Branded (9 page)

She reached up and wiped the sweat from her cheek and jaw. Was she actually overheated at eight a.m.? After fixing a couple of goddamned fences? She jumped down and led Gypsy to a patch of grass, then grabbed her tools. Nope. It wasn't the sun overhead that was causing her to sweat. It was the man barreling toward her on one of the most mercurial horses at the Triple C.
Standing calf-deep in water next to a downed post and a couple wires, Mackenzie just stared at him as he came toward her. Brown Stetson covering his dark hair and the top half his face, white T-shirt showing off all that muscle. Shit, she'd thought he sat behind a desk and barked orders all day long. Clearly, he was doing way more than that.

He was about a half mile away now, coming in fast, the ground rumbling like an earthquake beneath her feet. Damn, she hated how sexy he was. Hated how her body reacted to his fierce confidence and fiercer passion. Last night, alcohol fueling her, she'd taken what she wanted. Without thinking, without asking. A long time ago, a silly young girl with a bad attitude and a fondness for getting herself and her best friend into trouble had followed a certain Cavanaugh brother around, pretending to hate him, always giving him a hard time of it. When what she'd really wanted was to be noticed by him. Not as a pest or a pain, but as a girl. Maybe even be kissed by him.

Her heart stumbled in her chest. That girl's silly wish hadn't exactly been realized. Sure, there'd been a kiss. But it had been Mac who'd taken it. Lord, she'd never known that soft, full lips could be so possessive, so hungry, so feral. If she had, maybe she'd have tried something with him earlier, before he'd left the Triple C, way back when they were teenagers.

With a sharp “Ho” he pulled up a few yards away and let Trouble walk a bit. His green eyes on Mac, Deacon circled the mare a few times, nice and easy, then brought her to a stop at the rim of the water.

“Well?” he said.

“Well what?” she answered.

“What's my prize, foreman?”

His voice, so husky, so perfect in the open air, made Mac's hands unsteady with the wire cutters. “What are you talking about?”

One side of his mouth kicked up. “I found you.”

She laughed. “And?”

“And I won.”

Standing in the water, she stared up at him. Seeing him sitting on that horse, his green eyes and gorgeous face peeking out from under his dusty Stetson, Mac felt as though no time had passed. He wasn't the billionaire tycoon from Dallas, ready to bulldoze this land he'd just raced across. Not today. Today, he was a cowboy.

“There's no winning, Deacon Cavanaugh,” she returned.

He eased his hat back and gave her a look of mock reproach. “You practically dared me to find you back in that barn, Mackenzie Byrd.”

The sun shone fully on his face now, making his eyes shine like twin and very wicked emeralds. She shrugged. “Maybe I did. But there's
no winning on a dare. You either accept or you don't.”

He led Trouble in a small circle again. “That's not how I remember dares.”

She pointed the fence stretcher at him. “That's because you're old.”

His eyes widened.

She broke out laughing. “Yup. And sorry to inform you, but memory's the first thing to go.”

“Shit, darlin',” he muttered, jumping down from Trouble and tying her to a tree a few feet away from Gypsy. “You know I'm only four years older than you, right?”

She walked through the water, over to the fence. “That all?”

Coming up beside her, he shot her a good-natured grin, then joined her in cleaning the dead grass and such off the broken wire. The top three wires were still in good shape. They just needed to fix the one on the bottom.

“Hand me those fence stretchers, foreman,” he said. “And as far as memory goes, mine's crystal clear.” She straightened out the wires and he spliced them together. “In fact,” he continued. “I remember you having one of the biggest goddamn crushes on me this ranch has ever seen.”

Mackenzie froze, and within seconds her heart started slamming violently against her ribs. She
hadn't heard him right. Oh, please, God, let her not have heard him right.

Deacon chuckled. “Not to worry. Didn't mind it then; don't mind it now.”

“What?” she practically spat out, embarrassment surging through her. Had she really been that obvious back then? She'd truly thought he hadn't even noticed her outside of all the annoying shit she pulled. “Oh, let me assure you, cowboy, there's no now.”

He turned and gave her a knowing grin. “Come on, Mac.”

Oh jeez
. Her skin prickling with awareness and her cheeks flaming from humiliation, Mackenzie turned away and started down the fence line.

“You did have a crush on me,” he called after her.

“I think you just rode right past Arrogant Town and parked in Egomaniacville,” she called back.

He laughed. “Tell me it's not true, Mackenzie.”

