Five
Cassidy made a point of staying away from Brig for the next few days, but she couldn’t help seeing him driving the tractor, or shoring up the fence, or cutting the herd, or working with Remmington. From the corner of her eye she watched as he talked, laughed and smoked with several of the other ranch hands, and she noticed that he didn’t bother telling Angie to leave whenever she happened to run into him. Time and time again they were together, she smiling up at him, he being patient with her.
Cassidy couldn’t imagine what they had to talk about. But with Angie, there didn’t have to be any conversation. Men and boys alike vied for the honor of just standing close to her.
Nearly a week passed until Cassidy was alone again with time on her hands. She felt restless and bored and wondered why this summer was different from any other. Last year she’d still found a little fascination with the things she always had but this summer, with the weather so blasted hot…She glanced over to the paddock where Brig was working with Remmington. The colt seemed less prickly. Maybe Brig was making progress. Some men broke horses fast, in a matter of days, but Brig took his time working with an animal and, she supposed, she should be grateful for that. Still, she felt as if the whole family treated her like a little girl who couldn’t do anything for herself—including ride her own horse.
She climbed over the fence and hiked down to the creek where, as a girl, she’d caught crawdads and periwinkles and watched water skippers skim the ripples. She and Angie and Derrick had played down there years before, splashing each other and throwing mud, wading in the shallows. Derrick had been fun-loving then, laughing and pulling Cassidy’s hair or trying to spatter his younger sisters with the muck he’d raked from the bottom of the creek. She and Angie had caught him smoking his first cigarette down there once, coughing up a storm, and another time she’d spied him with some dark-haired girl, kissing and rolling around in the shadows, sweating and panting. Cassidy had ducked away quickly, slipping back through the leafy curtain of willow branches before she recognized the girl who so willingly let him strip her of a scanty little training bra.
That’s about the time things changed, when Derrick started being interested in girls. He started looking at her differently and didn’t play their old games. He’d always had a streak of the devil, but he seemed to get meaner about the time his beard began to come in and his voice railed between low notes and screeches. He was frustrated and angry. Once he’d whipped a horse until it bled and shot a neighbor’s cat for sport. In both instances, Rex had rebuked his son then marched him to the barn, where he’d forced the boy to lean over a sawhorse and used Derrick’s whip on his butt. Derrick had screamed and yelled, swearing as he’d been struck, then marched back to the house red-faced and sweating, his eyes filled with hot tears of humiliation, the hard twist of his mouth set in angry defiance.
Rex had then driven him into town, made him talk to the priest, but no matter how many “Hail Marys” and “Our Fathers” Derrick was forced to utter, he just got meaner. Cassidy was sure he could have said the rosary over and over again, wearing the stones smooth, and still he wouldn’t have bowed his head to his father’s will.
No, something inside of Derrick had changed, but she didn’t know what.
Now, she kicked off her boots and dug her toes into the mud near the water’s edge. The stream was low, not much more than a trickle that gurgled and spit over time-worn stones.
Wrapping her arms over her knees, she felt restless again—the same unnerving energy that kept her up at night.
Plucking a piece of grass from the bank, she gasped as a shadow passed over her shoulders and spread on the ground before her.
“What’re you doin’ down here?”
Brig. She’d know his voice anywhere. Her heart slammed into her throat.
“Nothing.” Turning, she tried not to notice that his shirt was open, the sleeves rolled up, his nearly threadbare jeans hanging so low over his slim hips that his navel and the dark hair around it were visible. A heady warmth invaded her blood as she tossed her hair over her shoulders and wished her feet weren’t black with wet soil. “I was just wondering when I could ride my horse again.”
“You sound like a broken record.”
“Well?”
“Soon as he’s docile as a puppy.”
“If I’d wanted a dog,” she said smartly, “I would’ve gone to the pound.” Standing, she wiped her feet on the grass and tried to hide the fact that she was embarrassed. “I think you should stop working with Remmington. I like him the way he is.”
“Ornery.”
“Yeah, ornery.”
He made a sound of disgust in the back of his throat.
“I already told you I like a colt with some fire, who has his own mind.”
“Who throws you off and knocks you senseless?” he asked, fiddling with his pocketknife. He seemed taller standing in his cowboy boots when she was barefooted. The sunlight shifted through leaves that stirred with a breath of wind, causing shadows to move over his chiseled features. He snapped his knife shut.
“Seems to me he threw you off.”
