Branded (3 page)

“There's a decent hotel in town,” Sam suggested quickly. “That might be a better idea—”

“Don't think so,” Deacon cut him off. “Want to be around the family, like you said.”

Sam's voice went dangerously soft. “Don't make no trouble here, Deac. I know what you do in the city. How you earn your billions, breakin' up companies and sellin' 'em to the highest bidder. And I know how you play around with all those beautiful, plastic fillies. Don't bring that 'round here. Don't take what doesn't belong to you. Pigs get fat, boy, but hogs get slaughtered.”

Deacon turned and lifted one dark eyebrow. “Is that last bit going on Everett's tombstone?”

“Watch yourself,” Sam nearly growled. “Goddammit, Deacon. What happened is in the past. Times change. People move on. Everyone's forgotten—”

“No.” The humor in Deacon's tone turned to ice. “Not everyone.”

Sam's lips thinned. “Well, they should.” He let out a heavy breath. “Cass ain't coming back. Everett's gone now, too. I say we all start up fresh and clean.”

Deacon didn't answer. What burned inside him, what had burned inside of him for ten long years, wasn't something Sam could ever understand or respect. And truly, it didn't matter. “Service in an hour?” he said.

Sam nodded, his expression grim. “In town. You driving this rig in, or do you want one of the mares saddled for you?” He grinned halfheartedly. “Maybe you've forgotten how to ride, living in the city.”

“Like I said, Sam, I haven't forgotten anything.” Deacon's gaze returned to the house as his hand palmed the gearshift. “I'll see you at the church.”

He didn't wait for a reply. Just thrust the truck into gear and took off.

•   •   •

Mac stood over Everett's casket in the stiflingly hot church on Main and Fifth wearing the charcoal-gray linen dress and black heels she'd bought on the Internet the night her mentor and friend had passed away. Droplets of sweat snaked down her shoulders to her back, making her shift uncomfortably. Behind her, pretty much all two hundred and twenty inhabitants of the small ranching community were assembled, fans at the ready, expressions
appropriately grim as they paid their respects to the man who was both their friend and the one who had given many of them a livelihood.

Mac put her hand on the closed casket and released the air she was holding in her lungs—the air she'd seemed to have been holding for three days now. God knew, Everett wasn't a saint, but he'd been so good to her. Hired her on when she barely knew shit about cattle. Promoted her when she learned. And gave her the home and family she'd always coveted when her father passed on.

She eased her hand from the wood. Despite the heat, her palm felt ice-cold and prickly, like she'd lost circulation, and she fisted it at her side as she turned around. Seated in the first pew, Blue and his mom, Elena, who'd been the Triple C's housekeeper for more than ten years, gave Mac a gentle, encouraging smile. She was about to head for the spot between them when her attention was diverted by a tall, good-looking man who had just entered the church. He was glancing around, no doubt searching for his kin in the crowd. Standing somewhere between the casket and the congregation, Mac just stared at him, her heart squeezing painfully in her chest. He'd changed in the ten years since he'd been gone. He'd grown taller certainly, and his body was thick with muscle, but his white blond hair was now cut close to the skull, and he had tattoos peeking out from both
the collar and the cuffs of his white shirt. He barely resembled the ragtag cowboy he'd once been. But one thing about Cole Cavanaugh hadn't changed. Those black eyes. Those deep, soulful, penetrating black eyes were still a perfect match to his twin sister's, and just looking at them made Mac's breath catch in her throat and her eyes well with tears.

She'd felt it over the years, the aching loss of her best friend, but it had always seemed removed from her heart somehow. Maybe because the Cavanaugh brothers were no longer around—especially
this
Cavanaugh brother. But now, seeing Cass's eyes in his, Mac felt the pain afresh. She tore her gaze from Cole and made a beeline to her seat in between Blue and his mother. The instant she sat down, the Triple C's housekeeper placed a hand over hers and squeezed. Mac turned and gave the woman a tearful smile.

Elena Perez was a beautiful woman, somewhere around her midfifties, with short jet-black hair and brown eyes that flashed with mischief when she was happy. But it was her warm and caring nature that drew Mac to her, made her feel she could strip off her hard-ass ranch foreman armor and allow herself to be vulnerable once in a while.