“I'm not telling you nothin'.” She turned to glare at him, but her false ire turned soft when she saw him pounding a T-post into the ground. His face was hard, sweaty, and the muscles in his arms flexed under his skin with every drive.

Damn
.

“So, you have a diary or somethin'? Was I in it?” He finished driving the T-post and clipped
the wire to it, then turned to face her. “Did you write Deacon plus Mackenzie equals love?”

He was so close to the truth she nearly admitted it. But that would be stupid. And after last night, she'd used up all her stupid. She eyed him. “What's it gonna take to make you stop?”

His grin widened. “I want my prize.”

She felt that grin all the way down her body. “Well, I don't have a ribbon on me.”

“Don't like ribbons.”

“Got no gold in these pockets neither.”

“I don't need any more gold, darlin'.”

No, she was pretty sure that was true. “Fine.” She gave her best foreman's stare down. “You hungry?”

His eyes turned from humor to heat in a split second. “Always.”

Good God and all that was holy. This man was making her shiver in ninety damn degrees. “Easy, cowboy. I'm talking about lunch. I got it packed. Soon as we finish all the water gaps, I'll share it with you.”

“Oh, hell, that's no prize,” he grumbled good-naturedly.

“What it is, Deacon Cavanaugh, is a big goddamn sacrifice. I'm starving.”

“Fine,” he tossed back. His eyes filled with amusement. “Then there'd better be enough. I'm starving, too.”

“Trouble.” Shaking her head, she turned back to the fence and stretched out the wire.

“What's that?” he called out to her.

“Your horse, cowboy,” she returned with a small smile. “After we finish up here, you'll get on Trouble and follow me to the next fence.”

Walking toward her with another T-post in his gloved hand, he gave her nod. “To the fence or into the fire, Mackenzie Byrd. For today I suppose I'll follow you anywhere.”

Two hours later, hot and sweaty, his stomach barely appeased by the two sandwiches he'd already eaten, Deacon sat beside Mackenzie under the shade of a birch tree and watched her eat her first sandwich. Her hat was resting on the grass, and the breeze off the lake a few feet away was sending dark strands of her hair flying about her beautiful, dirt-smudged face.

Hell, a body could get used to this. Working hard alongside such a woman, his muscles being fed by hours in the saddle and under the sun instead of in the sterile private gyms in his office building and penthouse.

The thoughts moved uninvited through his mind, and he turned to the picnic, which was set up on a blue-and-white-striped cloth on the grass, and grabbed a third sandwich, along with a handful of chips and a bunch of grapes.

“You sure worked up an appetite, cowboy,” Mac said, eyeing his plate.

“Thank God you had the good sense to pack enough for—”

“An army?” she finished good-naturedly. She grinned and crunched a slice of pickle.

Deacon laughed. “I was going to say a country boy.”

She cocked her head, pretended to study him. “Not sure you can call yourself that anymore.”

“I told you—”

“I know what you told me, but I think you've been out of the game too long.” She shrugged, then popped the rest of the pickle in her mouth.

“There's a statute of limitations on calling yourself country?”

She nodded. “Yes. It's ten years.”

The flash of amusement in her blue eyes made his heart flip over like a damn fish on the bank. Out of its element and unable to breathe. “That written down somewhere, or did you just make it up on the spot?”

“Oh, it's common knowledge,” she said, taking her half of a brownie she'd cut in two earlier.

He watched her eat it, watched the moist chocolate slip between her teeth. “So, if I go back to the house and ask Sam about it, you think he'll back you up?”

“Oh, Sam will always back me up.”

“There's gotta be someone I can ask.” He dropped his chin and gave her a serious look. “Someone impartial. Someone who either isn't in love with you, doesn't think you're the prettiest girl they've ever seen, or go to bed dreaming of getting a kiss like the one we had last night.”

Her cheeks flushed instantly, and she dropped her gaze. “Hey, Deacon, about that. I'm sorry—”

“No, I didn't mean anything, Mac,” he started, feeling like an asshole for shooting off his mouth.

“I don't know. Maybe we should talk about it.”

“No. It was a mistake. Right?” He tried to catch her eye, but she wasn't having it. “You were drinking, I was . . . there.”

She turned to face the lake, her jaw tight. “Right.”

Shit. The last thing he wanted was for her to feel uncomfortable. He didn't like it. And he really didn't like that she'd agreed with him about the make-out session meaning nothing.

“Hey,” she said. “You gonna eat the other half of that brownie?”

“You avoiding talking about our kiss, Mackenzie?”

“Maybe.”