A twisted smile caressed his lips. He stuffed the jack knife into his pocket. “Can’t argue with that, but I hope you’re not spreadin’ it around. Wouldn’t want the rest of the hands to get wind of it.”
“It’s our secret,” she said with a smile.
“Is it?”
“Cross my heart and hope to die—” She made the childish gesture over her breastbone, then stopped when she noticed his gaze follow the movement. “Well, you know what I mean.”
Lower lip thrust out, he nodded, the most agreeable she’d ever seen him.
“But I still think I should be able to ride him.”
“You will,” Brig promised. “Soon.”
“I can control him.”
“Then how do you explain this?” He touched her bruised shoulder, and she nearly jumped out of her skin.
Somewhere in the back of her mind she realized that being alone with him was flirting with a danger she really didn’t understand. There was always something different in the air whenever she was around him—like the sharp electrical charge just before a thunderstorm hit.
She lifted the shoulder in question. “I made a mistake the last time I rode him.”
“One your daddy doesn’t want repeated.”
“Maybe he doesn’t know what’s best for me.”
“And you do?” A dark eyebrow shot skyward, and she realized he was laughing at her attempt at bravado.
“Why do you treat me like I’m a child?”
“’Cause you are.”
“You’re not that much older.”
“It’s not the years, darlin’.”
“Then what?” she asked, inching up her chin defiantly. “Your experience?”
A half-smile caressed his lips. “That’s part of it.”
Her heart was drumming wildly, and she noticed the dark hair on the back of his arms, the stubble on his chin, his attitude of insolence that she found both frightening and fascinating.
He reached forward, and she thought he might kiss her for a timeless instant, but he touched the chain around her neck as he had before. The medal, dangling between her breasts, seemed to sear her skin. “You always wear this.”
She nodded.
“Why?”
“I—I don’t know.”
“Some kind of commitment to your church? Or did some boy give it to you?”
“No boy gave it to me.”
He dropped the chain, glanced away for a second, then sighed. “I followed you down here to apologize,” he admitted. “I came on a little strong the other day.”
“It’s okay—”
“Nope. Let me do this. You, uh, caught me with my pants down, so to speak. I lost my concentration, the horse sensed it, and he threw me.”
“But I distracted you.” The air seemed heavy and she backed up a couple of steps, her buttocks making contact with the rough bark of the willow.
“I shouldn’t have let you.”
“Oh.”
He glanced to the hollow of her throat, where her heart was thrumming wildly. In the span of a few seconds, only the soft gurgle of the stream broke the stillness. She sensed that he wanted to kiss her, that the reason his hands were curled into fists was that he was fighting a losing battle with himself. “I should go—”
“No!” she said quickly, then felt her cheeks burn. “I—uh—”
A muscle ticked in his jaw, counting off the heartbeats. His gaze collided with hers, and though no words were spoken, Cassidy knew that he felt it, too, that hot, anxious wanting that seemed to pulse in the air between them. She licked her lips. He let out a soft groan and when he spoke, his voice was dry and rough. “It would be better, for both of us, if you stayed away from me and the horse.”
“I like being around you,” she admitted and he squeezed his eyes shut, as if he could close off her image.
“Well, don’t, Cass. Don’t like me.” When he opened his eyes again, he seemed to be in some sort of control and the veins didn’t stand out so much in his arms and neck. “Believe me, girl, we’ll all be a lot better off if you just stay the hell away.”
“So what’s it like working for the richest man in the county?” Chase pulled a bottle of beer from the refrigerator and offered one to Brig. Sawdust dusted Chase’s hair and the shoulders of his work shirt.
“You tell me,” Brig said, frustrated in the hot trailer. His mother’s little fan was whirring loudly, in a vain attempt to keep the sweltering temperature below ninety. He swiped a hand over his sweaty forehead, then stripped out of his shirt, but the heat just stayed with him, like memories of the Buchanan girls, thoughts that played havoc with his mind. “You work for him, too.”
“Along with half the town.” Chase set the two bottles on the cluttered table, opened them both, then drained half of his. “But you, you have the privilege of seeing how they live, what they do…”
“I shovel shit.” Brig took a long swallow. “It ain’t all that glamorous.”
