Hide and Seek (16 page)

We
? Holt studied the man’s upright and brushy Mohawk. Another guy stepped from behind the Dumpster. Tall and wiry, the newcomer slapped a wooden bat against his free palm. “Release the woman.”

They moved closer with a hint of a stagger. Holt chuckled, realizing these were the drunks who had run him off the road. “Boys…you don’t want to fu…”

Without preamble…the Mohawk rammed his fist into Holt’s gut.

Chapter Nine

Holt dropped his purchases as the Mohawk delivered a harsh upper-cut to his nose. This was followed by another hit to the gut.
Hell’s bells!
Spasms rocked Holt’s offended diaphragm when glass shattered.

The Mohawk turned to watch his bat-wielding buddy bust the Ford’s windshield. Holt used that split-second opportunity to follow with a straight up shot to the guy’s jaw. Teeth clattered and cracked.

Holt regained his breathing abilities and buried his fist into the guy’s dough belly. A warm and fuzzy satisfaction, reminiscent of his bar-brawling days, invaded his being. His expression determined the Mohawk started for him. Holt looked forward to an old-fashioned melee when the bat impacted his bad shoulder.

Blood dripped in a steady stream from his injured nose. He winced against excruciating pain, but before he could react, the bat-man wielded his weapon and slammed his rib cage. Holt staggered and slumped to his knees, while all around him safety glass continued its post-mortem popping.

Fighting to inhale, he watched through half-closed eyes as bat-man approached, using his weapon like a walking stick. “Well, what do ya think, Bubba?” He ground the bat’s butt into the gravel. “Should we finish his sorry ass like that ugly bull?”

Diablo.
Holt’s heart twisted with the raw loss.

Bubba the Mohawk chortled. “That stupid bull just stood there. Blam! Blam!”

Roiling anger curdled Holt’s blood. Gritting his teeth against the stabbing pain, belonging to the region of his ribs, he lunged for the bat-man’s feet. The guy lost his balance and toppled. Holt grasped a booted-foot at the heel…and wrenched.

A hard pop sounded. The man’s anguish-filled scream was stifled by the humid summer air, but Holt decided that possibly…quite possibly he had over-applied the torque.

“Oh, shit! Bubba, he busted my knee.”

Holt gripped the edge of the pick-up’s bed and stood. Keeping his back pressed to the vehicle’s side, he inhaled, fighting the pain.

Mohawk Bubba staggered over to check on his friend. “Hey? You okay, bro?”

As the bat-wielder retched, Holt beckoned to Bubba. “Forget him. Let’s finish this.”

Unable to resist the challenge, Bubba lowered his head and charged. Holt spread his arms to each side and gripped the truck bed’s edge. With a mighty heave, he kicked and double-barreled Bubba’s face with his boot-shod feet. The big man toppled backwards, crumpled onto terra-firma, and curled onto his side.

The bat-wielder whimpered. “Bubba? Bubba, let’s go! He’s friggin’ crazy.”

Through gritted teeth, Holt caught his breath. “That was for my bull, boys.”

A movement at the store’s front door alerted Holt. Wide-eyed, Billy Jo pressed a hand to her chest. “Sweet Jesus!”

Holt spat red. “They were just leaving.”

“Lord, forgive me!” When she turned and disappeared inside the store, Holt looked at the prone men. “She organizes fellowship dinners for the NRA.”

Fright registered on Bubba’s countenance. Within seconds he had his friend dumped in the cab of their putty-covered truck. The vehicle’s under-inflated tires squealed across the black top when a short pop then another sounded from Billy Jo’s antiquated rifle.

The retreating truck was now missing a taillight. She repositioned the rifle’s butt to her shoulder, but Holt started for her, unsure of the weapon’s dependability. “Whoa! Don’t waste your ammo.”

“I’ve gotta full box.” Confident and determined, she slid back the mechanism and fired. Another gleaming brass shell joined the others at her feet.

“That’s enough.” He removed the twenty-two from her grip and ran his fingers down the heated, octagon-shaped barrel. “How old is this thing anyway?”

“It belonged to my father’s grand-daddy.” She pointed. “Damn their hides! They ruined your face and my black top.”

She reached into her back pocket and slid her cell phone open. “But, not to worry. I’m calling the sheriff.”

Holt shook his head and rubbed his stiffening shoulder joint. “Don’t bother. They’re long gone. Tomorrow, I’ll send some boys over to sweep up the glass and smooth your parking lot.”

