Relentless (Fallon Sisters Trilogy: Book #1) (28 page)

Bren closed her eyes, prepared to take the bullet that would end her life, when a scuffle brought them open. Kevin had reholstered his weapon and come up behind Wes, taking him to the ground in one swift motion, the gun hitting the dirt floor same as Wes.

Strong arms came around her and yanked the pitchfork from her hands. "It's over, darlin'," Rafe whispered into her ear as he clamped her tight to his chest.

Bren slumped against him. The two deputies swooped in and assisted Kevin, yanking Wes's arms behind his back, cuffing him while Kevin grabbed the gun and dropped the pistol's magazine onto the dirt floor. He cleared the chamber with a metallic click and dumped the remaining bullet out onto the ground.

"Does someone want to tell me what the hell is going on here?" he demanded.

Wes lifted his head, his breathing labored with the deputies still on his back. Everyone else turned their attention to the voice coming from the wide opening of the stable.

Bren recognized him immediately—the fair head of reason. The only sane Connelly who seemed to have radar designed to intercede when rational thinking had all been lost between his father and her.

Kevin's head whipped around. "You know anything about Bren's horse?"

"Horse?" Robert took a tentative step inside the stable, dressed casual in a dark running suit and tennis shoes. He frowned in confusion as the deputies hoisted Wes to his feet.

"She claims your father stole him and shipped him off for slaughter," Kevin said.

"I didn't steal her goddamn horse!" Wes sputtered.

"He did it. José said so," Bren shot back.

Rafe slipped his arm around her waist. "Easy, Tiger, you got want you wanted," he spoke quietly against her ear.

She bit the inside of her mouth. Sure, Wes put his best murdering foot forward by brandishing a gun. But it still wouldn't save Smiley unless she got answers.

Kevin tucked Wes's gun inside his waistband. "You better hope to hell you registered it," he snarled at the man. Then to his deputies: "Read him his rights and arrest him."

"Robert." The distress in Wes's voice brought Bren around.

He looked to his son, an expression of uncertainty lining his face.

Robert waved a dismissive hand toward his father. "I'm done with you." His eyes then met Bren's—pained and almost looking through her. "Whatever I can do to help, you let me know," he said and walked away.

The deputies shuffled Wes through the wide opening of the stable, and for once Wes was speechless.

An unexpected twinge of regret surfaced inside Bren, and she realized this thing between Robert and his father was no longer funny. She'd never meant to hurt Robert. He'd done nothing to deserve this.

Kevin stood in the way of the exit, talking into his radio.

She eyed him. If he tried to stop her...

He caught sight of them coming toward him. His jaw tensed. "You're not going anywhere until I get a statement so I can charge the son of a bitch."

Bren's back stiffened.

Rafe placed his hand on Bren's lower back. "He's on our side, Red." He grabbed hold of her arm and pulled her forward. "Give the man a statement. Then we're going to see Bean Counter. He's the only one who can help us now."

R
afe paced the marble floor of the expansive entryway of the Connelly home, the click of his boots echoing in the hallowed hall. Wide, opulent staircases, strung on either side, wended their way to the second level like an elegant strand of pearls carved in oak. Bren fidgeted, tapping her work boot against the gleaming marble floor. The contrast between working-class and high-class was stark and uncomfortable the longer she stood in such fine surroundings, waiting for Robert to succeed at his task.

"You sure you trust him?" asked Rafe.

"Shh." Bren strained her neck and peered through the tall double glass doors of Wes's office. Robert sat behind an ornate cherry desk, his glasses perched atop his head, digging through a stack of trucking manifests.

Rafe's fingers locked around her arm and yanked her back. "That's not an answer."

"We're here, aren't we? If he had something to do with Smiley's disappearance, you think he'd be rifling through his father's desk trying to find evidence?" She shook her head. "No, because he'd be signing both his and his father's arrest warrant."

His fingers relaxed, his one brow arching. "No loyalty to family?"

She glanced back at Robert, his head dipped in concentration, thumbing through the stack. "I don't claim to know how his mind works. But from what I've seen, he's a good guy. You can't pick your parents."

Rafe's grip tightened again, his eyes hardened.

