Branded (22 page)

“You don't know that,” he said through gritted teeth. “You don't know what it will do to me. Maybe you don't know me at all,” he added ruthlessly, carelessly.

“Listen to me, Deacon Cavanaugh, and listen good.” She pointed a finger at him, her body tense with anger and frustration. “You need to understand that with or without this place, no matter what happens, you're whole. You're safe. No one is going to hurt you again. The past is over, done, dead.” She barely stopped for breath, her gaze clinging to his. “You and your brothers are staying here, longer than you expected to. Maybe that's a good thing.”

Deacon sneered. “My brothers want this place gone as much as I do.”

“I don't believe that. You're all as drawn to the Triple C as you are repulsed by it.”

“No.”

“Now that Everett's gone, things could change; they could be different.”

“Goddamit, Mackenzie! I don't want them different!” he exploded. “I don't want them at all.”

Silence flared inside the truck's cab. Both of them were breathing heavy. Both had desperate,
impassioned expressions. But it was Mac who finally spoke.

After staring at him for a moment, she shrugged, then smiled a little sadly. “Okay, Deac.”

Okay, Deac? Okay?
What the hell did that mean? Was she just too pissed at him to keep the conversation going? Or was she giving up on trying to change his mind? Or God . . . his gut rolled hard and vicious . . . was she just giving up?

He reached for her, desperate to hold her. “Mac.”

But she pulled away. Without even a look in his direction, she opened her door and got out.

Deacon followed suit, scrambling out of the truck and heading down the driveway after her. “Mac, come on,” he said.

She stopped and turned around. “Go on, Deac.” She gestured to the house, the porch. “Blue's waitin' on you.”

Deacon glanced up, his gut so tight he was having trouble taking a breath. He felt like he didn't know who or what he wanted anymore. Everything he believed, that he'd told himself for years—everything that had kept him going and no doubt fueled his success—was blowing up in his face.

Blue was standing on the porch in his white Stetson, watching them. Waiting to give Deacon an answer.

Shit, an answer Deacon already knew was coming.

He turned back to Mackenzie, his eyes as goddamn soft as his tone. “Come talk to Blue with me.”

She looked at him like he was nuts, or maybe like she pitied him.

“Baby, I need you by my side.”

“I don't belong there, Deacon.”

His heart dive-bombed into the earth under his feet. “Mac, don't talk like that.”

Her midnight blue eyes held more strength than sadness now. “It's the truth. You need to make this choice on your own, then face the outcome.”

“Are you saying that outcome is losing you?” he ground out, his blood now running cold in his veins.

She took a deep breath. Let it out slowly. “I love you, Deacon Cavanaugh. So much. But I won't live in anger and hate and bitterness with you.”

“Mac—”

She shook her head. “I got work to do. A ranch to see after.”

She walked away, heading back toward the truck. Staying where he was, Deacon watched her go, an emotion he hadn't felt in more than twelve years—not since Cass's death—assaulting every damn part of him.

The deep ache of loss.

•   •   •

When she reached the truck, Mac turned around. She was hoping to find Deacon staring after her. Shit, or running after her. But vengeance was a ruthless, irresistible master. And it had claimed Deacon long ago.

As he strode up the steps and shook Blue's hand, a part of Mac died. How was it possible that the two people closest to her in the world were agreeing to this madness? Was Blue that deep into his rage and pain that he could turn a blind eye not only to his friend, but to everyone who needed the ranch to survive?

Including his own mother?

Mac was about to turn and walk away when both men glanced over at her. Each looked at her with a different set of soulful, questioning, resolute eyes, but neither moved.

Forcing her heart out of her throat and back down into her chest, Mac reached into the truck and grabbed her bag. Eyes forward, she slung the heavy leather over one shoulder and headed for the barn, for Gypsy, the one male in her life who would never let her down.

In the past two days, Deacon had managed to get a total of four hours sleep. It wasn't like he hadn't tried for more. Shoot, he'd tried. Everything. Music, booze, knocking his head against the wall. But nothing brought on the sheep. Sometime between three and four a.m., he'd pass out from sheer exhaustion, but by five he was up again and out of the house, heading for the barn. It was a damn sickness. His need for her. His need to see her.