Elena may've been hired as a housekeeper and cook, but she was truly a master of all things. She
could do anything she set her mind to: cooking and cleaning, sewing, fixing fences, fixing squabbles, doctoring. And all the while, leaving the comforting scent of lemons and barbecue sauce in her wake.

Mac had once thought that Elena would've been the perfect wife for her father—or maybe it was more that Mac had wanted Elena for a mother. But Travis Byrd had been too blind or too chickenshit or too consumed with getting drunk to ask the beautiful housekeeper out on a date.

“You all right, Mac, honey?” Elena asked, leaning in, her expression rife with concern. “You look torn up.”

“Just sad,” Mac whispered back. “And funerals are the one place cryin's not frowned upon.”

Once again, Elena squeezed her hand. It was such a warm, capable hand. “It's just you never cry.”

That almost made Mac smile. It was how all of River Black saw her. Impassive, tough. But, boy, she'd cried plenty in her twenty-five years, especially when she found out Cass had died. But a female ranch foreman didn't give in to tears or a soft heart outside her bedroom if she wanted the respect of her cowboys.

“I saw Cole,” she whispered. “That's all.”

There was a quick, sharp intake of breath from Elena. “Aww, baby girl. I know that must be hard.”

Hard didn't even begin to cover it. “He looks so much like her.”

“'Spect so. They being twins and all.” She lowered her voice even further. “I've seen all them photo albums. That family has powerful genes. Hell, when I saw James a few minutes ago, I thought he was the spittin' image of Everett at that age.”

Once again, Mac's heart squeezed. “Where's he sitting?” She'd seen James that morning, offered up her place near the barn, expecting he would probably feel more comfortable being so near the horses with what he did for a living.

“He's in the back, by himself,” Elena whispered as several people moved past the casket. “You should've heard some of the hens going on about him when we first got here. You'd think they'd never seen him on television.”

That made Mac smile a little. “James was always the flower who attracted all the honeybees. And now that he's a famous horse whisperer, it's probably gotten worse.”

“Never seen eyes that color in my life,” Elena remarked. “Like them pictures of the ocean on postcards from far off places like Bali or Tahiti.”

“Those were his mom's eyes,” Mac said, with another lurch of her heart. Seemed it was truly the day of mourning.

Elena continued on as if Mac hadn't said a word. “Only one I haven't seen is Deacon.”

A droplet of sweat serpentined down Mac's temple to her cheekbone and jaw.

“Maybe he's not coming,” Elena whispered. “Wouldn't miss him after all the crap he's pulled these past few years . . .” Her voice trailed off for a second, then, “Going after the ranch any darn way he could.”

The scent of too many floral arraignments pushed into Mac's nostrils. “He's coming. I saw his million-dollar helicopter fly overhead when Blue and I were rescuing the cow earlier.”

Elena's eyes widened. “Well, let's hope he behaves himself.”

“If he doesn't, he'll have me to deal with,” Mac said.

“Don't I know it.” Elena smiled warmly at her. “Ranch foreman.”

Mac smiled back.

“I wonder if he's got that fancy model girlfriend with him. I always enjoy seeing city folk taking in the country. Complaining about all the meat we eat and manure on their Manolo Blahniks.”

Mac gave her a strange look. “How do you know about that? The shoes, I mean.”

“Sex and the City,”
Elena whispered with a shrug. “It's on at night, and I watch it when I can't sleep. From what I've seen in the papers, Deacon's girlfriend looks just like that Samantha.”

Reverend McCarron emerged from his private prayer room then and started for his pulpit. The young man who Mac remembered from high school as being one of the biggest bullies around now held a dutifully somber expression.
Deacon's girlfriend.
Lord, those were two words she hadn't heard in a while. Back in the day, her teenage self had hated them somethin' fierce. Back when she'd actually thought Deacon Cavanaugh was the one for her. But those days and adolescent fantasies were long gone. Tucked away in the back of her brain along with the wanting to die her hair pink and being a contestant on
The
Price Is Right
. Now, the man with the gleaming black chopper was nothing but a ruthless billionaire who thought he could buy whatever he wanted, even if it wasn't for sale.

