: Mystery; Romance

Synopsis

New York Times best-selling author Lisa Jackson crafts the breathtaking tale of a woman haunted by disaster, unable to escape the ghosts of her past. When she was only 16, Cassidy Buchanan fell for the 19-year-old bad boy in town, Brig McKenzie—who’d had his share of run-ins with both the law and the local women. Then a terrible fire killed Cassidy’s sister, and Brig was the chief suspect. Seventeen years later, an eerily similar fire seriously injures Cassidy’s husband Chase, who happens to be Brig’s brother. With the earlier fire still an open case, suspicion turns to Cassidy, the only person connected to both tragedies.

Release date: August 1, 2005

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 544

Sample

 

 

I imagined her death.

Not a quick, easy giving up of the ghost, but a slow, torturous passing from this world to the next where, I was certain, she’d meet Lucifer at hell’s gate. Which was perfect and, I figured, long overdue.

I felt a little thrill. A tingle of anticipation as I double-checked the locks of the old mill, then saw again the thin, nearly invisible filament that I had stretched between the detonation device and the pile of oily rags near the only route of escape, the doorway from the parking lot, the one she’d use to enter.

Yes, yes, yes!

I envisioned her walking through the cobwebs that draped over the doorway and into this gargantuan room, the heart of the hundred-year-old behemoth of a building that was in a sorry state of decay. Slated for a renovation that would never come.

So intent on her purpose, to meet a lover who would never show, she wouldn’t notice that overhead, the metal roof gaped, creaking in the hot summer wind. Nor would she see the owl in the rafters as he flapped his wings before taking flight. She’d ignore the scent of dust and the old, unmistakable odor of sweat from a century of men who had toiled here.

Blind as she was to everything except herself, she’d miss the fact that the entire building had been wired to go up in the worst conflagration this sorry little town had ever seen.

Perfect.

I licked my lips in anticipation; tasted the salt from sweat pouring off my skin. Fingered the padlock in my jacket pocket; the one I’d removed from the back exit. Burn, you sorry little bitch, I thought and smiled to myself at how clever I was and how no one would ever suspect me. I’d already been pegged, typecast by this pathetic, small-minded community as one who didn’t have the brains or wherewithal for something as complicated as murder.

Little did they know.

Just wait, I thought and trembled in eager anticipation.

In my mind’s eye, I witnessed her walking through the doorway in expensive shoes—probably those high-heeled slip-ons she liked, as they showed off the perfect curve of her calves and gave her a few extra inches from which she could look down her straight nose. Then she would make her way toward the back of the building to a private room that had once been a windowless office.

I nearly fumbled with the detonator as I considered how she’d first understand what was about to happen.

She might catch a whiff of smoke in the stale air, but she’d think it was only the strike of a match as a cigarette was lit; that her lover had gotten to their tryst a few minutes before she had.

That would please her.

She loved to make an entrance.

The goddamned whore!

She was so damned predictable.

She’d call out and wait, hoping to hear him respond, and when he didn’t she wouldn’t worry, just think he was playing a seductive game of hide-and-seek as he lurked in the shadows. Waiting for her. Lusting after her. His cock rock-hard with need.

She’d smile seductively. Lift a dark, inquisitive eyebrow. Unbutton her blouse to show off her cleavage on this hot, breathless night and wind her long hair into a knot that she’d hold over her head, pushing those beautiful breasts forward. Oh, she understood how to play the game. How well I knew.

My hands were slippery in my gloves as I fantasized about how she, in that low, throaty voice, would call out to him again, saying something naughty. Dirty. Maybe she’d take off a high heel and playfully let it dangle from her fingers.

But the smell of smoke would be stronger by then and she’d start to wonder, perhaps feel that first little niggle of fear slide down her spine.

I smiled at that thought, tamped down the rage that burned through me at the thought of her seductive games. Jesus, I hoped she’d experience real, gut-wrenching, piss-your-pants terror tonight.

That’s what it was all about.

That, and getting rid of her.

Forever.

In my vision, I saw her, dark hair intentionally mussed. Disturbed, even a little frightened, she’d yell his name more loudly. Anxiously. She would be getting angry. Worried. She’d warn him that she was in no mood for jokes and this wasn’t funny anyway. She’d even turn petulantly, offering him a view of her rounded little ass.

Because she knew it was flawless and, oh, so inviting.

But by that time it would be too late.

She’d take one step toward the door and…

Bam!

The gunpowder would explode.

She’d be thrown off her feet.

She’d land with a bone-rattling smack onto the hard wood floor.

Her head would crack on the oily planks.

The building would shudder.

A ball of fire would spew sparks and flames to the ceiling.

Tinder-dry walls would ignite, fire climbing up to the rafters, sparks raining down, catching in her hair, burning her clothes, sizzling against her skin.

And she’d scream…oh, how she’d scream.

I quivered with the thrill of my fantasy, so close at hand.

Raw panic would surge through her. She’d be frantic. Realize that she was about to die in a horrible oven from which there would be no escape.

I felt another shiver of exhilaration zing through my blood, and the sound of Jim Morrison’s voice echoed through my head as the vision became more distinct. More real.

