Chapter 19
Vaughn could turn five hours of ranch chores into a last-ditch weight-cutting effort. Sure. No problem.
Maybe at the same time, he could sweat out the memories of a certain woman who woke up in his arms a few hours ago.
While he was at it, maybe he could go backward in time to the point before he had flipped a switch this morning and turned into an ass. For all the help his power gave him in detecting danger, it had a massive blind spot when Vaughn was personally about to create an epic disaster.
Like how he covered for his insecurities by insulting a nice woman. Real smooth move, there. Some days, his life truly emulated a slow-moving train wreck.
He cursed as he slung more bales of hay. His mouth had gone dry, but no way could he drink anything. Not yet.
The electronic scale in the house was a tough taskmaster.
If he hadn't slept at Mariah's house, he could have started earlier on his final weight cut. But he couldn't leave her all alone last night. Hell, if he hadn't stayed in the house, he would have sat outside in his truck all night, so insistent was his ability to protect her.
He stood and wiped his sweaty forehead with his forearm.
Now he was distracted right before his bout.
Actually, seeing his competitor at the Brand family ranch had distracted him already. Linc was a nasty bastard. That guy hit hard and fought dirty. It would take all of Vaughn's skills, both physical and mental, to beat the guy tomorrow. He needed all of his focus if he had any chance to not just win but also survive the fight. He spun in a slow circle in the barn, breathing hard.
At least Vaughn's family had given him some space.
Kerr hadn't questioned the request to move Mariah's car to her house. He must have done it way late last night, because sure enough, when Vaughn exited her house at 6:00 a.m., the keys hung from the ignition of her car parked in her driveway. Moving the car was a two-person job, so another friend or family member must have participated. Vaughn needed to thank them later.
But he'd be damned if he would explain to anyone what he was doing at Mariah's house last night. Or not doing.
How exactly would he label last night's spoon-fest disaster?
That moment when she woke up and gazed at him with that vulnerable expression would stay etched in his mind forever.
After all these years, he had experienced the perfect night with a woman, and they had both remained clothed. Hell, he had volunteered to freeze his ass off by remaining on top of the covers.
At what prior point in his life, ever, had he resisted a beautiful woman?
Maybe he had finally learned something from that fuckup with Garrison's ex-wife and after being used by that social climber back in New York.
"Want to take a break?" Garrison's even voice startled him.
Vaughn tugged the hoodie tighter around his head and kept on heaving seventy pound bales of hay from one location to another. "Can't. Two more pounds to go."
"Yeah, thought you'd gotten pudgy."
He snorted. "As if."
Garrison jutted out his chin, begging Vaughn to take a swing at it. "Trying to impress someone?"
"Yep. The fight official at the weigh-in tonight."
"Right." His brother didn't say anything for a solid minute. "Why do you keep fighting?"
Wiping sweat, Vaughn said, "One. I'm good at it. Two. I like the sport itself. Three. I like the discipline of staying in shape and improving my sorry self. Four. It keeps me sober."
"Don't you think there's an unfair advantage?"
"With my power? Maybe. It's got me out of a lot of bad situations over the years, but not all of them." Obviously. "There's something satisfying about beating the crap out of someone who very much wants to beat the crap out of me. What's even better is turning the fight into art. Using the fancy techniques to put someone on their ass or submit them. If I can get an ankle bar submission, that's cooler than a plain KO. The submission takes more planning, more strategy and leverage. More subtle proficiency."
"Okay, okay, I get it, Mr. Artiste. You're the Rembrandt of MMA. But you and I both know you're perfectly happy knocking someone out cold with bare knuckles."
"Well, sure."
Garrison shook his head. "I still say you're dragging your demons out into the ring and beating them up in the name of tortured redemption, but that's one man's opinion." He leaned against a beam. "What would you do if your power cut out while you were in a fight?"
"Not sure why that would happen, but if it did, I'd keep fighting."
"Wouldn't you be kind of... blind?"
"Maybe. But if my training is solid, it shouldn't matter. I don't use my danger-detecting ability in every fight, you know."
"Interesting."
"Are you out here to talk MMA? Or something else? Because I have to keep moving."
"No. I'm worried about what we're up against. What's going on here at home." Garrison paused. "Where your skills are most needed."
Ah, the real agenda. "Don't lay that guilt trip on me."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
"Yeah, right." He walked to the punching bag and started pounding the hell out of it. Anything to keep the sweat going. He paused. "You got new ideas about that creature since we last encountered it? Because that thing is scary as hell. Any connection as to how it relates to the Brands?"
"Nothing about the Brands makes sense. But, no, I can't figure out a connection."
"Their place is weird."
"Kerr said you went to the Brands' place." Garrison rubbed his jaw.
"Long story. Took Dr. West on a house call. The Brands really rolled out the red carpet, loaded guns, insults, and nasty behavior. Even cousin Linc was there to help."
"Linc?"
"Lincoln McDowell. The bastard I'm fighting tomorrow. Man, he's a big fucker."
"That's oddly convenient to have him hanging around, isn't it?"
Bambambambam. "That's what I thought. But, apparently, he's somehow related to those nut jobs over there. Anyway, the visit was downright terrifying, what with the creepy people and veiled threats."
"What did you do?"
"Got her the hell out of there as soon as humanly possible and took her to file a police report." And no, Vaughn wasn't about to share his part in the sappy episode where she poured out her deepest, most horrible secret and he comforted her in the truck. Or the not-sex later that night.
His brother snorted. "Good luck with the police helping."
"We had to do something."
"I agree." He stared up at the rafters. "You're at least in good company. Kerr and I got a similar warm weapon reception when the Brands kicked us off National Forest land near their property three weeks back."
"Now they own public land?" Memories of the fear written on Mariah's face made him slam his fist into the bag harder with each blow. That bag had become the face of any number of people over at that ranch.
"No telling how those guys think. All we know for certain is that Hank did bad things, then disappeared. And it's obvious that Wyatt's gotten weirder over the past several weeks. Best we can tell, the Brands are likely still cooking up some scheme to get our ranch. They're into mining or something. Maybe they want to strike it rich." Garrison scuffed his work boot on the dirt floor. "Oh, and they burned down the barn and probably stole a bunch of our cattle. You know, that, too."
"Yeah. Details." Vaughn wiped sweat. "So what the fuck was that black thing then?" He sniffed. "Hell, I'm just glad that Ruth and Odie bought the song and dance about a bear coming in the yard and how we needed to yell and shoot a gun to shoo it away. If Ruth leaves now, I'm not sure what will happen to Dad..." Not a thought he wanted to follow to a conclusion. "But about that black cloud thing. You really think the creature has something to do with the Brands?"
"Kind of feels that way, but I can't figure out how. I don't have your gift of detecting danger, but I sure as hell can see that we all need to be careful and stick together."
Vaughn pulled a punch and slowed the swing of the bag. "What are you saying?"
His brother shook his head. "Just saying it's good you're here right now. And I'm glad you're doing... better." Meaning not drinking and not "adultering." Reasonable enough.
Could he stay here? Another twinge nailed him in the chest. No way. Too much history, too many ghosts. Too much responsibility. Too many expectations. Garrison should have been the oldest. He had done a great job of keeping the family and the ranch going.
Except for Dad.
And the barn.
And Shelby and Eric.
But whose fault were those incidents, anyway?