Renegade: A Taggart Brothers Novel (29 page)

KEEP READING FOR AN EXCERPT FROM

M
AVERICK

COMING SOON FROM BERKLEY
SENSATION!

B
ODEY
Taggart loved to win.

He craved the surge of adrenaline that came with a wager, the fire that settled into his chest at a challenge, the pounding of his heart that accompanied the competition. As a kid, he’d joined every team, run every race, and fought to the bloody end for every point. He’d started with little league, worked his way through junior varsity and varsity sports. Once in high school, he’d added rodeo to the list with bronco busting and bull riding—and he’d given it his all, returning home at night with bruised ribs, bloody lips, and black eyes. He’d been driven to be the best—to the point where his mother had despaired of his reaching adulthood in one piece. Time and time again, she’d warned him that if he only set his sights on winning, he’d never be satisfied with anything in life.

“That glittering prize is short-lived,” she’d cautioned. “If you spend your whole life looking for shiny things, you’re bound to end up with a room full of tarnish.”

Bodey still didn’t know what the hell he was supposed to make of that statement. Maureen Taggart had died before
he’d turned twenty. If she hadn’t, he was sure that he would have argued the point. He would have insisted to his mother that it wasn’t the trophies filling the boxes in the garage that motivated him. It wasn’t as simple as that. He competed because there was something deep inside of him, some restless, itchy portion of his spirit that demanded that he push himself to the limits, physically and mentally. He craved that oblivion of spirit as much as an alcoholic obsessed over booze.

Granted, things were getting a little out of hand. Where once he’d been content to use sport and athleticism as his sole means of getting his “fix,” lately everything he did became a contest: cow cutting competitions, quarter horse races, fantasy sports, and poker. Hell, if someone was willing to play along, he’d make a bet on which side of the hill a heifer would leave a cow pie—and he’d do his best to make sure the animal cooperated.

Sad to say, even women had become a game to him. Bodey relished the thrill of the hunt, the excitement of the chase, the tender intricacies of wooing. He reveled in the first headiness of attraction, the anticipation of that first kiss, first caress, first connection. Hell, he loved women plain and simple, and he continued to love them, in his own fashion, after the romance died, considering them all his friends. And his efforts weren’t nearly as cold-blooded as they might sound to an outsider. He never meant to “love ’em and leave ’em.” Each time he set his sights on a new conquest, he was sure that
this was the one.
This
was the woman who would ease the battling hubris within him and give him the sense of peace his brothers had found. Maybe then, he could settle down, abandon the never-ending need to prove himself, and consider a long-term commitment without feeling like a noose was wrapping around his neck.

But as he squinted against the blazing hot July sun and packed his long guns into his cart, Bodey realized that this time,
this time,
his need to win just might kill him.

Good hell, almighty.
He’d made a huge mistake.
Huge.

In lingering with the practice posse for the regional SASS Hell on Wheels Competition, he’d stayed outside too long
in the hundred-plus temperatures of a Wyoming summer. Too late, he realized that he should have bowed out thirty minutes ago when he’d begun to feel the familiar throb of a headache blooming behind his left eye. But, no. He’d insisted to himself that he could finish one more stage, one more round of marksmanship. He’d been showing off in front of his buddies and the newest female recruit to their group, and he’d been driven to finish . . .

Ontop.

Yup. That was the crux of his error. A new member to the Single Action Shooting Society—or at least to Bodey’s circle of friends—who went by the moniker of Ima Ontop.

As SASS nicknames went, it wasn’t terribly subtle.

But it
was
effective.

From the moment she’d appeared on the range, testosterone levels had soared within the prominently male group. Men who usually spent the practice rounds laughing, joking, and slinging bullshit . . . well, let’s just say they snapped to attention. What would have been a relaxed afternoon of marksmanship became a life and death struggle for the best score.

And Bodey hadn’t been immune. He’d been immediately attracted to the tall, scantily clad brunette—and,
duh
, who wouldn’t be? The woman had come to the practice match wearing nothing but calf-high Victorian boots, striped hose, tight ruffled shorty-shorts, and a frilly corset. The getup hovered somewhere between saloon girl and Miss July. Bodey would have been dead if he hadn’t noticed her.

But as the heat of the day wormed its way through his head and the remnant side-effects of a recent concussion made each movement an exercise in torture, Bodey’s interest waned. Especially when it became clear that she was a talker. For the past twenty minutes, she’d gone on and on and
on
about loading her shells with shot and glitter for a little extra “sparkle” on the range.

What the frickin’ hell?

Normally, Bodey would have been more than happy to pick up on her “let’s have some fun while we’re in Cheyenne” signals. There wasn’t a red-blooded male within a
hundred miles who wouldn’t have been interested. She was tall and voluptuous with legs up to her armpits and boobs that threatened a costuming malfunction at any moment.

But as the dull ache over his eye began creeping toward his nape and he broke out in a clammy sweat, the woman’s chatter soon dissolved into a drone akin to adults in the Charlie Brown cartoons.

Wah-wah-wahwah-wah-wah.

Then it got worse.

The white-hot drill bit which had been screwing into his eye socket plunged straight through to his brain. The pain ricocheted through his skull, radiating, spreading like wildfire. Sweat popped out on his forehead and upper lip, and his stomach lurched ominously, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten yet today, but he’d drunk lots and lots of water in an effort to stay cool. The liquid sloshed in his stomach, threatening to make a reappearance.

Which meant he was going to have to bow out.

Leave the competition midstream.

Lose.

Damnit, he had to get out of here. Now.