“Try to set the night on fi—re,” I whispered, as I, through the projector of my mind, watched what was to come.

The old timbers of this mill would quake, burn hot, groan eerily and tumble down, breaking into hundreds of flaming chunks as the fiery walls began to collapse and the roof gave way.

Dazed, blinded by smoke, she’d feel horrifying fear. She’d cough and gasp. Crying, begging for someone to save her, she’d crawl on bloodied knees to the back door—her only hope of escape. But it would be shut forever. The padlock that I’d opened earlier for my escape, firmly back in place.

Black smoke would fill her lungs. She’d cough. Gag. Scream. Pound on the old door.

But no one would hear her.

No one would come.

The smoke and heat would be terrifying.

And she would be trapped. That was the best part. Those last, brutal minutes of her life. Would she wail and keen? Pray wildly to a deaf god? See her life flash behind her eyes and regret all her sins?

In a matter of seconds, the entire building would be engulfed in intense, hellish flames.

Her lungs would feel as if they were being seared.

Flames would lick her bare flesh.

Pain would tear through every inch of her.

Her skin would begin to peel from her body.

And she’d know, in those last desperate moments, that she’d been condemned to hell.

But she wouldn’t know who had done this to her.

Nor would she know why.

Not that it mattered.

Because I would know.

Finally, she would have gotten what she’d deserved.

Excited, barely able to think beyond what was about to happen, I lingered in the darkened building, near the back wall of the large room that had been the receiving area. Waiting. Heart pounding. Feeling sweat run down my back.

Where was she?

I glanced at my watch, then through the dirty windows where I saw the streetlights of town giving off a dull blue light. Few cars passed this way.

She was already five minutes late.

“Come on, come on,” I whispered.

Relax. She’s never on time. You know that.

My nerves were jumping. What if something went wrong? What if she didn’t show up?

Don’t worry. She’ll be here…don’t panic…do not panic.

Slowly, I let out my breath. Rested my head against the wall. Closed my eyes for what seemed an eternity. Then I checked my watch again. Nearly ten minutes had passed since the meeting time. Shit! What if she’d decided to let him wait? What if they’d had a fight? What if she’d called him to confirm and realized that she’d been set up? What if she’d called the police…no, no, she wouldn’t. There was no reason. And yet my pulse was jumping erratically.

My fists clenched. She had to come here tonight.

She had to!

All this planning couldn’t be just a waste of time.

She had to die.

Tonight.

Five more agonizing minutes passed, and she was now fifteen minutes late.

Son of a bitch, son of a goddamned bitch! I pounded my gloved fist against the wall. I had to leave soon. Before anyone noticed the truck parked in an alley a few blocks north.

This was all a waste of time, a big pain in the ass!

Headlights flashed against the windows; the sound of a car’s engine cut through the night.

Finally.

All my muscles racheted up a notch. I glanced through the window again but only caught a glimpse of a dark vehicle as it flew into the parking lot.

Tires crunched on the sparse gravel.

She was here!

It was now or never.

Fingers shaking, the gloves hampering me, I set the timer…I had three minutes to get away from the building and into the truck. It would take me two minutes to sprint to the alley, and that was if I ran fast and didn’t encounter any problems. I should leave right now; but I couldn’t. Not quite yet. I was too fascinated by what was to come.

I heard footsteps and then a hesitation at the doorway.

Silence…as if she sensed something was wrong.

I held my breath. Told myself that she was just pausing to primp—to touch up her lipstick or finger-comb her hair, do a little something to ensure that she looked perfect.

Christ, what a slut!

I was nearly jumping out of my skin.

Get the hell in here!

But the seconds kept ticking down. Thirty gone. Now thirty-five.

Come on. Come on, you bitch. Don’t make me drag you!

I held my breath and waited in the darkness. The timer was a simple device; I couldn’t stop it. Once it was set, it would count off the remaining seconds then detonate. There was no fail-safe on the damned thing.

I had to leave. Now.

But I had to be sure. Certain she would die.

For God’s sake, come the hell in!

Still the door from the parking lot didn’t creak open.

You should have waited to set the timer until she entered. To make sure that she got into this place and allow yourself enough time to get out. Now you’re trapped!

Sweat was running into my eyes. Adrenaline shooting through my blood. I’d have to do something. And fast.

My heart was pumping wildly, pounding in my ears.

I eased my way through the dark hallway to the back door.

Come on, you bitch! Get inside!

Finally the footsteps resumed.

I smiled. All was not lost after all.

The lock on the door rattled.

I slipped out the hallway to the back exit. A rush of dry summer wind hit me full in the face.

The footsteps behind me were louder.

Heavy.

Too heavy.

Damn!

Panic rifled through me.

“Are you here?” a deep male voice called, echoing through the empty building.

A man?

Son of a bitch!

It wasn’t her.

Disappointment ripped through me.

All of my planning for nothing.

“Hey! Where are you?” A pause, then a knowing little snigger and the sound of a lighter clicking as he lit a cigarette. “So you want to play games, huh? Okay by me. Come out, come out, wherever you are.”

I recognized the voice. Thought I’d be sick at the realization that I was going to kill him. But it was too late. I could not wait. I’d already lost a full minute. I had to leave now or I’d be caught. Detained. Questioned by the police.

