Redemption: Reckless Desires (Blue Moon Saloon Book 3) (16 page)

What a dick,
the fan seemed to squeak.
What a dick.

Janna didn’t talk to him for the rest of the night. Simon barely did, either. Jess was the only one who even met his eyes, and when she did, she looked sad and speechless.

God, he really was a dick. He’d shown his teeth and yelled like a real bastard of an alpha. He felt terrible about it all night, not that that changed anything.

“I’m out of here,” Janna said at midnight, when Cole pulled up in his truck outside, straight from a late meeting at Seymour Ranch.

“Where are you going?” Jess asked.

“Cole and I are going dancing.”

Soren nearly snorted. Dancing. Just great. But cleanup was done, and Janna was an adult, and yes, she deserved to have a good time tonight.

Simon finished cleaning up behind the bar, grabbed his car keys, and slipped an arm over Jessica’s shoulders. “See you,” he said.

Soren stared for a second. His brother was leaving him, too?

“We’re going out.” Simon looked at Jess with a weary smile. “Time to let the bear out for a little run.”

Great. Just fucking great. His brother and Jess were going for a midnight romp in the woods. Janna and Cole were dancing. The wolves of Twin Moon Ranch were out catching the murderer he despised. And Soren…

Soren leaned back against the bar and shook his head.

“You’ll be okay?” Jess asked softly.

Sure. Just fucking great,
he wanted to say. But he’d done enough barking tonight.

He nodded. “Fine.”

Their footsteps carried out the door and down the street, and a moment later, a car fired up and drove away.

Soren turned around, and he let his eyes travel every inch of the bar he’d worked so hard on, months back. Well, he studied every part except the mirror, because he didn’t have the stomach to face himself right now. He felt a thousand years old and probably looked it, too.

He tilted his head back, raising his eyes from the glittering bottles and varnished oak shelves, past the finely carved supports. Lamplight glinted off the barrel of the 1873 Winchester he’d restored and hung there, and shadows played over the scene carved in the upper portion of the bar. A wolf howled at the moon, and a bear waded in a stream, while an eagle soared above them.

He’d never understood wolves’ love of howling at the moon, but damn, he’d never been so close to trying it as he was tonight.

He sighed at all the work he’d put into that bar. All the hours, all the sawdust in his nostrils. He’d been so proud, but shit. Fixing up that bar might turn out to be the sole accomplishment of his life.

Soren Voss, alpha of Blue Moon clan, going down in history for nothing more than
that
.

He poured himself a stiff drink and spent a long time wiping glasses that didn’t need to be wiped, staring off into nothingness. Didn’t bother closing the front door, because the swinging saloon doors let in the cool night air. The voice of fate floated in and cackled at him from time to time. That or the sound of a late-night driver out on the street.

An hour passed that way, or maybe two, and he was just about to pour himself another bourbon — a dangerous move for a man with far too many bottles within arm’s reach — when footsteps hurried down the creaky stairs in the back.

“Soren?”

He thumped the whiskey bottle down and pushed away the glass. Why did Sarah sound so panicked?

“What’s wrong?” he stepped out to intercept her, but she swept right past him and peered out over the saloon doors, leaning forward in the sneakers she’d slipped over bare feet.

She’d taken to wearing one of his old T-shirts as a nightgown, and it fell just high enough on her thighs to capture his gaze for a little too long. God, she was beautiful, with her long legs and red hair and willowy figure. But why did she sound so scared?

He put an arm over her shoulders and looked up and down the street. “What’s wrong?”

You have to tell her,
his bear insisted.
Tell her about me.

As if that would settle whatever had her nerves so frayed.

She shivered, so he pulled her closer. “I felt it again. That,
they’re coming for me
feeling…”

He didn’t have to ask who
they
were. He knew. But Sarah was wrong. Ty Hawthorne was ferreting out the Blue Bloods somewhere miles away. Annihilating them, if all went according to plan.

Tell her!
his bear insisted.

Jesus, now was hardly the time.

He wrapped her in his arms and inhaled deeply through her hair. “It’s good. It’s all good. You’re safe here. The baby is safe here.”

She hugged him tight, but periodic shivers still shook her thin frame.

He held her close and rocked her, almost in an extra-slow dance in the last fading beats of a song, and a little bit of peace settled over him again. He kissed the top of her head and ran his arms up and down her back.

“See? Nothing to worry about here—”

Alarms rang out from the fire house two blocks down, and Sarah’s head snapped up.

“Fire?”

They both stepped out onto the sidewalk and looked at the bustle of activity down the street.

He wanted to shrug it off and tell Sarah it was just a fire, but
just
and
fire
didn’t seem like a good combination to try on a woman who’d survived what she had.

“Quick! Quick! Help! Anyone!” a desperate voice cried, and a man ran up the other end of the street.

Soren spun around.

“Oh, God. No,” Sarah murmured, pointing to the shop front across the street. The reflection in the windows showed flames rising over rooftops from a building a few blocks behind the saloon.

“Quick! Help!” the man yelled, rushing to them. He grabbed Soren’s arm. “We need to get them out!”

Soren didn’t know who was stuck, but he sure wasn’t going to waste time talking.

“Wait here,” he said, stepping away from Sarah.

“But—”

“Please!” the man pleaded, yanking on his arm. “There are people trapped in there!”

He glanced at the fire house. The fire trucks hadn’t even rolled out yet; they might be too late.

He looked at Sarah, and his heart screamed,
Don’t leave her! Don’t go!

But how could he not go? How could he not help?

Summoning all the resolve he had, he wheeled away from her and sprinted down the street.

