Chapter 5

As if Melanie’s disgrace wasn’t quite complete, Violet had sent Wyatt to bear witness. Thanks a lot, good buddy. But then, of all the people in their circle, Wyatt had always been the one Melanie had pretended to care least about, so she supposed he would seem like the obvious choice.

“Violet didn’t tell me you were visiting,” she said. “Don’t you have baby bullfighters to torture back in Pendleton?”

He shrugged at her snide reference to his training program, yet another of Wyatt’s rescue missions. Besides athletic ability, the only prerequisite for his clinic was a diploma from the school of hard knocks. “They got a break while Joe and I worked the rodeo in Redding, California. We flew home Sunday night, and I stayed a few days to catch up with rest of the family.”

But he hadn’t shown up at Easter, a point Melanie had been determined not to ponder. Was it because of her? Over the past year, he’d gone from keeping her at arm’s length to actively avoiding her, and she couldn’t for the life of her figure out what had changed. He didn’t seem to be all that put off by her presence now.

But then, Wyatt never got ruffled. He was like the James Bond of rodeo, popping up here and there in his airplane, always the coolest dude in the room. Even after a sleepless night, with the bright globe lamp above the table picking out the lines of fatigue around his eyes and mouth, he was still so inhumanly pretty he could have been photoshopped into the booth. But she had smudged him up a little. His shirt was dusty from rolling around on the pavement, and the streak of orange paint on the back of his hand gave her an absurd amount of satisfaction, along with the oil stain on his jeans. Teach him to tackle her.

He frowned, catching the direction of her gaze, and rubbed at the paint. She debated leaving him to it, then dunked a paper napkin into her water glass and handed it to him. He dabbed at the paint, then shot her a questioning glance when it dissolved.

“It’s washable—the stuff they use on store windows for homecoming and Valentine’s Day—so no destruction of property charges for me! Contrary to what you may think, I’m not bent on total self-destruction. Or a complete idiot.”

She just played one occasionally, when the right man flashed her a killer smile.

Michael wouldn’t be smiling once the plant manager unlocked the gate and let in the morning shift. She wanted to be there to savor his reaction—especially the panic. Almost as much as she never wanted to lay eyes on him again.

Wyatt glanced at the clock on a nearby wall. “What time will people show up for work?”

“Production starts at seven. Administration at eight. The boss doesn’t usually wander in until around nine.”

Even if he hauled his sorry ass down there as soon as he got the call, dozens of plant workers would drive past those pickups before they figured out what to do with that burglar-proof cable. It had been damn tempting to hang around and enjoy the show, but her good sense had prevailed. Or would have—probably—if she’d been given a choice.

Instead she was trapped here with Wyatt, waiting for the proverbial shit to hit the fan.

After the others were gone for the day, she’d hustled into the empty office to grab all her personal possessions and leave her letter of resignation on her desk, but she couldn’t just fade away. She felt too violated. They’d smeared her soul with a black, indelible stain, and they would do it to someone else without a second thought. The hell with Wyatt’s less-damaging options. She’d seen how well those worked for other women…and all the men who’d skated away untouched.

The server set their plates in front of them, and Melanie tackled her steak, grateful for something to focus on instead of the man across the table or the ticking of the clock. After a moment, she looked up to see Wyatt watching her shovel in food with something between amusement and awe.

“What?” she demanded.

He just shook his head.

She stuffed a hunk of steak in her mouth and chewed belligerently. Yes, she had a tendency to eat her anger and stress, a habit she’d had to rein in sharply since going to work at Westwind, or her Thai food budget alone would’ve bankrupted her.

Wyatt took another sip of coffee. He’d barely touched his pancakes. She’d just started to cut another piece of her steak when her phone rang, startling her. She fumbled her knife, giving Wyatt time to snatch her cell, crank the volume, and hit the speaker.

“Melanie!” Michael’s voice exploded from the phone. “What the fuck?”

Heads snapped around at the adjacent tables and booths. Melanie stared at Wyatt, stupefied, as he kept one hand on the phone, ready to pull it out of reach if she tried to mute it.

Damn him! Was he determined to shred every fiber of her dignity? Or was this his idea of entertainment?

He didn’t look amused, watching her with that diamond-hard glitter in his eyes.

“Melanie? Are you there?” Michael demanded.

Wyatt raised his eyebrows. Well?

Going after him across the table wasn’t an option—immediately anyway—so she set down her silverware, scraped up her wits, and injected confusion and concern into her voice, as if she had no idea what he was talking about. “Michael? Is something wrong?”