I could yell and warn him. Risk being exposed.

But then I’d lose my next chance to kill her.

No way.

I slipped the padlock from my pocket, snapped it through the metal brackets and turned the dial. I gave the lock a tug. It didn’t release.

And then I ran.

So this was how the other half lived.

Brig McKenzie threw his denim jacket over the seat of his beat-up old Harley-Davidson. Squinting against the harsh sunlight, he glared at the groomed lawn that rose in tiered layers to the monstrosity of a house mounted upon the crest of a small hill. Rock walls supported each layer of clipped grass, and roses heavy with bloom splashed the grounds with color and scented the air. No dandelion or blossom of clover or thistle dared interrupt the thick green carpet of Buchanan grass.

This ranch—if that’s what you’d call it—was a far cry from his own home, the single-wide trailer he’d shared with his mother and brother for most of his life. An orange crate shored up with two-by-fours sufficed as the front step, and dry weeds and crabgrass choked the gravel walkway. A metal sign, rusted with age, swung near the screened front window and boasted palm readings and psychic consultations by Sister Sunny. His ma. Part Cherokee and part Gypsy and the best damned mother a kid could ask for.

Gazing at the Buchanan house, he felt none of the jealousy that consumed his older brother, Chase.

“Christ, Brig, you should see that place,” Chase had said on more than one occasion. “It’s a mansion. A goddamned mansion complete with maids and cooks and even a chauffeur. Can you believe it? In Prosperity, Oregon, which is Hicksville, U.S.A., an honest-to-goodness chauffeur. Man, what a life.” Chase had leaned across the scratched Formica table in the trailer’s kitchen and whispered, “You know, I’d kill for a place like that!”

Brig wasn’t all that impressed. He figured old man Buchanan had his own demons to deal with.

Now, he stared at the massive gray stone and cedar structure that was Rex Buchanan’s home. Three rambling stories with gabled roofs, arched windows, decorative shutters and more chimneys than Brig cared to count. A monument built to a timber king.

Buchanan owned nearly everything and everyone in town, and to hear Brig’s mother tell it, old Rex was practically a god on earth, but then his mother said a lot of things—strange, psychic things that bothered Brig. He didn’t believe in all that astrological crap, and yet Sunny McKenzie had scored big-time on more than one of her predictions. It was spooky—gave him the creeps.

He didn’t want to think of his beautiful mother, whose husband had walked out on her soon after Brig was born. Instead he concentrated on the vast acres of land that belonged to the Buchanans. Fences, painted stark white, split the countryside into smaller fields where expensive horses—mostly quarter horses from the looks of them—grazed on the dry summer grass. Sleek coats gleamed in the late afternoon light—brown, black, sorrel and bay—as the animals swatted flies with their tails. Gangly-legged half-grown foals tried to mimic their mothers and pick at the sun-bleached grass.

The ranch seemed to go on for miles, acre after acre of dry fields that rolled upward to the foothills, where thick stands of fir and cedar, the backbone of Buchanan’s business, waited to be felled by the logger’s ax. The timber on this spread alone was worth a fortune.

Yep, Rex Buchanan was one rich son of a bitch.

“You McKenzie?”

Brig glanced over his shoulder and found a tall man with weathered skin, sharp nose and deep-set gray eyes. Dressed as if he planned to do a little rodeo riding, one thumb hooked on a tattered belt loop of his dusty jeans, the man stepped out of the doorway of the stable and crossed the yard. “I’m Mac.” He shoved his Stetson back on his head. Sweat ran down from his forehead. “The boss said you’d be showin’ up.” Mac’s expression, one of silent distrust, didn’t alter. He offered Brig a callused hand with a firm shake, but didn’t let go. “I’m the foreman and I’ll be watchin’ you.” His grip tightened just a fraction, squeezing Brig’s hand to the point of pain. “I don’t want no trouble here, boy.” Finally, he released the vise of his fingers. “You got yourself a reputation in town; don’t pretend that you don’t know about it. The boss, well, he’s into charitable causes and hard-luck cases, but I’m not. Either you pull your own weight around here and do as you’re told or you’re out. Got it?”

“Got it,” Brig said, bristling under his work shirt. He should find it amusing, he supposed, the way everyone assumed that he was up to no good, but he didn’t. Not today. He didn’t like the idea of working for Buchanan, but in a town the size of Prosperity, he had little choice and he’d lost more than his share of decent jobs already. At nineteen he was nearly out of options. He gritted his teeth and told himself that he was lucky to be here, but a part of him, an inner rebellion that he couldn’t quite tamp down, told him that working for Rex Buchanan was going to be the worst mistake of his life.

“Good.” Mac clapped him on the shoulder. “Then we understand each other. Now, come on, I’ll show you where you can start.” He headed off for the stable, Brig at his heels. “I expect you here at five-thirty every morning and sometimes we’ll work until it gets dark, at nine—ten o’clock. You’ll get overtime. The boss is death on payin’ a man his fair share, but you’ll be expected to stay until whatever job we’re doin’ is done. Okay?”

“No problem.” Brig couldn’t hide the sarcasm in his voice and Mac stopped dead in his tracks.