Granted, he wouldn't go all the way to her place, just to the other side of the river. Then, he'd sit there, watch as the sun rose all butter yellow over her cottage, wishing like hell she would take his calls, agree to see him. That she'd invite him back into her arms and her bed.

He'd always leave in a huff, real pissed, his chest in knots. Coming back to the ranch, he'd run Trouble into a hard-core sweat, then hose her down while he cursed himself and the unending belief
that leveling the Triple C would heal the rampant pain dwelling inside of him.

Finally, he'd stumbled back into the house and stood under the shower's painful spray. But ten minutes of ice water sluicing over his back and shoulders, making every inch of him tight, and still he couldn't shake the heaviness of anger and bitterness inside him.

If anything, since he'd made the deal with Blue, those feelings had only gotten worse.

“Do you want me to make more than one copy of the DNA test results, sir? And would you like it sent to anyone else besides the attorneys?”

Deacon turned in his chair, eyed his assistant across the room. They'd been in the office above RB Feed and Tack for a couple of hours. Now that Blue had agreed to the buyout, there was a lot to be done. Deacon was trying to force his game face on, but the mask kept sliding off.

“Two copies to us,” he told her brusquely. “One to the attorneys. And, Sheridan, we need to get Blue Perez's . . . Blue Cavanaugh's,” he corrected himself sharply, “bank information to complete the wire transfer.”

She nodded, and Deacon noticed for the first time that her eyes weren't meeting his as soundly as they usually did.

“I haven't had the opportunity to congratulate you, sir,” she said.

“For what?” he pushed out tiredly.

“Controlling interest in the Triple C? The agreement with Mr. Cavanaugh.”

“Right. Thank you.” His tone displayed his lack of enthusiasm perfectly. He'd have to watch that in the future. Sheridan didn't need to know any more of his personal business than she already did.

“And when is Mr. Cavanaugh signing away his rights to the property?” she asked.

“I believe that'll happen day after tomorrow,” Deacon answered. “Ty will be flying the lawyers out.”

“Very good.”

Was it? Was it good? Was it anything? Deacon felt impatient as hell. He just wanted it all done and over. The signing, the demolition, the damn Triple C sign ripped down and hauled away. Maybe then he'd stop questioning himself at every turn. Maybe then he'd find some peace.

All that was left was convincing James and Cole to walk away, and he truly didn't think that would be a difficult task. Both of them seemed more than ready to return to their lives. Hell, Cole had taken off while he and Mac had been in Dallas, and James had all but disappeared. Deacon hadn't seen the man in a couple of days. Maybe he was already out of there, off to Hollywood or one of those whispering gigs of his.

“Sheridan,” he said. “You sent the flowers to Ms. Byrd, right?”

“Yes, sir. She would've received them yesterday.”

Yesterday. And he'd heard nothing. His jaw tightened. He'd sent irises. Three dozen. They reminded him of her eyes in the light. He'd even written that in the card. Goddamn pussy. She didn't want him anymore. Why couldn't he get that through his head already?

Maybe because his heart belonged to her now.

“And you had the offer drawn up and sent?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.” She looked over the paper. “I have a copy here. Foreman at Redemption Ranch, salary at two hundred thousand per year, house designed and built on any part of the property she chooses.” She looked up, worried. “There wasn't anything else you wanted to add?”

Marry me?

Be mine forever?

Forgive me?

“No, that's it,” he grumbled, turning back to his desk, grabbing his iPhone. “I want you to start pricing demo companies in the area.” He stared at an e-mail from Angus Breyer. It had come in early that morning and he'd read it about thirty times. The seas had parted and that hardheaded man was finally ready to sell. Shit, when it rained it poured.

“Specifically, what would they be taking out?”
Sheridan continued, typing away on her laptop. “All of the structures on the Triple C? Main house? Bunkhouses? Cottages? Barns?”

