Duck (Rebel Wayfarers MC Book 8) (3 page)

Six years later

He leaned his head against the curved wall and stared out the window. The pre-dawn view remained unchanging for a moment, lights twinkling in the distance while nearer lay motionless shapes. Then a growing, growling roar filled the space around him and his head lifted as a jet flashed past, hearing the bark of its big wheels on the runway as it landed.

The speakers crackled and he heard the first officer’s smooth voice. "We are next in line for takeoff, folks. Flight attendants..." He stopped listening at that point, feeling the chassis of the plane jerk and sway beneath him as they taxied onto the runway.

He felt the familiar kick of the engines revving, the coiled potential of the plane waiting impatiently for the pilot's guiding hand. Thrust backwards into his seat, he watched out the window as the cement and buildings surrounding the complex pattern of roads built for wide wingspans fled from them, faster and faster until, with a jerk and a bounce, they were airborne. Headed home.

For the first time in eleven years, Reuben was on his way back to Lamesa, Texas, where his family had owned land since 1879. The town where the legacy of his grandfather's stock contracting business had flourished; and, where, once he arrived, he would be the sole surviving member of the Nelms clan.

Home
.

Eyes turned back to the window, but he didn’t see the bank of gray clouds visible over the edge of the slowly flexing wing. Instead, the image filling his head was a picture saved for months on his phone. The stark black-and-white image showed a flat stretch of land, trailing out into the distance as far as the eye could see. Dotted with mesquite brush, the foreground of the photograph held the sharply slanting edge of a ditch. Dumped into that ditch as if it were last week’s trash was a body.

It lay in a heap, twisted, one arm caught underneath the torso so the elbow stuck up like the broken slat in a fence, awkwardly angled over the rest of the figure visible in the shot. Sand and dirt had drifted across the face, but he would know that compact, powerful body anywhere, having seen it in too many places and across too many years to count.

Familiar, known, hated…Ray, his brother. Killed due to his own actions because Reuben had never been successful at stopping him from being the jackass their father had raised them both to be. Try as he might, he hadn't been able to prevent his brother from traveling such a wellworn path.

Gaze still absently tracing the horizon through the tiny airplane window, he sighed, shifting slightly as his shoulder rubbed against the man seated next to him. Right about now he was sorry he hadn't taken advantage of the upgrade offer from Digger, the club’s resident travel expert, but he hadn’t wanted to chance any delays. He needed to be in Lamesa yesterday because it sounded like he had already ignored things for too long as it was. A little unpleasantness along the way would just get him more in the mood to deal with all the uncomfortable things waiting for him at the journey’s end. A short detour in his life.

His plans were to be on the first fucking plane out of there the moment he dealt with the things that needed his attention. He’d pull a U-turn, gladly leaving the shithole of a dust-covered town in his rearview for the last time. He sighed again, then grinned humorlessly when the guy moved away, giving him a few additional inches of space. Either his own considerable and intimidating size, or a belated respect for his leather cut caused the movement. He found himself uncaring which, simply thankful for whichever it was. For years now, Reuben had been a fully-patched member of the Rebel Wayfarers, based out of the Chicago chapter, and during this time, he found when most people realized the affiliation, they gave him, or any of the Rebels, a wide berth.

Reuben, or Duck, as he had become known in the club, was finally headed home nearly three years after his brother's death, because he had received a troubling message. He rubbed his forehead with finger and thumb, trying to ignore the headache he got every time he tried to figure this out. Brenda had left a confusing message on his phone; maybe more than one. He shook his head.
Definitely more than one.

Duck scoffed at himself, twisting to find a comfortable position in the tight seat, thinking about the dozen or more messages she had left over the past few months. Simply hearing her voice still had the ability to cause him pain. Each message a raw reminder that the longing for Brenda hadn’t diminished with time.
My Bee
. After torturing himself with the first few messages, he first started archiving, then deleting them. Until the most recent one.

Without meaning to, he drew the memory of her last message into his mind, again hearing the trembling tone of her voice as she spoke.
“Reuben, you either come home before the weekend, or I’m calling the auction company. Not foolin’ around here, big man. I’ve given you ample time to make this right, and you’ve been putting me off, but no more.” The steel in her voice showed itself, and she had finished with, “I'm done. Come home, or lose it all.”

‘Come home, or lose it all’ was a joke, because he had already lost it all. Lost his father to his brother’s treachery, and then lost his brother to the bastard’s own stupidity. Lost his other dream to another rodeo king.

A rasping snore broke into his thoughts and he looked left to find his annoying seatmate had dozed off, chin resting heavily on his chest.
Yeah, I shoulda listened to Digger
, he thought.
Probably shoulda listened to Bee, too
. He leaned back, tipping his chin down, hoping to make the trip go by faster by trying to sleep.

They landed in Midland, the closest connection Digger could find to Lamesa, and Duck prepared to deplane. Stepping out from the seat, he yanked his duffel bag from the confines of the overhead bin, hooking the strap over his shoulder. That accomplished, he then stood in the motionless line, head and shoulders bent awkwardly in the aisle of a plane sized for normal people. As the passengers slowly cleared from in front of him, he made his way off the aircraft and up the jetway, digging out his phone.

A brief message from Digger announced he had arranged ground transport and with laughter underscoring his words said Duck would undoubtedly recognize the driver. The humor in his voice didn’t bode well for Duck, and he listened to the voicemail a second time, frowning at the abbreviated message.

Stalking through the terminal and into the parking lot, he carefully scanned the trucks idling at the curb, trying to pick out which should be the so-called familiar face. He saw a beat-up, black four-by-four pickup with the company logo on the door sitting in the line of vehicles, and a moment later saw the petite face peering out at him from behind large round sunglasses, finely-drawn features half-hidden in the glare of the windshield.