“I’m not talkin’ about just occasionally. In the summer we work nearly ’round the clock and you won’t have much time for drinkin’ or women.” He threw open the door to the stable. Dust swirled in air thick with the smells of horses, dung, and urine. Flies buzzed against grimy windows and the temperature in the stable seemed to rise another five degrees. “Let’s cut the crap, okay?” Facing Brig again, he jabbed a long, bony finger at Brig’s chest. “I know about you, McKenzie. Heard all the stories. If it ain’t stealin’, it’s booze, and if it ain’t booze, it’s women.”

Brig’s shoulder muscles bunched and his fingers coiled into fists, but he didn’t say a word, just held the bastard’s hard gaze.

“The women around here, they’re ladies, and they don’t need no riffraff from the wrong side of the tracks sniffin’ at their skirts. One thing that’s sure to piss off the old man is some randy young buck tryin’ to get into his daughters’ panties. And that doesn’t begin to say what their older brother would do. Derrick’s not someone you want to mess with; he’s got a mean streak in him that runs real deep. He’s on the possessive side and he won’t take kindly to anyone tryin’ to feel up his sisters. Miss Angela and Miss Cassidy, they’re off limits, y’hear?”

“Loud and clear,” Brig replied with a sneer. As if he’d want one of Buchanan’s uppity daughters. He’d seen the older one in town, a flirt who knew she was drop-dead gorgeous and toyed with the randy boys that hung out at the Burger Shed. The younger girl wasn’t near as pretty as her half sister, but she could look right through a man. Rumor had it she was a tomboy, liked horses more than she did boys, and couldn’t control her sharp tongue. She was too young anyway, barely sixteen. Brig wasn’t interested.

He hadn’t had much contact with the Buchanan girls. The dark-haired tease had been shipped off to a Catholic school in Portland—St. Something-or-other—boarding there during the week, coming home only on the weekends to show off for the boys, and Cassidy was just too damned young and headstrong. Neither one was Brig’s kind of woman. He liked them sexy but honest, horny but clever, with no plans for a future with him. He wasn’t interested in rich women; they just spelled trouble. He’d leave the wealthy girls who were looking for a good time with the wrong kind of guy to his brother. Chase had a lust for wealth, expensive cars and rich women. Brig just didn’t give a damn.

Mac was explaining what his responsibilities were: “…as well as hauling hay and helping with the combining. We’ll be puttin’ up fence over by Lost Dog Creek where it borders the Caldwell place and then you can work with the horses. From what I hear, you’re supposed to know how to handle even the meanest of the lot.” They walked through the back doors to stand in the shade of the building.

In the next paddock a spirited two-year-old colt was holding court. His head was high, nostrils quivering in the dry wind that swept through the valley, ears pricked forward to the east where a herd of fillies was grazing. The colt pawed the dry ground, threw his head back and let out a high whistle, then ran from one end of the paddock to the other, his tail streaming behind him like a red banner. “That there’s Remmington…well, Sir George Remmington the Third or some such shit. ’Sposed to be Miss Cassidy’s horse, but he’s just too damned headstrong. Threw her off two weeks ago, nearly caused her shoulder to separate, and yet she still insists she’s gonna break him.”

Mac patted his breast pocket, found a crumpled pack of Marlboros. “I don’t know who’s more stubborn, the horse or the gal. Anyway, Remmington will be your first project.” The Marlboro wedged between his teeth, he slid a glance toward Brig and lit up. Smoke drifted out of Mac’s nostrils. “You make sure that he’s under control before Miss Cassidy tries to ride him again.”

“I’m supposed to stop her if she tries?”

Grinning, Mac drew hard on his cigarette. “Ain’t no one gonna stop her if she tries, but she had a bad fall. She ain’t stupid. She’ll wait.”

The colt, as if sensing he had an audience, galloped to the far end of the paddock, where he kicked up a cloud of dust and reared, his front legs pawing the air.

Mac’s eyes thinned. “He’s a damned devil.”

“I can handle him.”

“Good.” Mac looked skeptical but Brig would prove him wrong. He’d grown up around horses, hanging out at his Uncle Luke’s ranch. Luke had let him learn the trade but had to sell out. Since then Brig had worked on a couple of other places and ended up being fired from each, not because he didn’t do a decent job, but because he couldn’t control his temper and let his fists do the talking. The last job, only two weeks before at the Jefferson place, was the worst. He’d ended up with a broken nose and bruised fist. The other guy, the one who had made the mistake of calling him the son of a “cheap Indian whore” before throwing a punch that Brig had sidestepped, was feeling the pain of Brig’s wrath every time he took a breath, compliments of two broken ribs. No charges had been filed. Enough ranch hands had seen the fight to know that Brig wasn’t to blame.

“Okay, so that’s it.” Mac crushed his cigarette beneath the toe of a scuffed cowboy boot, reached inside the door of the stable and dragged out a shovel. “You can start today by cleaning the stalls.” A spark of malevolence gleamed in Mac’s eyes as he tossed the shovel to Brig, who snatched it quickly out of the air. “As long as you do as I say, things’ll be fine, but if I ever find out that you crossed me, you’re out.”