“No? It has to beat standing on the green chain, pulling lumber until your gloves wear through and your hands bleed.” Chase tossed a shock of black hair off his forehead, and his blue eyes, so like Brig’s own, bored into him. No one would ever mistake them for strangers, they looked too much alike—the same size and build, dark hair and dusky blue eyes. The only difference was that Chase’s features were a little more refined than Brig’s. Brig had always accused his older brother of being prettier—and that usually set Chase off, starting a wrestling match which, until four years ago, Chase always won handily. Lately the tables had turned, and consequently they didn’t take out their frustrations on each other—at least not physically.
“Okay,” Chase said as he straddled a chair. “Tell me about the house and the cars and the daughters.” Chase’s lips curved into a half-smile. “You like the women, don’t you, Brig?”
“The girls are spoiled brats.”
“You’re not interested?” Chase asked, leaning both elbows on the table.
“No.”
“Bullshit.” He took another long swallow, his gaze holding his younger brother’s. “I’ve been up there, to the house, when the old man asked me to sign papers for that loan. I got a good look at what he’s got, and I swore to myself right then and there that I was in heaven. I’d find a way to have it all one day, the mansion facing the hills, another house in Portland, maybe even a beach cabin. I’ll buy an airplane and invest in timber and the rock quarry and the sawmill. All I have to do is pay my dues, go to school and learn to kiss the right asses. Eventually, I’ll be where old Rex is and I’ll be the one passing out interest-free loans and being the richest damn bastard in the county. No more crawling on my knees.”
It was a touchy subject. Chase hadn’t wanted to borrow money to finish college, but hadn’t had much of a choice. Rex Buchanan, in another benevolent gesture to the McKenzie clan had offered the loan.
“Yep, the old man knows how to live, and those daughters of his aren’t hard to look at, are they?”
Brig wanted to say he hadn’t noticed, but Chase would have accused him of the obvious lie.
“You know, it wouldn’t be a bad plan to marry one of ’em and inherit a piece of the Buchanan estate.”
“I thought you said to stay away from ’em. That Cassidy’s jail-bait.”
“She is, but she won’t be forever. And Angie. Jeez, a man can get hard just thinking about her. I think she’s old enough to know what she wants.”
Brig didn’t like the turn of his brother’s thoughts. “What about Derrick?” Brig asked, not that he really cared. He never really gave Rex’s son a second thought. “He’s one mean son of a bitch and I don’t think he’d take too kindly to you hornin’ in on the family business.”
“What about him? Just because he was born with a silver spoon rammed between his dentist-perfect teeth doesn’t mean that the old man will give him everything. Besides, I’m smarter than he is.”
“But his name is Buchanan.”
Chase didn’t subscribe to Brig’s way of thinking. “The girls will get their due. Old Rex, he always tries to play fair—even if it’s only to look good. So he’ll take care of his daughters and his sons-in-law.”
“You’ve got it all worked out.” Brig didn’t bother hiding his irritation.
“Damned right.” With a grin, Chase took a long swig from his bottle, then pointed an accusing finger at his brother. “The trick is to treat those girls with respect. Hell, that’s the only way to get anything in this world.”
“By kissing ass, as you said.”
Chase’s jaw hardened. “I’m a realist, Brig. I’ll do what I have to. You should take a lesson. Be careful.”
“Not interested,” he repeated, but his mind wandered to Cassidy—yep, a man could respect her. Angie was something else. “I’m not climbing onto this imaginary gravy train. It’s all yours if you want it. But, believe me, you’re setting yourself up for a fall. Derrick Buchanan isn’t going to let you get one thin dime of what he thinks is his.” Brig stared out the tiny window over the sink. “This is crazy talk anyway. We’re both just working for the man.”
“And we’d like to keep it that way, for a little while. So, I’m warning you, little brother. You’re in heaven now working for the old man, but you’d better watch your step. You’ve really blown it in this town; you’re nearly dead as far as work goes, and that little episode with Tamara Nichols was a nail in your coffin. You’re lucky Rex Buchanan hired you, considering how he feels about his daughters.”
Brig took a long pull on his beer and felt the cool liquid slide down his throat. Why Rex had hired him was a mystery, but then Rex Buchanan was into philanthropic causes, especially where the McKenzies were concerned. He’d come to their rescue a couple of times when Ma was in serious financial trouble. Rex’s concern had generated more than a little gossip. Maybe old Rex did consider Brig a charity case. The thought grated on his nerves and he suddenly wanted a smoke.
“Why did Buchanan hire you anyway?” Chase asked, as if reading the questions running through his mind.
Brig propped the heel of his boot on the seat of the chair next to him. “Beats me,” he said, then matched his brother’s know-it-all smile with one of his own. “Must’ve been my charming personality.”