"Hey." She stared at that hand, long fingered, wide palm, so male—and squeezing the life from her arm. "That hurts." She tugged her arm.

He let go as if she'd turned to flame. "Sorry. Go on."

How to explain the Connellys? "It's only been Wes and Robert for a long time." She leaned close to Rafe's ear. "Robert's mom left when he was small. She couldn't stomach Wes's side action. Couldn't stomach Wes." She gave a wry smile. "Smart woman, except I can't imagine leaving your son." She shrugged. "Robert, other than the business, is Wes's life. Only Robert chose to distance himself after Wes footed the bill for his higher education."

"So what's Bean Counter doing here?"

"Wes can be persuasive. Who knows? But I wouldn't put it past him to threaten his own son with his inheritance."Through the glass door, Robert's back was toward them, his hands deep in the files of a matching cherry credenza. "In Wes's twisted way, he loves his son. Manipulation is his way of keeping Robert close."

A smile touched her lips. Except the times
she
witnessed their interaction, the two only had cross words between them.

"The point is, he's not his father's whipping boy."

Rafe gave her a look of disbelief.

"He's his son. But he speaks his mind."

Those green eyes didn't soften one iota. Fine, he didn't see what she saw in Robert Connelly. Too bad. She waved an agitated hand at him. "He's doing it because it's the right thing to do. I trust him."

Besides, she'd deal with the devil himself if it got her what she needed—the trucking company and its destination. Without it, they had a fifty-fifty chance of picking the right slaughterhouse, though there were only two slaughterhouses Wes could use. Canada and Mexico were worlds apart. If they were wrong, the distance was too great to make up for lost time.

If they were going to be able to track and catch the tractor trailer in time, they needed to get a move on. No thanks to her and the standoff in the stable, she'd let precious time slip by.

She tugged on Rafe's arm. "Any word from Kevin?"

"Not yet. I don't think your buddy Wes plans on rolling over any time soon."

She closed her eyes, only to see those big brown eyes of Smiley staring back at her. He would be frightened out of his wits. The memory of the rescued horses in the cattle trailer made her shudder.

Positive thoughts, Bren.

Canada or Mexico; twelve hours by truck one way, thirty-six in the other—she wouldn't consider Smiley's emotional state in either case. She needed to function. For the moment, he was alive, and that was what she focused on. She only hoped the authorities detained the truck like they were supposed to. She might just catch up before it crossed the border. There was time to intercept the carrier if they could just find the manifest.

Rafe's fingers pressed into the back of her neck, kneading rhythmically. "Bean Counter still digging?"

She straightened and peered through the glass of the French doors. Rafe's phone went off and she jerked.

"I'll take it outside." The phone pealed again, and he took the call. "Yeah."

Bren raised her brows. "Kevin?"

He shook his head. "No, Trey." He spoke into the phone again. "Hang on." He covered the phone and connected with Bren. Any gleam of hope disappeared. "We're grounded until we have a flight plan." And his brother Trey, a licensed pilot, remained idle until they could confirm their destination.

That stubborn chin, rough and dark with stubble, lifted abruptly toward Wes's office. "Let's hope Junior in there finds it's Ciudad Juarez."

Mexico would be preferable. What little Rafe had told her—Trey had connections there.

Rafe kissed her cheek. "I'll be outside. How about you do your damnedest to move Bean Counter along."

One of the double oak entry doors clicked, and Rafe was gone. Bren hesitated. Maybe it was this house that bothered her.

She reached for the crystal doorknob. This day of murk had become a contradiction. By late afternoon the sun had peeked through, taunting her with its goodwill. By early evening it had given way to a mix of purple and pink hues through a window high above where she currently struggled to open a damn door.

Robert's blond head rose. A tired smile tugged at the corners of his lips. "Hey. I'm sorry this is taking so long. I figured the old man would have shoved it in his normal hiding spots."

"Your father, if nothing else, is predictable."

"Yeah, well, I didn't see this coming."

Bren gripped the edge of the door.
Me neither.

"Where are my manners?" He motioned to a chair in front of the desk and laughed. "You know, since I was old enough to notice girls, old enough to bring one home to meet...
my father..."
He frowned at her. "I always wanted it to be you."

The air became difficult to breathe.
Me?
A girl his father despised?