“Wait, Soren!” Sarah called, but he was already gone with the man who’d begged for help.

She watched him race down the sidewalk, then disappear around a right turn.

She leaned against the outside wall of the saloon and wrapped her arms around herself, watching the reflection of the flames dance in the shop windows across the street. God, not another fire. Not another life lost. And God, please, not Soren. She couldn’t lose him, too.

Of course, he was right to try to help. But she prayed the fire department would get there first, because they were the experts and they were well equipped. But Jesus, what was taking them so long?

The fire was somewhere behind the saloon, and though she could have run out back or crossed the street to see the fire directly, the reflection was bad enough. Her right hand brushed over the left, and the left over the right in a nervous washing motion as she remembered the searing pain of her burns.

She clamped her hands together. Praying would probably help as much as worrying did, but what else could she do?

Please, God. Please don’t take another life.

Frantic figures ran by. People emerged from buildings to see what was going on and shouted. Sirens sounded as two fire trucks blazed down the street in a blur of noise and flashing red lights. They swung around the corner just as Soren had done.

“Fire!” people shouted. “Fire!”

She shivered, telling herself it was the chill in the air or the fire, not the creeping feeling she’d awoken to. That feeling that the evil she thought she’d finally evaded was back.

She looked one way down the street, then the other. Streets that had grown eerily quiet while the action shifted to the scene of the fire. There were shadows everywhere…

Shadows that didn’t rush by. Shadows that watched. Waited.

A cold chill sliced down her spine. She backed toward the saloon doors. Something was wrong. Something more than the fire.

Soren!
she screamed in her mind.

A figure separated itself from the darkness and started walking calmly down the middle of the street toward the saloon. A tall man, clad all in black. A second man joined him, wearing a suit that was somehow more sinister for being a pure, clean white.

They weren’t heading for the fire. They were heading for her with a cocky assurance that put ice in her blood.

Just like in her nightmares, she opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

Get inside! Lock the door!
she screamed at her own feet, but they seemed mired in mud.

Seconds ticked by, and all she could do was stare while several more shadows appeared along the block and started an eerie chant.

“Purity. Purity…”

Something in her finally snapped, and she stumbled through the saloon doors. They squeaked back and forth on their hinges as she reached up frantically for the rolling metal shutters that would lock that evil away. Whoever had slid the shutters up last had pushed them so far, she had to jump to reach the string dangling from the end. Her fingers brushed against it — once, twice — before she finally caught hold and yanked down with all her might.

And,
wham!
Metal clanged against metal as the shutters hit the frame on the floor. She knelt and slid the bolt in, then froze, looking through the tiny slits between the shutters at the boots that appeared outside.

“Miss Boone, it is fruitless to attempt an escape,” a man said as several others chanted behind him.

“Purity. Purity.”

She fell back on her rear and scuttled backward. The door would hold them, but for how long? They could break through the windows. Bust through the back door.

Her body shook so hard, she could barely get to her feet.

“Purity. Purity…”

Even if she had plugged her ears with her fingers, the echo would still carry through. Who were these lunatics?

“Leave me alone!” she screamed, running her hands over her belly.
Leave my baby alone!

The man at the door rattled the metal with his foot and laughed. “I’m afraid we can’t, Miss Boone. I’m afraid you must die.”

His voice was calm and steady, pure evil despite the easy tone.

“What did I do?” she screamed. “What did I do?”

She wanted to throw a chair at him. Pummel him with her fists. Find a big, heavy bat and swing it a few times. Why wouldn’t these lunatics leave her alone?

“Humans are not permitted to mix with our kind. Not with wolves, not with bears. We must protect the purity of our bloodlines.”

Wolves? Bears? Was he part of some secret society? Some kind of creepy military unit gone badly wrong?

She covered her stomach with her hands. The baby. They were after the baby. But why?

“Soren!” she screamed, even though he was too far to hear.

The man at the door gave a heavy sigh as the thugs who accompanied him spread out along the front windows, peering in under the letters that spelled
Blue Moon Saloon
backward from the inside looking out.

“He’s part of the problem, my dear. Your whole twisted pack is the problem.”

“You’re the twisted one!” she screamed.

But screaming would get her nowhere, and she knew it.

Think, Sarah, think!

She spun around. She could run out the back, but who was to say there weren’t more men out there? Even if there weren’t, how long would she last? She wasn’t exactly the fleet runner she used to be with the baby throwing her gait off.

The saloon was dim. A single light shone over the mirror of the bar. Her eyes hurried over the shelves, wondering what she could use to defend herself. A broken-off bottle? A stool?

The men outside moved slightly, and light glinted off the antique rifle hanging high above the bar. She stopped, staring at it as the sound of metal rolling against metal echoed in her mind.

Bullets. Soren kept silver bullets in the cash register.

She burst into action, running to the register. It opened with a ding and the rolling sound she was listening for. Soren had cleared out the money for the night, and she could see silver shining in the back. She scooped up a handful of bullets and threw them on the bar. One rolled off and plunked onto the rubber mat behind the counter as she scooped a second handful with shaking hands. Could she really shoot someone?

The open drawer of the cash register bumped her belly, reminding her of the baby, and she straightened quickly. Hell yes, she could.

The men outside shook the metal shutters by the door. Not a rattle of warning, as before, but powerful yanks that tested the strength of the bolt.

She pulled a stool over to the wall and climbed the rungs. Not quite as quickly as she’d once climbed trees, maybe, but faster than she bet any pregnant woman ever had. She got up on the back counter of the bar and reached for the rifle on tippy-toes. Her fingers slid off the polished walnut of the stock, and for one horrifying instant, she thought she’d fall.