“You know damn well… Are you insane?”

“Is this about me not coming over last night? Didn’t you get my message? I was, like, puking sick.” She paused, then purred, “Must’ve been something I had for lunch.”

He swore again. “I swear to God, if my wife finds out about this—”

“Wife?” She widened her eyes and pressed a palm to her heart. As long as she was being forced to play this out for a growing audience—which now included their server and two others, all with coffeepots in hand and wide, fascinated eyes—she might as put on a good show. “You didn’t tell me you were married! I would never have—”

“Bullshit. You must have known, or you would have been pushing me to get serious.”

“Wow. That’s some ego you’ve got there. I don’t suppose it occurred to you that I had as much of you as I wanted?”

“Sure. You say that now.”

She refrained from smashing the phone with her plate—doubly tempting since it was in Wyatt’s hand. “Don’t you feel even a little bit guilty?”

“I treat my wife like a queen. I’m just not cut out to be a one-woman man.” He made an angry, huffing noise. “I don’t know how you found out, or why you had to make such a goddamn fuss. If it hadn’t been you, it would’ve been someone else.”

Ouch. Melanie’s face went hot as a murmur rippled through the gawkers. Shame washed through her. She beat it down and summoned up ice from deep in her gut.

“Well, too bad for you that it was me. As you are now aware, I have a bit of a temper.” She braced her elbows on the table and leaned closer to the phone, lowering her voice so the onlookers couldn’t hear. “You know those annoying ads that magically appear online, trying to sell whatever you were just talking about on Facebook? My friend can make one that says Serial Adulterer Michael Miller Discovers the Secret to Driving Women Crazy. There will be pictures. It will latch on to your email contacts and pop up every time one of your friends or business associates opens their web browser. And then attach itself to everyone in their email contacts. And so on, and so on…”

There was a moment of dead silence. Then he blustered, his outrage muted because Wyatt had turned down the volume. “That’s…hacking. Or stalking. Or something. I could have you arrested…if I didn’t think you were bluffing.”

“She’s not,” Wyatt said.

Melanie shot him a startled glance.

His face was grim, his eyes several shades colder than their normal tropical blue. “Not only can she make it happen, but I guarantee no one will be able to track where it came from.”

“But she’s the only one who could—”

“Is she? How many people had an opportunity to take a picture of your pickup this morning?”

“That’s…” Michael sputtered a few more curses. “Who are you, anyway?”

Now Wyatt did smile, and it was like coming face-to-face with a shark in deep water. “My name is Wyatt Darrington. Look it up. Ask around. Then keep in mind that if you retaliate against Melanie in any way, I will find out.”

He reached out and tapped the end button. For a moment, it seemed as if the entire restaurant was frozen. Then someone started to clap, and it multiplied until a cheer rocked their section. Well, hell. What else could she do? Melanie turned in her seat and bowed from the waist. A few of the women gave her a standing ovation…but behind the sympathy she could swear she saw judgment. And in some cases, condemnation.

Home-wrecker.

She swallowed a new surge of bile and glared across the table at Wyatt. “Thanks so much for your assistance, but I had it handled.”

“I know. I had my reasons.” Wyatt always had his reasons. This time, she refused to play along and ask. He cocked his head. “Were you bluffing?”

“Maybe.” Her hand clenched her knife as she rode out another wave of rage. If there was any justice, she should be able to destroy Michael—if she could destroy only Michael. She sighed and relaxed back again. “He deserves it. His wife doesn’t.”

Wyatt pushed his empty plate aside and folded his hands on the table. “Now what?”

“You can take me home?”

He shook his head. “I wasn’t asking what you’re going to do after breakfast.”

“I’ve been thinking about making a career change.” She used the tines of her fork to draw lines in a smear of egg yolk on her plate. “Obviously, I’d planned to have a better exit strategy.”

Now…well, she could head out to the ranch and lie low while she figured out her next move. Space, horses, and hard physical labor might help bleed off some of her anger, and her father could always use the extra help. Until she’d left for college, she’d been his number one hand, with Hank being almost ten years younger. She loved the ranch. She just hadn’t been able to breathe in the toxic atmosphere between her parents.

So she’d run away and left Hank to suffocate. And now he was…what? She was afraid to even list the possibilities.

“You could come to work for me.”