“That would be nice,” she said as he returned the rifle. “Did you catch their license....”

He raised a silencing hand. “Sirens. Did you call the cops?”

“No, but if Sheriff Radashack sees you looking like this, he’ll have you cuffed and stuffed in a squad car first…then ask questions. You’d better scat.” She pointed. “Cut behind my house and take the old logging road between our properties.” Her shrewd eyes narrowed, turning parental-accusatory. "Wait a minute…was this incident over a woman?"

"Just a misunderstanding is all," he said, deciding to let her think so.

Billy Jo said something, but he wished she was quiet like Caprice.

Caprice.
Nausea lurched. As the sirens drew closer, he kissed Billy’s cheek. "Cover for me?"

"You know I will, darlin’."

He brushed glass cubes from the truck’s bench seat and settled behind the wheel. Without needing to look, Holt knew his nose was busted and over-sized, and an unforgiving pain knifed his ribs. He seized the gear shift. Every inhalation was becoming more and more tortuous, but in seconds, his windshield-less vehicle was rolling down Billy Jo’s private drive. He passed her redbrick home and bounced onto the familiar train bed now overgrown with crabgrass and rabbit tobacco.

Caprice and Shawn.
He'd been a fool to leave them alone, to let his guard down. He jammed the gas pedal and swore. God help Montero if he had disturbed a single hair on their heads.

****

"Thanks for calling. That's Holt now." Caprice replaced the receiver and tightened the belt of Holt’s blue robe as the kitchen door opened, slamming the wall. Blood dripped from his badly swollen nose onto his shirt. A cut at the corner of his lip glistened like rich pomegranate.

"That was Billy Jo,” she said, schooling any reaction from her tone, but she could tell he was favoring his left shoulder.

With his uninjured arm, he set a dirtied, milk gallon on the granite counter with a thud. "You're okay," he rasped and encircled her shoulders. The relief in his tone turned her to Jell-O. He pressed her hard to his side, and she heard the steady lub-dub of his heart, but when she slipped her arm around his middle to hug him, he grimaced. “Don’t. My ribs.”

“Did you call the police?” He shook his head and something in his demeanor sent chills rippling in waves down her back. “Did you know the men that did this?”

“No. They were locals hired by Montero.”

She pressed a hand to her lips. “I am so sorry!”

“They were hired to give me a warning. That’s all.” He managed a lopsided grin. “It was a great fight.”

“You need to see a doctor!”

"Naw, just a shower.”

Filled with worry, she followed him down the hall to his room. At the foot of his bed, Holt stopped to pull his shirt from his belt. "Shawn’s asleep?"

"Yes."

"Good. He shouldn’t see me like this."

"Here, let me help." Quickly, she twisted the buttons on his shirt. She drew the blood-spattered material away and hissed at the huge swelling and dark coloring over his ribs. "Holt, this is awful!"

"Montero's just playing with me, hoping to flush you out.” He undid his belt buckle then unzipped his jeans. His gaze met hers and his lips quirked. "I'm no prize, but you can join me in the shower."

"How can you joke?” she snapped. “After what happened today and now tonight, we can’t stay here any longer."

"That’s bull. When I'm cleaned up, we'll talk."

While Holt showered, Caprice went to her darkened room. She peered out the window as Shawn slept. There was no getting around it. For Holt’s sake, she had to leave and soon. She left the room and went in search of his phone.

Later, she found him in the den, standing behind his desk. Shirtless and wearing jeans, he spoke on the phone and pressed an ice pack to the side of his nose. A garnet ravine was carved above his brow. The damp shanks of his black hair were once again cinched at his nape, lying against sun-bronzed skin.

Caprice set the bandages and antiseptics she had found in a medicine cabinet on his desk beside the American Sign Language book and a bottle of hard liquor. She listened as he spoke to the sheriff’s department. After a few moments, he punched numbers into the receiver and spoke to someone else.

She turned to study shelved photographs of Holt wearing a Stetson and standing beside blocky bulls, heavily muscled at the neck and shoulders. Blue ribbons hung from their polished, leather halters. Her gaze shifted and she read the titles of some thick manuals:
The Veterinary Handbook for the Cattle Owner, Maximizing Beef Production, and Cattle Management
.

"That was Dan Adder.” Holt poured tawny liquid from the bottle into a tumbler. “He’ll be here tomorrow."