“The Lord is righteous in all His ways and kind in all His deeds,”
Wayne McCarron began, his voice as close to godlike as she'd ever heard him.
“The Lord is near to all who call upon Him, to all who call upon Him in truth. He will fulfill the desires of those who fear Him; He will also hear their cry and will save them. The Lord keeps all who love Him, but all the wicked He will destroy.”

Except for the rustle of a handheld fan or two, the church was still, listening, remembering.

“That was Psalm 145:17–21,” Wayne said, then looked out at the congregation and smiled gently.
Odds were, this was the biggest crowd he'd ever had in his three years at the pulpit, and he was wondering how he could manage to keep them, bring them back every Sunday. “Thank you all for coming,” he continued. “Everett Cavanaugh was a good man, a good friend and a hard worker. We honor him today and give his soul over to the Lord.”

The heat in the church was starting to get to Mac. The fabric of her dress was now completely fused to her skin, and she was feeling slightly light-headed from all the emotion and anxiety over what the future would hold. She wondered if Deacon
was
here, if he'd driven one of his fancy cars into town and was sitting in the back row with James and Cole. She wanted to look. Wanted to take a quick glance over her shoulder and check. She wanted to see what might be lurking in those green eyes of his. Those eyes that had always pinned her and Cass where they stood, then quickly narrowed in suspicion. Grief? Possibility? Was he thinking about Everett at all? Or was the reading of the will afterward his main concern?

“Everett's one thought was this town,” Reverend McCarron continued, “keeping us going, keeping us prosperous.”

And if she did manage to catch his eye, would she see any of the young man he used to be before
he left? Before he and his brothers took off for parts unknown?

Her heart started to pound dramatically inside her chest, and she reached over and grabbed Blue's hand. It was big and dry and familiar, and it instantly made her feel grounded and safe. That was how it was with Blue. Kind of like how it had been with Cass. Best friends, family without the blood, a shoulder to lean on.

“You okay?” he whispered, leaning in. “Your hand feels like ice, and it's a hundred degrees in here.”

“I'm fine,” she whispered back.

“You look like a damn ghost.”

She shook her head. It was all she could do. Even with Blue's hand in hers, her mouth was getting drier by the second, and her breathing had turned shallow. Lord, she needed some air. Something cold to drink and maybe a hard run on Gypsy later. Between Everett and her memories of Cass, the Cavanaughs being home, and Deacon's certain plotting, she had a strange and unwelcome desire to stand up and run out of the church. But she stayed where she was. The cowboys would never let her forget it if she had a panic attack or some other fluttery reaction to what they liked to refer to as
Female Feelin's
. Even if those feelings stemmed from Everett's death.

“Everett's legacy, the Triple C, has brought such prosperity and such peace to this town,” the reverend continued. “We will be forever grateful to him.” Wayne offered them all his most sympathetic smile. “Everyone in this sanctuary has been helped by the kind heart and generous spirit of Everett Cavanaugh.”

“No,” came a cold, masculine voice from the back of the church. “Not everyone.”

It was a voice Mac knew—knew so deeply within herself that it shocked her heart like a defibrillator, and she dropped Blue's hand. Even after ten years of living without that voice, it still remained crystal clear in her mind.

Around her, the room buzzed with soft, irritated chatter.
Who was that talking out of turn? Interrupting the service? Deacon? That Deacon Cavanaugh?
The prodigal son who had done his level best to buy, blackmail, or bully his way into gaining control of the Triple C?

Yes,
Mac wanted to hiss at them.
The very same
.

A slow burn of anger intermingled with the anxiety his voice had created within her.
Good God. The man has no shame.
No matter what had happened in the past between him and Everett, what grievances he held locked up in that soon-to-be stone heart of his, the man he'd once called father deserved this time, deserved to have his friends and work colleagues tell his stories and
honor his life. Because for Mac, and for most of the people in River Black, Everett had been nothing but a blessing.