He turned to walk into the stable, but a man barely out of his teens, about the same age as Brig, blocked his path. Tall and muscular with suspicious blue eyes, he just stared at Mac. “Oh, this here’s Willie. He can help you with the shovelin’.”

Brig knew all about Willie Ventura. The town half-wit. A retarded boy whom Rex Buchanan had decided to take in and offer a job. Willie wasn’t bad-looking, but his hair was always mussed, his shirt dirty, his mouth slack a lot of the time. He hung out in town drinking sodas at the Burger Shed or playing some kind of pool at Burley’s—a local striptease joint.

“Willie,” Mac said, “you’ll be workin’ with Brig from now on.”

Willie’s mouth worked a bit and his eyebrows drew over his eyes in a worried scowl. “Trouble,” he said, motioning quickly in Brig’s direction and avoiding his eyes.

“No, he’s workin’ here now. Boss’s orders.”

Willie wasn’t happy. His thick lips pulled into a puckered little frown. “Big trouble.”

Mac rubbed his chin and eyed Brig again. “Yeah, well,” he said, “nothin’ I can do about that.”

 

Cassidy’s shoulder throbbed, but she wasn’t going to let any stubborn mule of a horse beat her. She downed two aspirins with a swallow of water, then dashed out of the bathroom, her boots ringing loudly on the bare steps of the back staircase. She was out the screen door before her mother could catch her. Racing down the hill to the stable, she ignored the fact that it was twilight, nearly dark. Night or day, it was time to teach that damned colt a lesson.

Sweat beaded on her forehead—the heat of the afternoon still lingering like a curse. Even the faint breeze had little effect on the temperature, which had been hovering near a hundred for most of the afternoon. The roses had begun to wilt in the heat despite the sprinklers that were pumping well water onto the dry beds. Yellow jackets, thirsty and mean, hovered near the sprinkler heads.

At the stable, she didn’t bother with the lights; she could still see well enough and there was no reason to let her mother know what she was up to. Dena Buchanan would have a fit if she knew Cassidy was deliberately disobeying her. Again. Though she’d never said it, Cassidy was sure that her mother wanted her to be more like Angie, her half sister. Beautiful, boy-crazy Angela, who dieted to keep her waist tiny and brushed her long black hair until it gleamed. Her clothes came from the finest stores in Portland, Seattle and San Francisco, where sometimes she’d been asked to model. With flawless skin, high cheekbones, pouty lips and eyes as blue as a summer sky, Angie Buchanan was, without a doubt, the most beautiful girl in all of Prosperity.

The boys were crazy for her and she teased them mercilessly, reveling in their adoration, lust and sexual frustration. Even Derrick seemed mesmerized around his sister.

It was enough to make Cassidy sick.

She yanked a bridle off a hook in the tack room and found Remmington in his stall. In the half-light his liquid eyes held a tiny spark of fire. Yep, this one liked a challenge. Well, so did she. “Okay, you mean old jackass,” she said in her most coaxing tone, “it’s time for you to learn a thing or two.”

She slipped through the gate to the stall, stepped inside and sensed the tension in the air. The colt pawed the straw and snorted, the whites of his eyes showing in the darkness.

“You’ll be all right,” she said, slipping the bridle over his head and feeling his tense muscles quiver as she fiddled with the buckle. “We’ll just take a nice little ride—”

A hand clamped over her forearm.

She yelped. Her heart nearly stopped. Spinning around, she started to scream before she recognized Brig McKenzie. Her father’s latest acquisition. That thought bothered her. She’d heard stories about Brig and had admired his irreverent streak, never once believing that he, like everyone else in town, would eventually become a Buchanan possession.

Tall, broad-shouldered, with tanned skin and a nose that had been broken more than once, he glared down at her as if she’d done something wrong.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she demanded, trying to yank back her arm and failing.

“You know, that’s exactly what I was gonna ask you.” Furious blue eyes assessed her. Thin, nearly cruel lips drew flat over his teeth. She knew in a split second why so many girls in town found him dangerously sexy.

“I came here to get my horse and ride—”

“No way.”

“You think you can stop me?” she scoffed, unsettled by the way he was holding her, furious that he would try to tell her what to do. Truth to tell, she was more than a little embarrassed that he’d sneaked up on her without her hearing him, but she wasn’t going to let that side of her show.

“It’s my job.”

“Remmington’s your job? Since when?”

“Yesterday.” His voice was rough and close, his breath much too warm as it whispered across her face. “Your dad hired me to train your horse.”

“My dad hired you to work in the fields.”

“And with this colt.”

“I don’t need any help.”

“That’s not the way I heard it.”

“Then you heard wrong.” She wrenched her arm away and winced as pain burned through her shoulder. “This is my horse and I’ll do what I please with him.”

A derisive snort. “The way I heard it, he does what he pleases with you.”

“Get out of my way—” she warned, and to her mortification he laughed, low and sexy and without much real emotion. But he didn’t move, just stood between her and the animal, looking for all the world like a range-tough cowboy, determined to have his way. His chin was hard and set, his eyes narrowed obstinately. He smelled of sweat, horses and leather along with the faint undercurrent of smoke.