He drank causing the ice to clink then refilled the glass, and she knew he was counting on the alcohol to buffer his pain. Caprice stepped around the desk and pressed her palm against his cheek. She studied his swollen nose, and the cut near the corner of his mouth. "As I’ve said, you should see a doctor."

"I’ll live." Gripping her wrist, Holt pressed his lips to the heel of her hand then ran his tongue, warm and moist, over her flesh in a savoring sweep. She inhaled sharply and tried to pull away, but his fingers tightened. His narrowed-gaze snared hers. "Don't, under any circumstances, leave this house unless I'm with you."

Caprice disliked his domineering tone, yet common sense justified his reasons too. Unlike Alan, Holt didn't try to control the destiny of others. Instead, he remained concerned for her safety and Shawn's. Tears pricked, but she blinked them back. She was falling hopelessly for this untouchable man.

"Sit," she said.

He leaned back in the leather chair, and she squeezed a clear antibiotic ointment onto a piece of gauze. "It won't heal as quickly without stitches. You'll scar."

"I’m like my truck. One more scratch or dent won't matter."

“Tilt your head back, so I can see.”

Draping his arm around her hips and bottom, he forced her closer, shut his eyes, and complied. Idly, he trailed his fingertips along the back of her calf and thigh. “Ahh…Caprice. I like your legs."

He continued to stroke her and concentration became difficult. How she wanted to press her lips to the uninjured side of his mouth. Instead, she lifted his free hand to examine the ragged cuts on his knuckles. "Can you move your fingers?"

"Sure." He patted his lap. "Darlin’, sit here."

“I have something to tell you.” Along with her resolve, she gathered the bandage wrappings, dropped them in the wastepaper basket, and moved so the desk was a barrier between them. "While you were showering, I made flight reservations to Athens, Georgia for tomorrow morning. Will you take us to the airport?"

His chin jutted. "Cancel.”

"I don't care anymore!” she snapped, not bothering to hide her exasperation. “I want Alan exposed, but not at this price. I'll leave the planner and you can give it to your friend."

"Forget that. Dan will have questions that only you can answer." Wincing from the effort, he stood and came to stand before her. His gray eyes held an obstinate light. "He’ll be here before noon, Caprice. That's not long to wait."

She exhaled, realizing Holt had made an excellent argument. "Shawn will have plenty of questions regarding your injuries."

"I've considered that. Melissa told me about the exhibit in Tallahassee tomorrow. Send Shawn. Scott knows the score. He'll look after Shawn like he does my sister and the girls."

"Someday I may have to tell Shawn about Alan,” she said.

"Don't burden him. Wait until he's much older."

Somewhere along the way, Holt's opinions had become important to her. Overwhelmed with need for his quiet strength, she stepped close and raised her lips to his. Holt's arms encircled her, lifting her almost off her feet. She inhaled his soapy scent as a small voice told her to resist. Holt escaped hurt by avoiding commitments, but like her steel bowling ball she was spinning down the road toward heartbreak's dead end.

He pressed his lips to her throat then tugged on the robe’s thick belt. His blunt fingers then bulldozed the terry over her shoulders. Caprice shrugged, sending the material to puddle at her feet. As his mouth captured hers, she clung to his shoulders and slid her tongue against Holt's, tasting spicy liquor.

He spread his fingers wide and gripped her thigh to urge her closer, and time slowed. Holt's fingers brushed her sensitive skin, setting fires like lightning strikes as he deftly unbuttoned her borrowed shirt. He slipped his hand inside and covered first one breast then the other.

When he groaned, she tore her mouth from his. "You're hurt. You should be in bed."

"With you." It came out in a raspy, tortured rush.

"Be sensible. You've been injured."

"You make me forget!"

He crushed her closer, and she returned his kisses. Every nerve in her body hummed with desire. For once, she wanted to unshackle her reservations because Holt was irresistible. As she rubbed her foot along the back of his muscled calf, he cupped her between her legs. He drew the elastic of her panties aside and caressed her where she was most sensitive, most needy.

"Holt!"

Too fast, too sudden. She twisted aflame, rocketing skyward. He shifted, supporting her while she fell to earth in a shower of golden embers to listen to his heart's heavy thudding. "I want you, Caprice. Against the wall, on the floor. Anywhere. Honey, just tell me."

She inhaled, affected. "Every time we're together, you steal a little more of my heart, but I'm afraid you'll toss it right back."