Branded (4 page)

Beside her, Elena leaned in and whispered, “With an attitude as plentiful as his bank account.”

Mac turned and glanced over her shoulder. The movement was completely involuntary and was perhaps her grandest mistake ever. She should've kept her eyes forward on the very pious, yet confused, Reverend McCarron. But the draw was too powerful. The moment her gaze hit its mark, the air inside her lungs promptly vanished, along with her heartbeat. She felt the past rush up on one side of her and the longing she'd held captive inside her heart—the longing she'd truly believed was dead and buried—rush up on the other. She'd seen him on the cover of rag mags in the supermarket checkout and a few times in town—from afar, mind you—over the past few years. But those quick glances didn't prepare her for what lived and breathed and took up residence inside the archway of the chapel door.

A cold, calculated expression playing about his rough, chiseled features, Deacon Cavanaugh was six feet four inches of terrifying alpha male, wrapped up in jade-green eyes, thick black hair, and a custom-made, finely tailored navy-blue suit. He fairly oozed money, ire, and obsessive power,
and Mac knew that even if she'd wanted to turn away from him in that moment, her body wouldn't allow it.

A lump formed in her throat and she tried to swallow it down with a silent curse. What the hell was this? This heat and anxiety barreling through her. Couldn't be attraction. Hell no. She was done with all that. Had been for years. Must be something akin to pissed off. After all, the suit had just interrupted a goddamn funeral.

Her eyes followed him as he moved down the aisle toward the front of the church. Control and dominance clung to his every movement, making the crowd stare—making Mac's heart beat a violent tattoo inside her ribs. What the hell was he doing?

When he reached the pulpit, he fairly towered over Reverend Wayne, who looked put out by the interruption but was clearly far too intimidated by the man to stand his ground. With a nervous nod, he backed up several feet and stood there with his hands stacked on his gut.

Deacon turned and looked out over the crowd, his eyes as cold as the precious stones they resembled. He knew most of them were aware he'd bought up a sizable piece of land outside town, not to mention that he'd tried like hell to acquire the Triple C before that. And it didn't seem to concern him at all.

“Everett Cavanaugh was good to this town,”
he said in a deep, controlled voice. “No question about it. His success shows in every building, every business, and every home. But his failures were just as impactful. And like his successes, they shouldn't go unobserved.”

Beside Mac, Elena gave a tiny gasp. The rest of the room, however, fell silent and still. Clearly captivated by Deacon Cavanaugh's audacity. Even the members of the congregation with fans held them aloft and immobile.

“A town can be built on the destruction of others,” he said, his voice near to ice now. “But that kind of foundation ain't strong. It won't last. It can't. I won't allow it.”

Without warning, his eyes dropped to the front row, hitting Mac with a dark, quizzical look, which turned her insides lava.
Will you be the one who gets in my way now?
he seemed to be asking.

Damn right,
she wanted to shout back at him. But she had no voice. No goddamn voice. Staring up at him, she felt as if she were completely alone—on the bench and inside the church. She felt like a prisoner to his stare and that if he wanted to take something from her, not only would she let him, but she might just be inclined to fall to her knees when she handed it over.

After a few long seconds, he pulled his gaze from hers and settled it back on the crowd again. As Mac regained her mind and chastised herself
for shrinking under the weight of that intense look, Deacon continued with his backward eulogizing, undaunted.

“Today you bury Everett Cavanaugh,” he said tersely. “Tomorrow I bury everything he's ever worked for.”

The words—the threat—pierced the hot, thick air of the church and reverberated off the walls. Where moments ago, the crowd had remained in their seats, riveted, held captive, now they were surging to their feet, hands wringing, fingers pointing, loud, angry words strewn together into some pretty vile threats of their own.

Mac didn't move. She just sat there among the chaos, staring at Deacon, stunned by his calm, cool, unfettered attitude. From behind the pulpit, he touched the brim of his Stetson in an attempt to pretend he was some kind of gentleman, then moved on, down the aisle and out of the church. Leaving the townsfolk of River Black, Texas, to their gnashing of teeth and bitter I-told-you-sos.