Her heartbeat quickened a bit and she saw his gaze shift to her throat, where she felt her pulse throb angrily. For some reason it seemed as if the stable was fading away, that suddenly she and he were the only two people in the universe. Aware that her chest was rising and falling much too quickly, she wished it wasn’t so damned hot. Hot enough for perspiration to soak the back of her shirt.

“Why are you here so late?” Time to put him on the defensive.

“Just puttin’ things away.” He unbuckled the bridle with ease, as if he’d done it a thousand times. The bit jangled as he slipped the leather straps off the colt, and Remmington tossed his great head.

“Then you’ll be leaving soon.”

Again that humorless laugh. “Don’t count on it.” He walked through the gate and held it open for Cassidy. She had no choice but to follow him through. “I might just spend the night here,” he said, ramming the bolt into place.

“You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.” His voice was challenging. Firm. She would have liked nothing better than to get the best of him right then and there, but she didn’t know how. If, as he said, he’d been hired by her father, he had every right to be in the stable. If he was lying…well, he wasn’t. No one could be that stupid. She’d heard a lot of stories about Brig McKenzie. Some wild, others downright nasty, but no one had ever accused him of being a fool. Oh, he’d done some stupid things, but only when he was drunk or involved with a woman.

The thought of him lying with a woman, making love to her with his tough, sinewy body, did strange things to Cassidy’s insides, caused her stomach to flutter and a rush of warm blood to invade her face. She closed her mind to those kinds of thoughts.

Lately, ever since Rusty Calhoun had kissed her behind the football stadium, pressing her back against the rough cement wall, she’d been thinking too much about men and women and the kinds of things they did behind closed doors. Rusty had even reached up and opened her blouse, clumsily sticking his hand into her bra and trying to fondle her before she’d torn away from him. Kissing him hadn’t been all that unpleasant, even if they’d both been bumbling teenagers, but doing anything else was a little frightening. Tempting but scary. Rusty had called every night since, but she hadn’t gone out with him again. She wasn’t ready for the kind of fun he expected of her. And she suspected he was just using her to get closer to Angie.

All the boys wanted Angie.

So why was she thinking such forbidden thoughts about Brig McKenzie?

He was a hired hand. He couldn’t tell her what to do, but she was all too aware of his eyes following her as she marched rigidly back to the house.

Once on the back porch, she kicked off her boots and sneaked up the back stairs to her room. She heard music drifting from the radio in the kitchen, and the smooth voice of a news anchorman blared from the television in the den. Somehow she’d find a way to get around Brig McKenzie. He couldn’t stand guard over Remmington day and night. Or could he?

Heart pumping more wildly than it should have been, she locked her door, then stole across her room without bothering with the light. At the open window she paused and looked over the stable yard. Dusk had colored the fields with deep purple shadows, and only a few dark shapes, the horses allowed to stay out at night, spotted the dry, sun-dried fields. But Brig was there. Leaning against the fence, staring up at her window. He struck a match and his face was illuminated in the twilight for just a second. Chiseled, rugged features, all sharp angles and planes, thick black eyebrows and eyes a mystical shade of blue didn’t waver as he stared up at her and lit his cigarette, then deliberately waved out his match.

Her throat went dry and she held on to the window casing with rigid fingers. Biting her lip, she stared outside where the lone figure leaned against the white boards. The tip of his cigarette glowed red, and the thin, acrid smell of smoke wafted upward, past the aromas of freshly mown grass, dry roses and dust. Insects hummed in the warm night, and Brig silently smoked, a dark sentinel intent on having his way. As stubborn as the colt she intended to break.

Well, he couldn’t stay here forever. She’d just have to outwait and outwit him. Turning from the window, she heard his laughter again, low and mocking, seeming to ricochet off the distant hills.

Jed Baker rapped his fingers on the hot steering wheel of his new Corvette. Parked at the Burger Shed, he left the keys in the ignition and let the radio play as he sipped his Coke and gazed past the small restaurant to the picnic area where a few tables were clustered in the shade of three giant fir trees. Angie Buchanan and her best friend, Felicity Caldwell, were seated there, sucking the catsup off fries and lazily drinking soda, as if they didn’t know he and Bobby were in the convertible, staring at them. “Hotel California” by the Eagles was playing, the familiar notes rolling out of the Corvette’s speakers, but he barely heard. Squinting against the sun, he said, “She doesn’t know it yet, but I’m gonna be the one to bust Angie Buchanan’s cherry.” His eyes slit in delicious consideration as he swirled the shaved ice in his Coke.

“Yeah, and I’m the pope,” Bobby Alonzo replied with a sneer. He finished his chocolate shake in one swallow and stared through the windshield, his gaze never moving from Angie.

Angie and Felicity. What a pair. The older daughter of the richest man in town and the only child of one of the most prominent judges in the county. The girls laughed and talked together, whispering secrets, giggling in naughty-girl sniggers and placing their pink lips lovingly around the straws of their drinks.

Jed got hard just looking at Angie, and he could almost taste her. Bobby might not believe him, but he wasn’t lying. Before the end of the summer, Jed planned to make it with Angie.