“Yeah, right.” Chase didn’t bother hiding his sarcasm. “Just don’t blow it. I’ve worked hard to start repaying Buchanan, and I don’t want you to do anything that might make him think worse of me—or Mom.”
“Don’t worry,” Brig said.
“Good.” Chase leaned his head back and stared at the grimy ceiling. “It’s sad to admit but I’d do anything to get a little closer to the Buchanan money.”
“Would you?”
“Anything,” Chase said, sighing as he grinned as if he were savoring a familiarly pleasant thought. Brig guessed he was dreaming again. “This is no way to live.” Chase gestured around the old trailer house, hardly big enough for one person, and home to Sunny and her two grown boys.
Brig figured it was about time to move out, but Chase didn’t have time or the money. Between a full-time job at the mill, and college, he barely had time to sleep. Living here was purely a matter of economics for Chase. As soon as he graduated from Portland State, he’d kiss his job at the mill good-bye and take off for the city—unless he found a shortcut to making big bucks here in Prosperity.
Prosperity. What a name for a town. A goddamned joke that’s what it was, unless your name happened to be Buchanan, or Alonzo, or Baker, or Caldwell. Otherwise, the town could be named Poverty, or Kiss-Buchanan’s-Ass, or some such drivel.
Brig told himself he stayed in the rust bucket of a trailer because, with Chase gone all the time, someone needed to stick around and watch the place. Their mother, with her claim of psychic powers, wasn’t the most popular woman around. Several church groups were becoming vocal against her, claiming that she was communing with the devil or some such crap, and Reverend Spears had dropped by on more than one occasion suggesting that Sunny give up her heathen ways and start attending Christian services regularly on Sunday mornings.
The man was slick as snake oil and, Brig suspected, a hypocrite to boot. There were several preachers in Prosperity, and Spears was the most self-serving bastard of the lot.
Chase scooted his chair back and reached into the refrigerator for another beer. “So tell me about the girls—and not just that they’re rich and spoiled. I know that much. Start with Angie.”
Brig lifted a shoulder. He wasn’t stupid. Obviously Angie was playing with him, teasing him, showing him just a little of what she had to offer just to get a reaction from him; well, he wasn’t going to bite.
“Come on, I spend all day staring at Floyd Jones, John Anderson and Howard Springer’s ugly mugs. I’d love to have a glimpse of Angie Buchanan instead. Of course, I’m afraid I’d get hard just lookin’ at her.”
“Why?” Brig asked, as if his cock hadn’t sprung to attention at the sight of her lying in barely nothing and drizzled in suntan oil. “’Cause she’s good-lookin’ or because she’s rich?”
Chase leaned back in his chair. “Both. They’re both turn-ons. Big, no, make that massive turn-ons.”
“Well, you’ll have to stand in line. She’s already got a couple of guys who can’t stay away, their tongues hangin’ out so far they nearly lick the ground and their dicks so hard they can’t breathe.”
“Is one of those guys you?”
“No way.”
Chase’s eyes narrowed. He’d always been able to see past Brig’s lies. “You’re saying you don’t want a piece of Angie Buchanan?”
“I’m saying she’s too much trouble.”
Chase thought for a second, then took a long swallow and rolled the brown bottle between his palms. “Just once I’d like to see what it’s like to be with her…well, if not her, then that little sister of hers. When she grows up, she’ll be—”
Brig’s boots dropped down to the floor, and he felt his blood pound at his temples. He shot across the table in a second, his face just a fraction of an inch from his brother’s. “Don’t even think about it,” he warned. “She’s just a kid.”
Chase’s grin stretched wide and his eyes sparked. “Don’t tell me you’ve got a thing for the tomboy.” He chuckled. “Well, I’ll be damned. You’d better be careful. Like I told you before, she’s jailbait.”
Brig grabbed the front of his brother’s shirt. His elbow hit Chase’s beer bottle and it fell to the floor, spraying foam. Brig ignored it. “That’s why she’s off-limits. Way off,” he said.
“But you’d like to, wouldn’t you? Christ, I can’t believe it. She’s cute enough, but she’s hardly got any tits.”
“Just leave her alone!”
“I told you, I like the older sister.”
“Stay away from her, too.” Brig unclenched his hands and straightened. He found a rag, wiped up the beer and dropped the bottle into a carton half-filled with empties. “I don’t need any trouble with old man Buchanan or either of his daughters.”