Deacon flinched, his eyes straying from the e-mail, his mind conjuring images of Mackenzie asleep in her bed in the cottage where he'd held her, kissed her, where he'd first started to realize just how desperately he wanted her.

The cottage he and James used to play in before the sun broke and his world got blanketed in darkness and . . . bitterness.

Gritting his teeth, he shoved those thoughts away. Those pitying, useless thoughts. Mackenzie loved him; he knew it—just as he knew he loved her, too. She'd understood his anger and his hatred of Everett's land. Shit, she'd been in a rage herself over it, yet had counseled him to forgive and move on. So it stood to reason that in time, she'd come to forgive him, too.

His gut twisted so painfully he groaned. Fuck, he missed her.

“What about the land itself?” Sheridan continued in her clipped, professional tone. “Do you want to dig? Remove pastures? Water? Fencing? How many head of cattle do they have there? And are you moving them to your other property?”

Deacon dropped his phone on the desk and turned to face Sheridan. But he never answered her question. The door to their office burst open,
and an uncharacteristically pissed-off James stalked in. His eyes immediately went to Sheridan, then shifted to Deacon.

“Hey, J,” Deacon said, trying to assess the heat in the man's sea blue eyes.

Crossing the room in three heavy strides, James dropped into the chair beside Deacon. “Really, brother?”

“What?”

He shook his head. “You offered her a job at your revenge ranch?”

Instantly on the defensive, Deacon leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms over his chest. “How do you know about that? Did she come to talk to you?”

“I went to her. That woman and I needed to talk.”

“Why?” Deacon fairly growled.

“She signed off on a bunch of wild mustangs,” he said. “They're galloping across the Triple C's land as we speak. It's where I've been for the last two days. Settlin' 'em. Makin' sure we got plenty of water.”

Shock barreled through Deacon. “When did all this happen?”

“While you were in Dallas.” He, too, leaned back in his chair. “So, what does she expect me to do? Stick around this place for God knows how long? I have a life. Work.” His lip curled. “Damn woman knew I couldn't sell to you with those mustangs on the land. They got nowhere else to go.”

For a moment, Deacon just stared at his brother,
his mind processing everything the man had just said. Wild mustangs. Wild goddamned mustangs. He shook his head. Then a grin broke out on his hard-angled face. He couldn't help it. Mackenzie Byrd was one helluva player. Smart, savvy . . . unflinching in her resolve. Hell, if she wasn't such a damn fine foreman, he might be inclined to hire her on at Cavanaugh Group.

“I get why you wanted the C taken apart, Deac,” James continued. “Shit, I was almost there with you.” His eyes flickered toward Sheridan, then came back to Deacon. “'Course, you do have controlling interest now . . . Thanks for giving Cole and me the heads-up on that, by the way.”

Sheridan stood up, grabbed a couple of files and headed for the door of the office. “I'm going for coffee. Anyone want anything?”

Deacon shook his head.

Turning, James gave her a rare smile. “No. Thank you, Miss O'Neil.” After Sheridan closed the door behind her, James turned back to Deacon with an icy glare. “You are so damn stupid—you know that?”

“Hey,” Deacon began. “What the hell?”

“Destroying the Triple is one thing, but destroying the one amazing thing you got in your life . . .” He shook his head. “Fucking stupid.”

Heat flooded the pit of Deacon's stomach. “What are you talking about?”

“You and Mac.”

His heart pinged inside his chest. Damn blood-pumping bastard. Just her name drove his entire body off a cliff. Nostrils flaring, he looked away, then back. “I'm not destroying us,” he snarled. “I'm protecting us.”

The look James tossed his way was censure at its finest. “How you figure that?”

“We can't have anything if I don't get this out of me, this demon who rules every decision I make. When the Triple C is leveled, it'll go, it'll be gone for good, and Mac and I . . . we can be happy.” His words were as fierce as his resolve. He would have her. She belonged to him. She loved him. “She'll come to understand, James. She knows what happened to me, to us. Once the Triple C is gone, we can start over.”