“If you ask me, she’s already done it,” Bobby said, tossing his cup out the window and hitting the trash can. Syrup ran down the sides of the plastic container and bees and flies swarmed over the remnants of food.

Jed’s fingers clamped over the steering wheel. “With who?”

“I dunno, but she just looks…so hot.” Bobby licked the remnants of his milk shake from his lips. “She can’t be a virgin.”

“A lot you know about it.” Jed couldn’t hide his irritation. The thought of anyone else touching her made him see red. She was everything he wanted in a woman. Good looks, sexy smile, big tits and lots and lots of money. The favorite of Rex Buchanan’s children, she was sure to inherit a fortune when the old man kicked off, and even if she didn’t, she was one helluva woman.

A napkin caught in the breeze, floating off her table, and Angie bent over to pick it up. Her short pink skirt shimmied up thighs that were meant to squeeze a man’s ribs to the breaking point. The pink fabric stretched beguilingly over her rump, and Jed caught just a glimpse of lace—either her slip or panties, and that one flash of heaven made him groan. “She’s mine,” he muttered under his breath. His throat was suddenly parched, and he swilled back the final gulp of his drink. He was so horny he thought he would bust, but he didn’t want anyone but Angie. There were other girls—plenty of ’em—who would do it with him, but they weren’t good enough. Easy lays. Willing bodies.

As he turned on the ignition, and the engine of his powerful car roared to life, he imagined what it would be like to press Angie back against a bed, her black hair fanned out like a cloud of dark silk, her eyes slumberous and blue, her pink lips whispering his name in anxious abandon. He fantasized about how she would writhe beneath him, begging for more, offering to do things to him he’d only dreamed about.

The tires squealed as he pulled out of the lot, and he caught her looking at him when he checked his rearview mirror. Yeah, she was interested all right. And he couldn’t wait to give it to her.

“You’re dreaming,” Bobby told him as Jed ground through the gears and sped through town.

“Wanna bet?”

Old stores with the false fronts of the 1800s swept by. A light turned yellow and Jed tromped on the accelerator. The car lurched forward, passing through the intersection as amber switched to red. The old gristmill, a relic that was owned by the Buchanans, passed by in a blur.

Bobby laughed. “You’re a maniac, but I’ll take that bet.” He grinned, showing off straight white teeth. “You’re on. How much?”

“Twenty bucks.”

“Fifty.”

Jed didn’t miss a beat. “Sure.”

“But I have to have proof.”

“Like what?”

“A picture of her naked.”

“Aw, come on—”

“Or she could tell me herself.” Bobby grinned wickedly, and Jed had the sinking sensation that his best friend wanted Angie, too.

Glancing down at the gearshift, Jed let his eyes wander to Bobby’s crotch. Sure enough, Bobby had a hard-on that pressed against his jeans. Hell. They passed the sign welcoming tourists to the town.

“Maybe we could make this a little more interesting,” Bobby suggested with a leer that had set many a coed’s heart soaring. “How about whoever makes it with her first, wins the bet?”

Jed stood on the brakes. The car shuddered. Expensive tires screamed as the Corvette slid to the gravel shoulder of the county road.

A pickup that had been tailgating the faster car swerved into the oncoming lane. The truck’s horn blared. The red-faced driver swore from his open window as the truck skidded back into the right lane, avoiding oncoming traffic, but Jed barely heard the oath. His head was still pounding with Bobby’s lewd suggestion. “Don’t mess with me on this,” Jed warned, his jaw so tight it ached as he scowled at his friend. He felt the edges of his nostrils flare and quiver in rage. “She’s mine. This is no joke.” Jed grabbed the front of Bobby’s T-shirt. The soft cotton crumpled in his meaty fingers. “You got it? No one else touches her. No one! I’m not only gonna score with her, but I’m gonna make her my wife.”

Bobby had the audacity to laugh. “Oh shit, man, you are crazy.”

Jed shook him hard, but Bobby wasn’t scared. Even though Jed was bigger, Bobby was an athlete, the star running back for last year’s football team and the best wrestler in his weight in the district. Jed’s extra thirty pounds wouldn’t help him because Bobby was so damned agile—got himself a wrestling scholarship to Washington State. If it came to blows, Bobby would have an edge, but Jed didn’t care. He’d give as good as he got. “She’s mine,” Jed declared again. “She just doesn’t know it yet.”

“When you plannin’ on givin’ her the news? Before or after you pop her cherry?” Bobby’s dark eyes turned up at the corners. He was laughing, but this was no joke.

For once, Jed was dead serious. He’d spent the last two months considering what he wanted from Angela Marie Buchanan. The answer was, everything. He loved her. “Soon. I’m gonna tell her soon.” Jed let go of Bobby’s shirt, and his rage dissipated in the sweltering heat that seemed to pound down from the sun.

Bobby snorted. “Ever think she might laugh in your face? That she might move on? I hear she’s goin’ to some fancy Ivy League school back East. What was the name of that school in the movie out a few years ago—Love Story—wasn’t it Radcliffe or some such shit? She might have other plans.”

Jed’s smile was slow and wicked. “Then she’ll just have to change them, won’t she?”

 

“Jed’s got the hots for you,” Felicity drawled as Angie parked her sporty Datsun near the garage.