Grasping the handle of his gun cart, he turned away from the group without explanation, forcing one foot in front of the other as his head began to pound in tandem with the jarring thud of his footfalls. Tugging his hat low, he ignored the curious calls from his friends, knowing that if he tried to talk, the sound would reverberate through his cranium. Then, he’d lose his tenuous control on his stomach and begin yakking up all that water.

Squinting, Bodey tried to gauge the distance to his truck, but the glint of sunshine radiating off the trucks and RVs stationed in the distant parking lot seared through his retinas.

Damnit. If he could get to his trailer, he could pull all the curtains, turn on the AC, crash on the bunk, and pray he’d caught the migraine in time so that it only lasted an hour or two rather than days.

But he’d taken fewer than a dozen steps when he realized that he wasn’t going to make it. His knees felt as if they were
made of wet spaghetti. And even if he got to his “home on wheels,” he’d have to take the time to unload his ammo and weapons from the gun cart and stow them away. Right now, he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to go another few feet, let alone traverse several hundred yards to his truck.

Shit, shit, shit.

He quickly scanned his surroundings, his gaze settling on the tent city which had sprouted up overnight opposite the length of the range. Vendors from all over the country had set up shop, selling everything from hand-tooled holsters to wigs, artisan knives to Victorian hats. The cool shade beneath their awnings beckoned to him, but he could imagine the reaction if he stumbled inside and crawled beneath one of their tables.

But sweet heaven above, he was sorely tempted.

He forced himself to keep moving as more cold, clammy sweat began pooling beneath his shirt and his head felt as if it were being slowly squeezed in a vice. He was close to moaning aloud when a series of befuddled thoughts eased through the pain.

Tents.

Shade.

Syd and Helen.

Bodey altered his trajectory midstride. Syd and Helen Henderson—friends from Bodey’s hometown of Bliss, Utah—had rolled into camp the night before. Most of the summer, they traveled from one SASS competition to the next, selling handmade Victorian garments that Helen designed and sewed. Bodey hadn’t arrived in time to help them erect the enormous canvas tent from which they sold their wares, but he’d heard his brother Elam talking about it. If Bodey could find Helen, he was sure she’d have a stash of headache medicine in that massive carpetbag of hers. If not, he could at least sit in the shade for a minute until he felt steadier on his feet.

Scanning the line of tents, Bodey found the right one easily enough. Positioned squarely in front of its entrance was Virgil, a metal sculpture of a bow-legged gunslinger welded together
from old farm machinery and mounted to an industrial-sized spring. The piece had been made by Jace, Bodey’s older brother. Even now, gusts of hot wind caused it to sway back and forth, inviting customers into the yawning opening.

Normally, Bodey would have steered clear of the canvas structure with its racks of female frippery and chattering customers. Syd usually parked their motor home somewhere to the rear where Helen used a generator to run her sewing machine so that she could make onsite alterations. Unless he was on the range, Syd took refuge there. But Bodey was afraid the additional twenty yards would make his head pound with even more ferocity. So he stepped beneath the awning, braving the racks of calico and silk, ruffles and lace, making a beeline for a folding chair next to the cash register.

He didn’t know how long he’d sat there, head bowed, eyes squeezed shut, hands wrapped around the back of his neck, when a voice asked, “May I help you?”

The question speared through him like a bolt of lightning, even though the question had been uttered softly enough. Without even opening his eyes, he rasped, “Is Helen here?”

“No. She and Syd went into town to get some supplies.”

Damn.

Bodey dared to open one eye, just a crack.

Again, he was confronted with a WTF moment. Where his companion on the posse had been intent on “showing off her assets,” this woman had gone to the opposite extreme. She was petite, probably only an inch or two over five feet, with a girlish figure that had been entirely obscured by a gathered chintz skirt, a schoolmarm blouse buttoned up to her chin, and a battered straw hat topped with flowers which had clearly seen better days. Where Ima Ontop had displayed her wares for all to see, this woman was openly declaring hers off limits.

Bodey clenched his jaw tight, his stomach pitching as he realized he was going to have to make it all the way to his trailer after all.

The woman’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You’re going to be sick, aren’t you?”

Before he could even answer, she dodged around the counter and grabbed a wastepaper basket, which she thrust into his hands. Bodey considered the invitation to purge his stomach, but the trash can was made of wicker and unlined. Not the most effective of containers.

She seemed to realize the same thing at about the same time. Muttering an unladylike, non-Victorian curse under her breath, she grabbed a shopping bag from the pile next to the register, snatched the basket away, and handed him the sack.

Clutching the plastic, Bodey debated whether or not to use it as his stomach roiled dangerously. But one look at the woman peering down at him changed his mind. He didn’t want her seeing him so completely . . . unmanned. Which he would be if he let loose the Technicolor rainbow.

Hell. Why couldn’t he have found Syd manning the counter?

The woman’s head tipped slightly to the side, and Bodey had the fleeting impression of a bird sizing up the situation, mentally calculating the threat before making a decision to fight or fly.

She must have decided to “fight” because she stepped slightly to the side—out of his field of range should his stomach start its heaving again—and asked, “What’s wrong? Flu?”

Bodey shook his head, then wished he hadn’t. “Migraine.”

She folded her arms under her breasts—revealing that she did have a figure under that awful shirt she wore.

“Do you have something for it?”

“Not . . . on me.” He waited a moment before finishing, “It’s in my trailer.”

He closed his eyes again, but not before he saw the way her lips pressed together and her brows furrowed in silent deliberation. Once again, she reminded him of the baby swallows which had hatched in a nest they’d built against his bedroom window. In the past few weeks, they’d been learning to fly. He’d seen that same expression of quick
intelligence as they’d judged the distance to the nearest branch against their ability to get there safely.