He pushed a hand through his hair. Maybe he should avoid it, too. But his mouth opened anyway and he started babbling on. “Truth? It was amazing. Hell. It was the hottest motherfucking kiss I've ever
had. It deserves to be talked about. Might even deserve to be commemorated on a plate or something.”

She groaned. “The brownie, Deacon,” she said again, her eyes still trained on the dessert. “You gonna eat it or what?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“If you'll let me feed it to you.”

Her head came up, and her eyes narrowed. “You have issues.”

“That a yes?” He picked up the brownie, smiled at her. “How bad do you want it, Mackenzie?”

She shook her head at him. “Not bad enough to humiliate myself.”

“Come on, now. Don't get all bent out of shape.” He leaned toward her and waved the brownie under her nose, then swiped a bit of the frosting on her upper lip. “Every man knows that women can't resist chocolate.”

She licked it off instantly. “Where did you hear that?”

“You.” He shrugged. “And somewhere else, too. I'll tell you if you open up and take a bite.” Deacon broke off a piece of brownie and waited. When she let him slide it between her lips, he felt his entire body tense.

“Lucky brownie,” he whispered.

Her eyes cut to his. They were worried and
confused and glazed with attraction like they'd been last night.

Deacon knew he should stop this. It was so damn dangerous, playing around with her feelings, and shit, his own. But they were so close, and her eyes were on his, and her sweet, salty scent was pushing into his nostrils.

He bent down and whispered, “I know I've never tasted anything better than your mouth. No hotter, sweeter place in the world.”

For several electric seconds, she stared back at him. Then she swallowed hard and looked away. “Now, who else told you women can't resist chocolate?”

Deacon grimaced, his insides tense and bleeding with the need to kiss her, taste her again. But he shoved it away.

“I learned that valuable piece of information,” he said, handing her the rest of the brownie, then stretching out on the blanket, “in the sixth grade.”

“Sixth grade? That's mighty young.”

“Forget math and science. I wanted to kiss girls.”

“So, not much has changed.”

He laughed. She had no idea. “Right before a guy enters junior high, he's taught what girls really want.”

She turned to look at him, her eyes no longer wary, but curious. “Is that right?”

“Oh yeah.”

“From who?”

“Whom,” he corrected with a teasing grin.

“Get outta here,” she drawled.

He shrugged. “Hey, we're talking about school. Just triggered something in me.”

“Like your schoolteacher gene?” she shot back.

He pointed at her. “Exactly.”

“Come on.” She laughed as the wind kicked up across the lake and blew her hair about her face.

“I'm serious.”

She rolled her eyes. “Fine. From
whom
did you learn what girls really want?”

“The older guys. Juniors and seniors mostly.”

She snorted. “And they told you it was chocolate that a girl really wants?”

He grinned wickedly. “Among other things.”

“I'm not even going to ask,” she said.

“Good, because I'm pretty sure I'd have to demonstrate a few of them. You know, to make sure you were clear on things.”

Her face split into a grin. “I think I'm clear. I've got a great imagination.”

His blood started to heat up. Damn woman. “Maybe you need to stop talking like that, or I might be forced to bring up last night again.”

“And maybe you shouldn't be threatening to spill all those sacred male secrets,” she said, her grin growing wider. “What if the big boys heard about it? You might get in trouble.”

He sighed, watched as far above him, a young hawk flew back and forth, from branch to branch, practicing—preparing for a longer journey. “Clearly, I like getting into trouble.”

She laughed and started cleaning up. Baggies and foil, cans of soda. Deacon moved to help her.

“Hey, remember that lemonade stand you had?” he asked.

She glanced up. “With Cass?”

He nodded. “You wanted to buy me a bolo tie for my birthday, so you charged all the hands a dollar a glass.”

She looked stunned. “You remember that?”

“I'm not as old as you think.”

“Cass forgot to put sugar in it.”

He laughed and stuffed a few napkins in the picnic basket. “The cowboys had to smile through their puckers so they wouldn't hurt your feelings.”

“You still got that tie, Deac?”

His gaze cut to hers and held. 'Course he didn't have the tie. It had been a million years ago. But in that moment, her eyes to his, under the dome of blue, he wished he could say yes.

“You know, it wasn't just from me,” she continued with a soft smile. “Cass helped me pick it out.”

His gut twisted at the mention of his sister. Especially here, on this spot near the water. She'd
loved to play around here. “Cass hated shopping and clothes . . .”

“She really did,” Mackenzie confirmed. “But she loved you.” Her eyes warmed. “And she knew you. Makes buying a gift a lot more fun.”

“I don't know where that tie is, Mac,” he admitted a little sheepishly.