“Oh, Deac,” James said sadly. “She already has.”

The blood drained from Deacon's face. “What do you mean?”

James stood up, shook his head. “She got a job offer in Colorado, and she's taking it.”

As his brother's words barreled hard and fast through him, Deacon struggled to keep himself from exploding. “No,” he uttered. “She can't. I won't let her.”

“Christ. You just don't get it, Deac,” James said in a dark voice.

“Get outta here, James. Now.”

But the man didn't move. “Unlike everything else in your life, you don't have control over her.”

Deacon shot to his feet. “I fucking love her!”

James stood his ground, undaunted. “Obviously not more than you love taking down the Triple C.” He stared hard at Deacon. “You had everything. You had real, brother. Something most people never find. Shit, something I'll never have. And you just let it walk right out of your life. Or was it run?”

“Get out of here, James,” Deacon growled through teeth so tightly clenched they made his jaw ache. “I'm not going to tell you again.”

“Fine.” Shaking his head, James turned and headed for the door. “I got a herd of wild horseflesh to look after anyway.”

His blood rushing hot and fierce inside his veins, Deacon struggled to hold on to his anger, his pain. What the hell had just happened here? His brother cussing him out over the woman he loved and the land he despised. Goddamn, after all these years—the plan in place, the reasons so clear—now everything looked so wrong and felt so precarious.

Mac was leaving?

LEAVING?

He dragged a hand through his hair and kicked his chair away. Gone from River Black, from Texas—from his goddamn life! He hadn't even considered
the possibility. In his warped, arrogant, vengeance-hungry mind, she still belonged to him, and someday she was going to let her anger go and forgive him, and . . . what? Live happily ever after?

Fuck. He was a moron. A bastard. And like James had said, stupid.

He scrubbed his hand over his face. He was sweating, tense.

She wasn't going to be foreman at his ranch. Redemption Ranch. She wasn't going to be kissing him good-bye in the dawn light, then going off to drive his Angus or, hell, the cattle she'd once worked on the decimated land she would see every damn time she went to town.

The scar on his shoulder burned suddenly, and he closed his eyes and pulled in a breath.

No. He was worse than stupid. He was pointless in his vengeance and careless with the heart he'd been given and entrusted with. The heart that was packing for Colorado and a life without him this very moment.

Was he actually going to let that happen?

His teeth set, he turned back to his desk and opened his iPad. Stupid he could reverse. Careless he could fix. But mending a heart he himself had wounded? That was going to take every ounce of vulnerability and honesty he possessed, not to mention a willingness to finally leave his pain and his memories in the past.

•   •   •

Deacon's breath was warm and sweet, his lips soft, wet, and impatient. He dragged his mouth over hers, groaning, deepening his kiss, demanding a response. Mackenzie was on fire, hungry—famished—and nothing would satiate her but him. Her hands grazed over his back, her nails digging into his skin as she forced him closer, down on top of her.

His delicious weight—his raw strength—his sex, swollen and expectant against her belly. Restlessly, she moved against him, silently begging him to calm the raging sea inside her. But the delicious torture continued at a frantic pace. His hands raked the insides of her thighs, his thumbs searching for her heat. It was ecstasy. Pure ecstasy. He wanted her. He loved her.

“Mackenzie,” he called softly.

“Yes, Deacon,” she murmured. “God, yes.”

She watched him trailing hot, wet kisses over the rise of her breast. She ached for him so badly—there was nothing she could desire more in a thousand lifetimes. He licked at her nipple, urging it to pucker, to harden.

“Mac.”

His call was more insistent now, but she couldn't do anything except whisper his name over and over. His mouth had closed over her taut bud, and he was sucking it into his mouth gently, urgently. Lust was caught in her throat, her breathing ragged—

Sudden and insistent pounding on her front door woke her.

Her eyes jacked open to bright sunlight. Startled, she blinked, trying to focus, trying to reason what that sound had been and why she was asleep in the middle of the day. Oh, right, she hadn't slept all night and had lain down for a quick fifteen-minute shut-eye.