Chapter 27

Melanie Anne Brookman, do you solemnly swear that you did the nasty with Sara Miller’s lawfully wedded husband?

Her stomach heaved. She slammed on the brakes, lurched onto the shoulder, and threw open the door to spew coffee and Froot Loops on the side of the highway. Her breath came in gasps as she fumbled for the lukewarm bottle of water in the cup holder. Rinse and spit, rinse and spit, getting the worst of the taste out of her mouth. Then she flopped back into her seat, pulled the door shut, and cranked the AC so cold air blasted her in the face.

Goddammit. She’d reached the point where she could forget that bastard for a whole half hour at a time…and now this. The empty space in her stomach filled with black, slimy loathing, equally divided between herself and Michael. He was a worthless shit, but that letter had hit the nail square on head. She had been the epitome of a woman who was so hard up she that jumped the first likely man who came along.

Now they wanted her to place her hand on a Bible and swear to her stupidity—making it a matter of permanent record.

And damn Wyatt for showing up today looking so…damaged. She needed at least one constant right now, and he had always been the rock she could pound on with both fists. He could not crumble on her now.

He also couldn’t see her wrecked, so she wiped away the snot with the hem of her T-shirt, put the car in gear, and drove on into town. Up in the apartment, she stripped and took a quick shower. Slapping on the minimum of makeup and yesterday’s khaki shorts and tank top, she headed back down the stairs less than thirty minutes after she’d arrived. She burst onto the sidewalk, fully expecting the Camaro and its owner to be parked outside, blocking her escape, but neither was in sight.

Smart man, choosing to give her some space. She used it to jump in her car and get the hell out of Dodge. Or Pendleton, as the case may be.

Past the Roundup grounds, she had to make a choice. Go south toward something called Pilot Rock, or take the interstate? She chose west. It wasn’t like she had any particular destination in mind. She just had to move. And keep moving for as long as it took to come to grips with this latest sucker punch.

At the intersection of the west and northbound interstates, she randomly chose north. Within minutes, she was crossing the broad Columbia River and into Washington state—home of Starbucks, basketball powerhouse Gonzaga University, and legalized pot.

Now there was an idea. She could get herself a stash and a cheap motel room and stay stoned until she could face her life again.

She veered onto the first exit ramp north of the river instead, in response to a sign advertising the Columbia Crest winery and the promise of a tasting room. Crackers, cheese, and a few sips of wine poured by a friendly stranger sounded like just the ticket for her now-grumbling stomach. When she laid eyes on the villa-style stone building surrounded by lush gardens, she felt the first trickle of tension leaving her body.

She stayed for over an hour, limiting herself to those sips, letting the sommelier tell her more about the ideal climate for growing grapes than she’d ever thought she’d want to know and talk her into a very nice—if pricey—bottle of late-harvest Muscat Canelli. The woman also gave her a map of Washington wineries. Hot damn. There were a couple dozen more within a fifty-mile radius…and she might just hit them all.

Her phone buzzed with an incoming text from Wyatt. Well, that had taken him longer than she expected.

Where are you? he asked.

She could almost hear that patented cool exasperation…layered over well-hidden concern. Took a drive to clear my head.

We need to talk.

I’ll be at the Bull Dancer after dinner. She paused, then added, Don’t worry. I’m just indulging in some retail therapy.

Probably better not to mention that she was test-driving booze. Before he could respond, she turned off the phone. She wouldn’t put it past him to be able to call some crony who could track her via the signal.

The next stop was over a massive ridge—the Horse Heaven Hills, she read, shaking her head at the name as she drove past miles of brown scrub brush—in the small town of Prosser, where she acquired two more bottles of wine. What the hell, call it early Christmas shopping. Or stocking up on survival rations, the way her luck was running.

She also acquired a purple shirt that said Wine may not be the answer, but it helps me forget the question. Amen to that, sister.

Her looping route skimmed the southern edge of the Tri-Cities—Kennewick, Richland, and Pasco—where she spotted a sign that promised a mall. Yes! Time to do some down-and-dirty shopping.

When she finally parked her car in the lot behind the Bull Dancer, her hair was sleek and shiny from a shampoo and blow-dry, and she’d had her face done by one of the makeup artists at the Macy’s counter, the result several degrees more sultry than normal. She had traded her day-old clothes for a sky-blue sundress splashed with vivid red poppies, and a pair of strappy red heels to match.

The color of the day for a scarlet woman.

Instead of hauling her loot up to the apartment, she left everything but her purse in the car and strolled in through the back door of the bar, startled to find the place packed—by their standards.

Half of the tables were full and most of the stools, and the jukebox thumped out unintelligible hip-hop. Wyatt was at the far end, back to the bar and arms folded, face set. When she’d turned her phone on at the mall she’d found two more texts, both demanding to know where exactly she was and when she’d be back. From that look on his face, When I damn well feel like it wasn’t the answer he’d been looking for.

He had changed into artistically faded jeans and a short-sleeved sport shirt the same sky blue as his eyes, but he still hadn’t shaved and his hair seemed to be defying his attempts to tame it. The evidence that he could be messed up should have made her happy. Instead, she wanted to kick him. If anyone got to come undone, it was her. He had to wait his turn.

A low whistle caught her attention, and she glanced over to see Louie grinning at her. “Helllooo, beautiful!”

“Thank you.” She twitched her skirt and grinned back at him, then circled a hand in the air to indicate the crowd. “What’s the occasion?”

“Your new friend, Rowdy, is throwing a welcome-home party for a buddy who just got back from Afghanistan.” Louie ignored a woman who was waving for a refill as he inspected Melanie from heels to newly plucked eyebrows. “What’s your occasion?”

She smiled, putting an edge on it. “Looking good is the best revenge.”

“Then baby, somebody’s gonna die tonight.”

She laughed, then stopped abruptly when Wyatt’s gaze swung around to meet hers. He did not grin. His gaze took in her dress, the shoes, the look at me makeup, and with a slight flick of an eyebrow, he managed to express his disapproval.

Well, screw him.

“Pour me a shot of your world-famous Pendleton whiskey. On second thought, make it a double with a splash of Coke and put it on my tab.” She shoved her purse across the bar. “And put that someplace safe, please.”

“I’ve got this round.” Rowdy sidled up next to her, his eyes focused somewhere well below her face, which required some imagination on his part. The spaghetti straps of the dress bared a lot of shoulder but not much cleavage, even if she’d had anything to show off. “You look great. Wyatt said the two of you had plans tonight.”

Oh he did, did he? She fired another look down the bar at Wyatt. He met it with an impassive stare. She flipped her hair and turned her back on him. Her pride had been run through the shredder, and tonight she intended to allow someone to patch it up. Since Wyatt had made it clear he wasn’t up for the job…

She made wide eyes at Rowdy. “He was obviously mistaken.”

Louie brought her drink, and she downed half of it before thunking the glass down on the bar.

Rowdy grinned. “This night is looking better by the minute.”