“Go to three million. But if he so much as hesitates, end the meeting.” Phone to his ear, Deacon entered the house and headed for the living room. He needed a drink and that will read ASAP. “I want the property, Avery, but I want it at that price. When I break it up, I want to triple my investment.” He heard a car pulling up outside. Damn, whoever it was had left the church about the same time as he had. “I've got to go. Let me know when you have something.”

Deacon had barely ended the call when the front door opened and James strolled in, his expression as unreadable as ever. He did however have his suit jacket off, his white shirtsleeves rolled up, and his top two buttons undone.

Normally, Deacon would've read that as a sign the guy in front of him was ready to do battle, but with James it was hard to tell. His eyes and his expression were utterly impassive.

Everyone knew the middle Cavanaugh brother was a man of few words, kept things locked up nice and tight. Only gave his true self to the wild things he attempted to tame. But only a fool would think those traits were a sign of weakness, and Deacon waited for the inevitable shit storm he was certain was coming.

Settling himself on the arm of a leather chair, James raised one light brown eyebrow at Deacon. “And the point of that was?”

His tone was as calm as his manner. He would've made a damn fine lawyer, if only he hadn't found those horses first.

With an easy shrug, Deacon returned, “I thought it was only fair to give 'em a heads-up.”

James nodded. “Full disclosure kinda thing?”

“Exactly.”

“I don't believe you, Deac. I think you wanted to wave your asshole flag in front of the entire town.” His brow lowered over his ocean-blue eyes. “I believe you wanted everyone in that room to know just how much you despised Everett Cavanaugh.”

Deacon's lips thinned. “You didn't expect me to pretend to be sorry he's gone, now did you?”

James shook his head. “No. I wouldn't ask that of any of us. But was it really necessary to share your plans for not only his home, but a ranch that sustains many of the folks—”

The front door burst open, cutting James off. And this time a pissed-off tornado entered. Eyes black as a starless night, expression unabashedly fierce, Cole stalked into the living room. He too had ditched his jacket, and was now wearing just a black T-shirt and jeans. With his closely cropped blond hair and sleeves of ink running down both arms, Deacon's little brother was a complete badass. He'd been that way, or maybe had starting leaning that way, after Sheriff Hunter had told them all he was closing the investigation into Cass's death—that the man they'd searched for all those months on a tip from the girl's best friend didn't exist, that they'd been chasing the desperate imaginings of a grieving girl while the real killer got away. Shit, that news had marked them all, but Cole had turned to fighting both above and underground—wearing his rage on his skin and expressing his anger with his fists.

Looking every bit the champion UFC fighter that he was, Cole narrowed his eyes at Deacon, then casually flipped him off. “At his fucking funeral? Are you drunk or just out of your mind?”

Deacon regarded his youngest brother with cool eyes. “Haven't had a thing. But I wouldn't mind a cold one.” He turned to James, lifted his brow. “J?”

“You serious?” James asked.

“Yep.” Though he continued to stare at James,
he spoke to the inked-up man standing near the TV. “Hey, Cole, go get us a couple of beers, okay?”

James's eyes flashed with just the tiniest bit of humor.

“What?” Cole said, irritated.

“Yeah, Cole,” James said, deadpan. “I think there're a few Coronas on the bottom shelf.”

Cole looked from one brother to the other, pissed and confused; then realization dawned, and he flipped off the both of them. “Fuck you. And fuck you. I ain't your little brother no more.”

“Come on, boy,” Deacon said with an amused drawl. “You'll always be that. No matter how many tattoos you get or how many teeth you knock out.”

“What I mean to say is I don't fetch and carry anymore,” Cole spat out.

Both Deacon and James stopped talking and just turned to look at him. It was like ten years hadn't come and gone. They were in their house, playing around, picking on Cole. And back then, Cole always caved.

Thirty seconds later, the inked-up fighter, who truly could kick both their asses into next week—
and
at the same time—groaned. “Fine. I see nothing's changed 'round here.”

As Cole disappeared into the kitchen, Deacon chuckled and James grinned back at him. Some shit did stay the same, like the bond—no matter
how tenuous it seemed—between brothers, and maybe that was good to know. Maybe that was something to hold on to as Deacon moved forward with his plans.