Her head jerked up, and she gaped at Wyatt. He seemed almost as startled as she was by the offer, as if he hadn’t intended to blurt it out…but Wyatt was never impetuous.

“Doing what?” she asked, instantly suspicious.

He hesitated ever so slightly before the mask was back in place. “I bought a bar. I need someone to promote it.”

She shook her head. “That’s a freelance project, not a job. It’d take a month, tops.”

“You haven’t seen this bar,” he said dryly.

Despite herself, her interest was piqued. But her, working for Wyatt? Now there was a recipe for maiming, at the very least. She scowled. “Assuming there’s some convoluted reason you’re actually serious, why would I even consider this offer?”

“Two reasons.” Wyatt ran a deliberate gaze around the fellow patrons still sneaking curious glances at their booth. He looked back at Melanie. “My bar is in Oregon.”

Okay. That was a major point in his favor. Once news of all this reached her hometown, she would have to barricade herself on the ranch to fend off the army of church ladies determined to salvage her mortal soul—or at least gather some juicy gossip in the attempt. She had a pretty good idea how her father would react. And her mother.

Supportive wasn’t the first word that came to mind.

“And?” she asked.

For an instant she thought she detected a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. Then he blinked, and it was gone. “If you accept…I’ll find your brother.”

Oh.

Melanie settled back and braced her hands on the table. How did he know Hank had disappeared? She hadn’t even started really worrying until the past couple of months. During his brief Christmas visit, Hank had been, well, a real shit—sullen and defensive, impossible to talk to. When he’d left town without even saying goodbye, she’d vowed that this time she wouldn’t be the one to break the silence. And because of her crazy travel schedule and even more insane workload, for once she had kept that promise. The weeks had slipped by, one after another, until suddenly it was spring and her birthday.

For the first time ever, Hank didn’t call. No goofy email card, not even a text with some stupid GIF.

She’d waited another week, hoping he’d just lost track of the date. Then she’d broken down and dialed his number. The same number he’d had for as long as he’d owned a cell phone. It was out of service. She’d called the best friend he had left in Earnest. No, he hadn’t heard from Hank either. As the new rodeo season kicked into gear, she’d begun scouring the Internet for any mention of him.

She’d found nothing.

She hadn’t mentioned her growing fear to anyone, not even Violet. Saying it made the scary possibilities all too real. But somehow Wyatt knew…because he did seem to know everything. And he had resources—some more questionable than others—that she lacked.

The real question was, “Why?”

“Why not…since it’s my fault he’s gone.”

If he was waiting for her to disagree, they were going to be here awhile. Not that she blamed Wyatt entirely, but he sure as hell hadn’t helped. His suggestion was more tempting than she would have guessed. He no doubt could find Hank; this job would get her far, far away from the Panhandle; and with Wyatt, she wouldn’t have to bother smiling and playing nice.

“There would have to be conditions,” she said, and had the satisfaction of seeing his eyes widen. So that was it. He’d made the offer assuming she wouldn’t accept. A free stroke for his guilty conscience. See? I tried to help, but she turned me down. Damned if she’d let him off that easy when she could make him sweat for a while.

“It would be a freelance job,” she said. “I’d work with you, not for you.”

He studied her for a beat. Then he nodded.

“Email me a description of what you have in mind, and I’ll send you a proposal and a quote.” She pushed out of the booth and stood. “If we agree to terms, I’ll see how soon I can be there.”

As she started to walk away, he reached out to catch her arm. She whirled, glaring down at him, their gazes tangling for an electric moment before he jerked his hand back. Even through her hoodie, her skin was dangerously sensitive to his touch. “Where are you going?” he asked.

“Wherever the fuck I want.”

As she strode out of the restaurant, the muscles along her spine quivered, winding up to turn on him again when he came after her. He didn’t. Glancing back as she stepped outside, she could see him through the window, still watching her from the booth. She looked away, studying her surroundings in the clear morning sunlight. She’d walk toward the city center until she got tired, then stop and call a cab. The cash in her pocket would get her close enough to home, and the building manager would let her into her apartment. Wyatt could hold her backpack hostage as long as he wanted.

But as she stepped off the curb and started across the lot, the trunk on his rental car popped open. She hesitated, then grabbed her pack and slammed the lid shut, refusing to look back again as she strode away. Her, working for Wyatt under any conditions? Impossible.

But she did owe him one dubious favor. Any lingering ghost of Michael’s touch had been seared away by the hot, hard imprint of Wyatt’s body…and the intense, flammable blue of his eyes.