The face and fall of dark hair from underneath the cowgirl hat settled his memories and his head tipped back on a groan. Feet stuttering to a stop, he stared upwards for a moment, shaking his head and muttering, “Digger’s gotta be fucking
kidding
me.” Duck pushed his feet into action again, continuing on his way as he shrugged the duffle’s strap higher on his shoulder.

The driver opened the door and moved to stand on the running board, tipping her hat backwards on her head. Leaning her elbows on the doorframe so she could excitedly wave with both hands, she wore a broad grin on her face, those sunglasses under that cocked-back hat managing to somehow look both stylish and ridiculous.

“Fucking shit,” he muttered, tossing his bag into the bed of the truck and reaching for the frame of the driver’s door. “Slide the fuck over,” he growled and slapped the top of the truck in frustration when her response was to stick out her tongue and giggle.
Goddammit
, he thought,
I do not need this brand of fuckery today.

“Happy to see you again, too, grumpy.” She laughed as she slid across the bench seat, settling on the passenger side and buckling her seatbelt. “No, really. All jokes aside, I’ve missed you, Reuben,” she said, reaching over to lay one small hand on his forearm, laughing aloud as he shook it off with a growl. “Digger didn’t tell me who I was picking up, just said I’d recognize my passenger. It really is good to see you. You comin’ back home? Thinkin’ of comin’ back to the circuit?”

He sighed, looking over at the girl sitting across from him. “Essa,” he greeted her, ignoring her questions. “You wanna tell me what the hell you’re doing in Midland, girl?” Without waiting for her response, he put the truck in gear and pulled away from the curb, easing into traffic as he prepared to drive the still-familiar patterns away from the airport and out into the country towards the ranch. Back home. Away from his found family, surrounded everywhere by painful memories.
Fuck
.

“Y’all’s annual rodeo is only a few weeks away. I came out to help Brenda deal with all the vendors. There’s a slew of ‘em, and they all have different demands. It’s a lot for her to keep up with, so I said I’d help out. I showed, and she put me to work.” She said this quickly, aiming her shades out the window and he interrupted his survey of the changes in the city to glance her way, studying her for a moment.

“Since when do you work for DN Rodeo?” he asked, and watched in surprise as she twisted her hands in her lap. Essa, or Esmeralda Waldon, was a long-time rodeo competitor. A successful one, too. Talented, she rode barrels and raced poles, honing her remarkable aptitude and competing professionally for the past several years.

Reuben had known her for a while. She had been a young and flighty eighteen the last time he’d seen her. Immature, but damned determined to make her mark in the world, she had a solid focus on what she wanted. Eyes on the prize. Now, he could see she was maturing, thought he could glimpse what would be in store for them when she finished growing into her own. A beautiful, poised young woman.

Her wanting to help Brenda out didn’t surprise him. The stories told through the grapevine said she was still the same caring and giving person—at least when she wasn't snarky and snide. His surprise at her presence had more to do with his second association with the woman and her family than anything else. Essa was a cousin of two women important to him in ways which carried both a responsibility and burden alongside their friendships.

Mica and Molly, the Scott sisters. His hidden protection of Mica had wound up involving the entire Rebel membership, and now both women had the protection of the extended family of Rebel Wayfarers. Through a series of events unrelated to Duck, Mica had come to the attention of Mason. The man had given her a unique title, one granting her a highly respected status few women achieved within an all-male club. So, while it was expected Essa would know Brenda given they ran in the same rodeo circles for much of the year, both her presence here and being related to who she was certainly made things interesting.

“Not really working for ya, just helping Brenda.” She bit the words out, her tone sharp and from the corner of his eye, he watched as she smoothed down her legs with her hands, palms to her thighs. He noticed the fingers of the right one dug in a bit, thumb rubbing circles on the area just above her kneecap. He glanced at her again, taking in the dark smudges under her eyes, and the wrinkled creases in her forehead. She was hurting, and in a way that kept her from restful sleep.

“How’d you get hurt?” he asked and she jerked, swinging her gaze to him. Her incredulity was so apparent he had a hard time suppressing a grin at her response.

“What makes you think I’m hurt?” She huffed air out through her nose, frowning at him, tipping down her chin and staring at him over those absurd shades.

“Can’t deny it, honey.” He continued to gaze out the front windshield of the truck, keeping her in his peripheral vision.

“How’d you know I was hurt?” She fired back with a question of her own and he didn’t even try to hold back the grin, because this time she hadn’t bothered denying the injury.

“Just do.” He let the two words hang out there without any trappings, giving her nothing to go on other than that and he watched as her hands nervously twisted in her lap again.

“Wasn’t Breezy’s fault. My pony did good,” she muttered, and he grunted in response, not sure what her horse’s performance had to do with anything. “Boscol Rodeo.” She sighed, her frustration clear. “I should have scratched when I saw what the arena looked like.” She lifted one shoulder in a shrug, skirting the edges of elegant while still retaining a bit of the coltish awkwardness he remembered. “He can do deep and loose, but slick is hard.”

She was referring to the condition of the ground on which the competitions were run. Deep meant there was ample depth of lightly packed dirt in the arena. Loose would indicate it was less than ideally packed, but still workable. Slick, well, that added an entirely different level of complexity to an already tough sport. If the surface was slippery, it made it difficult for the horses to successfully complete the kind of hard, abrupt turns and quick, explosive accelerations necessary to compete at the national level in the timed event of barrel racing.

She continued, “He went down on two and the dang horn gave me a whack.” Her fingers dug into the muscles above her knee again. When her horse fell on the second barrel in the cloverleaf pattern, the hard, leather-covered wooden horn of the saddle must have gouged her leg, which would usually just result in a bruise or some sore muscles, but this seemed different.