She sank down, the give of the leather chair a relief to standing.

He leaned over, his blue eyes searching hers. "You really had no idea?"

She pointed a determined finger at him and laughed nervously. "You really know how to surprise a girl." She managed to smile. But the truth was, her brain struggled to make sense of his confession. But then again, the children of a feud that had stretched decades learned you don't fraternize with the enemy. "Guess ol' Wes..." She cleared her throat. "Your father wouldn't have taken too kindly to you romancing the one he always referred to as 'girl.'"

"Try disowned." He laughed, and the foreboding sense that something was amiss lifted. "Needless to say, I got over you real quick."

Robert's cell phone rumbled next to his elbow on the desk. He glanced at it and gave her an apologetic smile. "Excuse me, Bren. I need to take this."

She nodded, and he took the call.

"Hey, sweetheart, you had me worried."The stress along his jaw lessened. "Next time answer your phone. So I'm not thinking the worst. I'll see you tomorrow morning. Love you, too."

He ended the call. "Sorry about that."

"Everything okay?"

"She drove to Richmond this afternoon to see friends of ours. There was a pileup on Interstate 95." He rubbed the back of his neck. "She had me concerned when I couldn't reach her."

"She's fine, then?"

"Yes. The accident was behind her, but she let her cell phone run down." He grimaced. "We'd planned to drive together until all this happened."

Bren moved her chair in. "Robert, I'm really sorry I've messed up your plans and put you in the middle."

He shook his head. "Bren, I'd do anything for you."

Bren reached over and squeezed his hand. "I hate putting you in the middle."

"It's not your fault." He gave her a quick smile before his expression turned serious. "He created this mess. I'm just sorry for what he's done."

The front door slammed. The click of Rafe's boots echoed in the hall.

Bren swung around. Rafe, tough cowboy, filled the doorway. His jaw set, the dark stubble of beard made him a formidable opponent for anyone willing to piss him off. And Robert, his hand still tucked under hers could be the catalyst to wage such a fight.

"Let's go, Bren." Rafe's voice, possessive and clipped, needled at her. Jealousy, if that was what she witnessed, didn't suit him.

"I'm not done here."

"Mason cracked. I just got off the phone with Kevin. It's Mexico."

Anger faded. Bren smiled at Robert apologetically. "I have to go."

"I hope you succeed."

"Thanks, Robert." Bren squeezed his hand one last time and stood. She didn't have to turn around to know Rafe's eyes sizzled with proprietary intent—a branding she didn't appreciate. He might own cattle, but he didn't own her. She cleared the doorway and snatched Rafe's arm, pulling him into the hall. "You're rude."

"And you're a fool. He was hitting on you."

She wanted to laugh—she'd grabbed
his
hand. "He has a fiancée."

"Ah, then we have nothing to worry about." His tone mocked her, and he rolled his eyes.

She refused to comment. And the "we" he had so easily used to mean "them" was left to explore another day, because Smiley was out there, and she meant to save him.

B
ren should have known Wes would have paid someone so his load could pass the checkpoint and keep going with Smiley. Her legs shook as she climbed out of the back seat of Trey's Honda Accord.

Then her whole body trembled. "That's a drainage pipe." Bren backed up and looked to Rafe, eyes wide with shock. She motioned with her hand. "What about crossing the border back there?" About a mile back, well-marked, there was a bridge that permitted both foot traffic and vehicles. A simple car drive—boom, they were there.

Before Rafe could formulate a response, Trey, his brother from hell—and from the looks of it, he wanted her to climb into the bowels of hell—popped his head from the trunk of his Honda Accord and scowled at her. "Because you don't have a passport,
Bren."

Mr. Command and Control she did not like.

Their introduction swift, Bren had barely had time to register the differences between Rafe and his brother Trey, except for one—their eyes. Where Rafe's shimmered green with warmth, Trey's did not. They were a bottomless gray that glinted with dislike for her.

That was fine. She wasn't here for a popularity contest. Maybe he considered her quest folly. After all, they were risking their lives for a damn horse. And it was true she didn't have a passport—had no reason to have a passport. Until some asshole stole her horse from Grace's warm stable with plans to slaughter him in a country she had no desire to ever step foot in.