Tori Carrington - Branded

“Aw, baby, don’t be like that,” he said, reaching for her.

She picked up his hat and tossed it to him. It hit the area of his anatomy that disappointed her most. He trapped it there with his hand.

“Hey,” he said, pushing himself off the wall. “I ate three hours of road to see you, Jo. What’s up?”

“I’m not in the mood anymore.”

If she were being honest, she’d admit that wasn’t the only factor. Being so close to Beaumont, and the complicated problems that existed with her parents, seemed to wreak havoc with her emotions in a way she didn’t quite understand. It wasn’t as if the difficulties were new. She’d pretty much grown up with them, even if they had become more serious.

Still, a good sack session had always been enough to chase away the shadows of the past, if not shine a fresh light on the future.

Carter did up the buttons on his jeans. A horse neighed and poked its nose out of the stall, and he stepped aside to avoid it.

“That’s funny. I was just thinking that you haven’t much been in the mood since you took this damn job. You call, tell me you want to see me, then I get down here and you find some reason to be pissed at me.”

She started buttoning her shirt, surprised to find her hands trembling.

“Since the moment I pulled up you’ve done nothing but bitch.”

She said quietly, “Yes, well, if you’d give me the attention I want when I want it, maybe I wouldn’t be so upset.”

His grin reminded her of times past, when they’d shut themselves up in a seedy motel room on the outskirts of Dallas for days on end, leaving only to get beer and burgers.

The problem now was that it hadn’t been his grin she’d been seeing when she closed her eyes moments ago; it had been Trace’s.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but we were working toward getting you what you wanted just now.” He shrugged and checked his belt buckle, which was still firmly fastened. “I was fine with waiting until we got back to the bunkhouse.”

“Yes, well, now neither one of us has to worry about waiting.” She turned and stalked away. “Don’t let the barn door hit you in the ass on your way out, Marine.”

WELL, THAT WAS QUICK.

Trace watched as Jo emerged from the stables, her shirttails trailing like a cape behind her, she was moving so quickly.

Her visiting boyfriend followed, and grabbed her by the arm. Trace snapped upright. But Jo promptly shook the guy’s hand off her and he stumbled backward. They exchanged words Trace couldn’t hear, and then Jo stalked toward her rusty old truck. She got in and headed down the long gravel driveway that would take her to the road, spitting up dust in her wake.

The ex-marine kicked at the dirt and then went to his bike, disappearing right after her.

“Lovers’ spat?” the sheriff mused.

“Looks that way.”

Brody chuckled and downed half his beer, careless of the droplets spotting the front of his uniform.

“I’m going to head back to the house to catch a shower,” Trace told him. “I can’t barely stand myself.”

Brody straightened. “Before you go, I wanted to ask if you’ve hired on any new hands lately.”

Trace frowned at him. “A couple of regulars we take on when we need extra help. And Jackson and Milford, sitting over there.” He nodded to the two new men who’d begun work on the ranch around the same time Jo had. “But Vernon would be the man to ask about that.” Vernon Burnett was the ranch’s longtime foreman and the go-to guy when it came to dealing with the hands. “Why?”

The sheriff shrugged and leaned against the railing. “There was a rape over in Strade. I’m making the rounds to see if there are any new faces in the area.”

Trace shook his head. “None that I can think of.” He glanced over his shoulder at the guys beginning to drift away, having had their fill of barbecue and beer. Some would go inside to the main room to catch some TV or play pool, others would head to their bunks for the night, knowing another early morning would soon be staring them in the face.

“Who was attacked?” he asked.

“One of the Johnson girls.”

“Art Johnson?”

“That would be the family. It was his youngest, Penny. Someone was in the back of her car when she left the honky-tonk the night before last.”

“She get a look at him?”

The sheriff shook his head. “Nope. Covered her head with a pillowcase.”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah. Her daddy’s pretty torn up. Fit to be tied.”

“I can imagine. Maybe I’ll go over there tomorrow, see if I can’t help out.”

“Art would appreciate it.” Brody shook his finger at him. “But you be sure to let me know if he tries to sign you up for a lynching party.”

“How can there be a lynching if there isn’t a suspect?”

“You know these hotheaded cowboys. One nod in the wrong direction and they’re ready to unload their frustrations and their ammunition on the closest available target.”

Unfortunately, Trace did know. All too well.

He watched as the sun sank below the horizon. Funny how it seemed to hang mercilessly in the sky all day long, then within seconds it was gone.

He looked at Brody. “Wasn’t there a similar attack, say, six months or so ago?”

The sheriff finished off his beer and dropped the bottle in the case of empties nearby. “Yeah, there was. Out in Barncart. Same MO.”

“Think it’s the same guy?”

Brody shrugged and put his hat back on. “Hard to tell. Word of the first one got around, so this might be a copycat.”

“My father used to tell me there was no such thing as coincidences.”

Brody grinned. “Which is why a copycat would have a greater chance at success, seeing as everyone out this way feels the same.” He hiked up his pants. “Your father was a wise man, but matters like these are better left to professionals.”

Trace tightened his grip on the railing. “Hope you get the guy soon.”

“Oh, I will. You can rest assured of that.” The sheriff navigated the stairs. “Thanks for the beer. Tell Vern good-night for me.”

“I will.”

THE MAIN HOUSE had pretty much remained unchanged since Trace’s parents had been killed in a flash flood almost seven years earlier. Neither he nor Eric had ever issued orders to maintain it, but Alma, their longtime housekeeper, seemed content to keep everything the way it was. Sometimes Trace thought the older woman missed his parents almost as much as he did. He’d catch her dusting the picture frames on the large stone mantel above the fireplace, a sad look on her soft, brown face. He supposed it was only natural, since she had known his parents longer than he had. She’d hired on at the house when his older brother was born, to help his mother take care of the growing family. And had become much like family herself, even though she lived in a small house a couple of counties away, where she’d raised her own family.

She’d left lights on in the front room and the kitchen tonight, and a plate of TexMex food for him in the refrigerator. Trace looked it over as he reached in for a beer, fresh from his shower. Though he had clean jeans riding low on his hips, his T-shirt was draped over the back of the couch in the main room. Despite the heat, he hadn’t turned on the air conditioner, preferring open windows and ceiling fans and the sound of cicadas over the hiss of the machine and the feeling of being shut off from the world around him.

Still, he lingered in front of the open refrigerator for a few moments.

He finally closed the door and walked toward the main room, sitting down on the couch and switching on the large screen television. He flipped through the channels and then settled on the news out of Odessa. Weatherwise, it was more of the same, with a chance of isolated thunderstorms late tomorrow. He and the men would have to keep an eye to the sky while they were out. Thunderstorms were nothing to be casual about, not in this neck of the woods.