She smiled, shook her head. “It's okay. I'm sure it wouldn't stand up to the silk ones you got hanging in your closet now.”

“I don't know about that.”

God, he wanted to kiss her. Wanted to feel her lips against his, hear her soft moans. He wanted to lift her up and sit her on his lap, then slide his hands underneath her. Maybe she'd wrap her legs around his waist like she had last night, and her arms around his neck, and they'd taste each other, breathe each other's air, and forget about the past . . .

. . . and the future.

But then clouds moved in and the air felt cold.

“You know, losing Cass took a toll on everybody, Deacon,” Mac said.

And Deacon no longer felt like the playful, carefree cowboy he'd been a second ago. He nodded. “'Course it did, Mac.”

“But you're the only one who wants to end this place over it.”

He stared at her for a full ten seconds before
responding. “Understand me, darlin'.” His tone nearly stripped the sunshine from the sky it was so dark. “The destruction of the Triple C happened long ago. Not because of Cass's murder, but because of what happened afterward.”

She froze. “What?”

He shook his head. Damn his mouth.

“What are you talking about? What happened afterward?” she said, her eyes pinned to his. She sat on her feet and faced him. “Are you talking about how the police couldn't find that ‘Sweet' guy Cass had told me about? How they closed the case?”

He remained tight-lipped. What was he doing? Why was he even here with her? Fixing fences, having picnics, dredging up the past?

“Deacon, please,” she nearly begged. “I know you're holding back something. I know there's more to this—all of this—everything you've done in the past six years—than just you wanting to destroy memories of Cass.”

“You don't know anything about me, Mac,” he ground out. “And one night of hot necking in your room isn't going to change that.”

She flinched at the harshness of his words. “Wow. Okay. Well, you're right about that.” She took a deep breath and let it out. “But don't I at least have the right to know why you're taking this place away from me, and everyone else who calls it home and a living?”

Deacon stared at her, feeling like the worst of bastards. This was so fucked up. This whole thing. Coming here, staying here, going to her room last night and letting things get out of hand. He could not afford to care about her feelings, her wants or her needs. At least not more than his own.

“Hey there!” came a not so friendly call from behind them.

On a soft gasp, Mackenzie turned. Deacon followed, and promptly frowned. Blue stood on the rise, hat tipped back, his horse grazing a few yards back.

How long had he been standing there? Deacon wondered. And had he heard any part of their conversation?

The cowboy headed down the incline, then straight toward them, stopping just a few feet away. His eyes went to Mackenzie first, then cut sharply to Deacon.

“Your employee's here,” he said. “He's up at the house ready to swab the inside of my cheek.” He arched a brow. “I figured you'd want to witness this less-than-blessed event.”

Deacon stared at him. “I do.”

Once again, Blue's eyes went to Mackenzie. “Then let's go.”

•   •   •

Mac paced the rough wood floor of the kitchen. She'd refused to sit on the hard living room couch with
James, Cole, and Elena and watch as Blue got tested for Cavanaugh DNA. But she couldn't hang out in her room or go back to work either. Nerves ran up her spine and made her neck feel stiff. After what had happened the night before, and then today at the lake, she felt unbelievably confused. Deacon Cavanaugh wanted to destroy everything she loved, and yet she couldn't stop herself from wanting him. Maybe it was because she saw the good inside him, the desire to connect with her, with his brothers, and with the ranch again—the desire he tried to mask or tamp down or pretend wasn't there. Whatever it was, she was convinced he was hiding something important, and she wanted desperately to know what it was.

“Baking me some cookies, foreman?”

She glanced up, spotted Blue in the kitchen doorway and gave him a nod. “Absolutely. You'll find their small, round, and very burned carcasses in the trash. Help yourself.”

He laughed. “We're just waiting on the results now.” He walked in, dropped into a chair at the kitchen table. “Well,
they're
waiting,” he clarified.

“Damn, Blue,” she began, shaking her head. “What if you are . . . ?”

“If I am, I am.”

“That answer sucks.”

“I know.” He shrugged. “But right now, it's the only one I got.”

“Have you talked to your mom yet?”

His eyes grew stormy and he shook his head.

Mac released a breath and leaned back against the counter. “You need to, Blue.”

“We all have things we need to do, Mac.” He cocked his head to one side, seemingly to see her from a different angle. “Like driving cattle, seeing the ocean, learning where we come from, trying
foie gras
”—his eyes shuttered—“and coming clean about our interest in people we shouldn't be interested in.”

Her brows drew together. “What are you talking about?”