Thirty seconds later Cole reappeared with three sweating bottles. “No Corona. Sam Adams.” He shoved one into Deacon's hand first, then James's. “If you don't like it, you can kiss my ass.”

“I'm good,” Deacon said. “How 'bout you, James?”

The man's nearly aqua eyes were shuttered as he stared at his beer.

“What?” Cole said with only halfhearted irritation now. “Not cold enough for you, J?”

James glanced up. “I think this is Everett's.”

For a moment, no one said anything. Just processed where they were and why—maybe for the first time, really. Within Deacon, a battle raged. Good and evil, right and wrong, vengeance and acceptance. And hell, then there were the memories he was being bombarded with every second he was inside this house. Not just the back-and-forth, talking-smack shit he'd just enjoyed for a fucking millisecond with his brothers, but with the sights and sounds and smells he'd once loved so much.

Ah, Cass. Why'd you have to leave us, girl?
Leave us all so wrecked . . .

His jaw tight, Deacon raised his bottle. “A toast.” To Everett? No. No, he couldn't do that.

“To Cass,” he said finally.

Both his brothers stared at him, unblinking.

“Damn, Deac,” James said, then brought the beer to his lips and took a healthy swallow.

Cole, on the other hand, looked ready to explode. His face was white and those eyes of his were shark-black. He placed his bottle on the coffee table very carefully. Then he eyed Deacon again. “You want to toast Cass?” He laughed bitterly. “Christ, Deacon. After what you did? After you made that spectacle in the very church we said good-bye to her in?”

“Shit,” James muttered before taking another swallow of his beer.

Deacon's heart ripped another inch inside his chest. He hadn't even considered that. Didn't want to consider that.

Cole continued. “And what makes you think you can even make a decision like that—taking down the Triple C, destroying the Triple C, whatever you mean to do—without my say-so, or James's?”

Deacon's eyes slid to his middle brother. He lifted an eyebrow. “You want this place, J?”

James didn't answer, but his aqua eyes were heavy with disgust.

Deacon turned back to Cole. “What about you, Champ? You want to live here? Maybe turn the barn we had so much fun in after Cass got taken
into a weight room or something? Switch out the bullwhips and the branding irons for a treadmill and a weight bench?”

“Fuck you, Deacon,” Cole uttered.

“Or better yet, make it your summer home. You know, where you return for solace and reflection after you get your face bashed in?”

Cole's nostrils flared. “I don't get my face bashed in. You're thinking of the other guy.”

“Enough with the hissy fits,” James cut in, placing his finished beer on the table beside the two nearly full bottles. “From both of you.”

Deacon heaved a breath. “Listen. I say we just make this easy. If the ranch comes to us, I'll buy you both out. All you have to do is name your price.”

“We don't need your money, Deac,” James said evenly. “But I'm sure you already know that.”

He did. Despite leaving the ranch at an early age, each of the Cavanaugh brothers had managed to not only find success in his chosen field but amass a sizable fortune.

“Then what do you want?” Deacon asked them. “Because I know it ain't the Triple C. You two hate this place as much as I do. Christ, maybe you hate it more.”

James shook his head. “I don't know if I hate it enough to bulldoze it to the ground and put an entire town out of work.”

“I'm not going to let that happen,” Deacon assured them. “I have a ranch of my own to care for not twenty minutes from here. Barns and housing going up as we speak. I'm gonna need as many folks as need jobs. And I'll treat 'em all better, pay 'em better.” Lifting his chin, he sniffed. “Shoot, I give 'em one year on my land before they forget the name Everett Cavanaugh altogether.”

“Jesus, Deacon.” The muscles in James's jaw looked tight enough to snap. “Listen to yourself.”

Deacon looked from one man to the other. “What?”

“You are so fucking arrogant,” Cole practically snarled. “But then again, you always were.”

“No,” Deacon corrected indignantly. “That wasn't arrogance, little brother. Not back then anyway. That was raw, hopeful, desperate, livin'-on-a-prayer confidence. But things change, don't they?” His eyes moved between the two of them. “After Cass was buried without no one payin' the price and Everett turned his back on us, and on Mama's prime directive of making us pay for her baby girl's death, this place destroyed every good, worthy, upstanding thing in me—and in the two of you.” Nostrils flaring, he dared them. “Tell me I'm wrong. Tell me I'm full of shit for wanting to put an end to this place and all the misery that came with it, and I'll walk away.”