“So what else is new?”

Lifting her heavy mane of straight red hair off her nape, Felicity shook her head and glanced at her friend. “He’s so horny he can’t stand it.”

Angie wasn’t interested. Jed Baker was an oaf. A big, overgrown ox of a boy.

They climbed out of the air-conditioned interior of the silver car, and Angie felt the late afternoon heat sear her skin. God, it was hot. Her blouse was sticking to her, her hair was wet where it met her scalp, and she didn’t care one way or the other about Jed Baker. He was just a kid. Nineteen. Same as her.

“I think he’s in love with you,” Felicity continued as she slammed the Datsun’s passenger door shut and scanned the parking area near the garage.

Felicity was obviously looking for Derrick’s truck, but his black pickup wasn’t in sight and the corners of Felicity’s mouth tightened a bit. For a second she looked desperate. It was an emotion Angie understood all too well. She recognized it each time she looked in the mirror. But she didn’t want to think about it—not now.

“Jed Baker loves poker. He loves booze. But he doesn’t love me,” Angie said, trying to keep her mind on the conversation. “Besides I don’t want a boy.” She glanced around the stable yard, searching until her gaze settled on the bare back of Brig McKenzie. He was working with one of the horses and the animal was fighting him. The colt’s eyes were blazing, his massive head pulling hard at the lead, trying to free himself of the stubborn man. Brig’s boot heels were dug into the dust, and the more the horse resisted, the more he worked the lead rope, his shoulder muscles gleaming with sweat, his face set in determination. It was as if he didn’t notice anyone or anything but the animal, and Angie felt a fluttering in her stomach. She wondered what it would be like if Brig looked at her like that, with that same gleam of reckless stamina that he forced on the wayward animal. Though he wasn’t much older than she, Brig McKenzie seemed to have years of experience on the other boys in town. He could give her what she wanted. What she needed.

Tossing her hair away from her face, she crossed the hot asphalt and leaned against the fence, content to watch the play of sinew and muscle in his shoulders and forearms.

The horse tried to back up and Brig talked to him, low and soft, a rough whisper that caused Angie’s scalp to tingle.

“What’s he doing here?” Felicity asked, catching up with her.

“Dad hired him last week.”

“Why?”

“Ranch work.” Angie was irritated by Felicity’s questions and the snooty tone of her voice. There was a lot that bothered her about Felicity these days, but then, Angie hadn’t been her usually lighthearted self the past few weeks. “He’s supposed to be the best horseman in the county.”

“Yeah, when he’s not in jail,” Felicity said under her breath. “Or sleeping with someone’s wife.”

“He’s never been booked,” Angie whispered hotly, surprised at how much she knew of Brig McKenzie and disturbed by the fact that she felt compelled to defend him. “And that womanizing bit…it’s probably exaggerated.” She let her gaze wander down the cleft of his spine, past the smooth curve of his waist. His belt was thick rough leather that rested low on his hips. The denim was thin and pale across his butt, and one frayed hole showed off an inch of muscular thigh. Her insides trembled then twisted into a knot, and she found it suddenly hard to breathe. “You know,” she said under her breath, so that only Felicity could hear, “he’s not half bad.”

“If you’re into slumming.”

As if he’d heard her, Brig turned, and his eyes, a lazy shade of blue, seemed to burn right into her. “Somethin’ I can do for you?” he asked. His voice, so steady with the colt, was now impatient.

“We’re just watching you,” Angie said with a smile that usually melted boys’ hearts.

“Like what you see?”

She couldn’t help but lick her lips. “It’s all right. I’ve seen better.”

One black dark brow arched, and he slanted her a knowing, cocksure grin that silently called her a liar. “Then you don’t need to be starin’ now, do ya?” With that he turned back to the horse, and Angie felt a slow-growing burn climb up the back of her neck.

Felicity couldn’t swallow her grin fast enough, and Angie turned on her heel, stalking across the pavement, her heart throbbing in her flushed cheeks. “Insolent bastard,” she spat as she ran up the sweeping flagstone path that curved toward the wide front porch. Mortified, she threw open the front door and stormed through the foyer. How dare he insult her! He was a nobody. Rumored to be illegitimate. Oh God, she was beginning to sound as snobbish as Felicity.

She stopped in the bathroom, splashed water on her face, then joined Felicity in the kitchen. Her best friend’s green eyes were glinting with humor at Angie’s expense, but she had the good sense not to tease Angie right now.

“You want somethin’ to drink?” Mary asked. A heavy woman who liked her own fare, Mary had cooked for the Buchanan family for years and had been hired long before Angie’s mother had died and her father had married Dena. Angie frowned at the thought of her stepmother—so pale and lifeless compared to the first Mrs. Rex Buchanan. “I’ve got iced tea. Or lemonade.” Mary was already reaching into the refrigerator, pulling out two chilled pitchers.

“Tea,” Felicity said.

“Sounds good,” Angie agreed as she glanced out the bay window and looked to the side of the house. She caught a glimpse of the stable and the paddock where Brig was still working with the stubborn horse. His black hair gleamed in the sunlight and his skin still shone with sweat. From. . .