For the first time in a long time, James's expression hardened, his eyes, too. He opened his mouth, ready to say something.

But he never got the chance.

Again the front door flew open, and again, a pissed-off force of nature entered. But this time, it was the one Deacon worried about more than any of the others. This one had never listened to him without arguing, never backed down without a fight. This one didn't mind getting dirty—she enjoyed it. Especially when she believed in the cause.

“Deacon Cavanaugh!” Her battle cry rent the air, sending all the male eyes flying to the doorway.

Standing there, hip cocked, in her gray dress and her black heels, those midnight-blue eyes fixed on him, Mackenzie Byrd looked like she wanted to rip his head from his body and feed it to the squirrels. Better yet, use it as a receptacle for nuts come winter.

“You are one coldhearted bastard!” she said, stepping into the room.

Deacon tracked her movement. He barely remembered how she'd looked as a kid. Lots of mud, scraped knees, big eyes. But her attitude—that had stuck with him. She'd been all fireworks and fits. Now, however, he had both to contend with. Beautiful woman and ferocious hellcat.

“Mac,” Cole began as she walked up to Deacon, her chin cocked and her eyes tossing off sparks. “I'm real sorry about this.”

She shook her head. “Don't. This wasn't your doin'.”

“Have something to get off your chest, Mackenzie?” Deacon asked, noticing just how tall she'd become. She was nearly eye to eye with him in those heels.

“I'm trying hard to understand you, Deacon.” Her eyes moved over his face. “I'm trying to understand why you'd come to a funeral and act that way.” She put a hand up. “Forget for a moment that the man lying in the casket is your daddy.”

Deacon frowned. He wouldn't forget that. Ever.

“Why would you choose to express yourself and your anger that way?” she demanded.

“We all wanted to know the answer to that question,” Cole ground out.

“Is that right?” Mackenzie said, glancing over her shoulder. “And did you get an answer?”

Cole shook his head. “Nope.”

She turned back to Deacon. “So?” She put her hands on her hips and gave him a hard, impatient stare.

Not unlike his connection with his brothers, there was a flicker of need inside of Deacon to
connect with Mac, too. The house, this land, all that had been in the good times, it was right powerful. But he wasn't here to reminisce or release the demons inside himself. Shit, he needed those demons. They'd made him rich. And they'd get him the Triple C.

“I don't owe you an explanation, Mackenzie,” he said in a tone that he usually reserved for the Cavanaugh Group boardroom.

Her eyes narrowed. “Oh, come on. Don't go all corporate dickhead on me, Deacon Cavanaugh. I helped Cole here pull thorns out of your naked ass that time you fell in a briar patch.”

His lips twitched. “That was James.”

“Oh, right,” Mackenzie agreed, nodding. “You were the one who pissed yer pants when your brothers zapped you with a cattle prod.”

Both Cole and James chuckled softly and Deacon's nostrils flared. “Are you done?”

“Not by a long shot.” She moved an inch closer. He could smell her perfume. Something flowery. Not at all what he'd expect from a foreman.

“What the hell's happened to you?” she asked, her tone a little less aggressive than it was a moment ago. “I mean, you were never the friendliest kitten in the box when we were young, but you weren't ruthless or heartless. Or shit, pointless.”

He looked down his nose at her. “You know
exactly what happened to me, Mac. 'Cause it happened to you, too, and to those two hyenas on the couch over there.”

She went pale instantly. And after licking her lips and clearing her throat, she uttered softly, “Cass.”

“That's right.”

The answer moved over her, maybe even inside her, and she straightened her shoulders. “Are you telling me that these past six years you've been trying to buy, steal, and bully your way to taking over this ranch because of Cass?” The pissed-off tone was back, and her eyes were flashing blue fire. And hell, that rich flowery scent—lilacs, maybe?—was pushing its way into his nostrils. “You stood up before a group of mourners and told them that their life, their work, the business that sustains this town, was gonna be destroyed because of Cass?” She laughed bitterly. “That's insulting to her memory. And it makes no sense.”