Slate (Rebel Wayfarers MC) (27 page)

Walking out, he saw the crew cab truck and a two-horse trailer sitting nearly in the road. Opening the door, he found the keys thrown carelessly on the floorboard, and snagged them. Pulling the truck safely off the road, he set the brake and shut down the rig. Climbing out, he opened the small pass-through in the front of the trailer to look at the horse tied inside.

The dappled gray horse looked aggravated, and rolled its eyes at him. He stepped back, opening the gear and living quarters in the nose of the trailer, quickly finding what he was looking for in the form of feed, water, buckets, and a blanket. Setting things out where he could reach them easily, he opened the gate and unloaded the horse, letting the gelding step slowly and cautiously backwards down the little ramp.

Calmly patting and stroking the horse’s neck, Slate pulled out the bucket of water, securing it to the side of the trailer. He tied the horse off, giving him only a little slack to sidle sideways a couple of steps. Grabbing the horse blanket, he fitted it onto the hor
se, clipping the belly and neckbands comfortably. He closed up the back of the trailer, securing the ramp.

Sitting on the fender for a minute, he patted the gelding’s nose and watched him settle down. Slate could see there was some puffiness in his legs; he needed to walk it off, get the blood flowing again. Fuck, she’d kept this horse standing immobile in the trailer for several hours too long in her efforts to get to Chicago and Mica.

Untying the gelding, he slowly walked him down the block and back, pausing a couple of times to run a hand down the horse’s legs. He was still a little hot when they got back to the trailer, so Slate tied him again and found some alcohol, then rubbed him down for a few minutes. That was rewarding, because the gelding’s head dipped slowly as he relaxed into the indulgence.

He dipped out a small ration of oats for the gelding, wanting to give him enough to ease any hunger he might have. Headed back into the house, he found that the women were in the guest bedroom behind a closed door. He snagged a beer, and laughed out loud when he saw the guys were still watching the dancing show, even without Mica to goad them.

Roach looked over at him, raising an eyebrow. “Cousin from Texas?”

Slate blew out a breath and nodded. “Seems that way.”

Digger looked up, a gleam in his eye and humor written on his face. “That little girl nearly popped you one, Slate,” he teased, grinning widely. “That woulda been something to see.”

Fucker. If she had been successful in clipping him, he wasn’t one hundred percent sure what his reaction would have been, but given the rock-hard erection he had been sporting from pressing her against the wall, it could have gone either way.

A couple of hours later, Mica finally came out of the guest bedroom without Essa, and Slate gathered she was asleep since Mica was careful with noise. Roach and Digger had gone to sleep too, and since Slate had turned the TV off a while ago, he pointed silently towards the kitchen. Once they were both sitting at the breakfast bar, he asked Mica, “She okay?” Mica shook her head without saying anything, her face concerned.

He wanted to distract her from whatever was keeping her mute, and thought about the dappled gray horse and rig. He knew that Mica was a rodeo gal before college and Chicago, and he figured she would want to know all about the horse. “She has a nice gelding; come outside and see.” He handed Mica her jacket and opened the door, grabbing a flashlight to bring with them. Once they got outside, he found he was inordinately proud she seemed impressed with the job he’d done parking the rig and settling the horse.

The gelding was dozing, still tied securely to the off-side of the trailer. Just after the guys had gone to sleep, he had come out and tidied up the empty buckets; he knew from experience that a horse left with loose equipment would quickly find a way to get into trouble. The horse was nice and warm in the blanket, and was relaxed and resting. Slate ran a hand down his legs, relieved there was no heat anywhere. Mica had him shine the light on the horse’s halter on the side of his head, revealing a nameplate bradded into the nylon halter. She spoke the name aloud, “Summer Breeze.”

Slate wondered about everything; this gal had shown up out of the blue, when none of Mica’s family was supposed to know where she was, except her shithead brother...who had gone home. Michael Scott was probably the reason behind this visit. He asked Mica brusquely, “What’s she doing here?” He had a sudden thrill of fear that it wasn’t because of Scott at all.

Mica physically avoided the question, rolling her shoulders in a huge shrug, so he pushed the topic. “Princess, does this have anything to do with Nelms?” She nodded, looking at him silently, and his anxiety level shot through the roof.
Fucking shit
, she was out here in the goddamn open. He wasn’t even glancing around, or trying to clock anyone, or anything; he was playing with a fucking horse.

He quickly and roughly manhandled her towards the house as fast as he could, short of picking her up and carrying her in, his eyes scanning the surroundings for any danger or threats. “The fuck was I thinking, taking you outside with only me out here?”
Goddammit,
he was pissed at himself. He forced her into the house, and then just as quickly, he moved her away from the door and windows. Protecting her with his own bulk, he kept himself between her and any openings to the outside. He scowled and snarled at her, “Talk, Mica. I need to know. Everything.”

She moved her head, and he heard her neck crack, and realized how tense and afraid she had to be. Something Essa told her had to have been bad, probably whatever made the little gal cry like she was earlier in the evening. Slate chopped out a quick, “Sit,” and then just as quickly reversed himself with a, “Wait,” as he moved to grab pillows and blankets from the living room to make a pallet. He threw the bedding on the kitchen floor between the sink and the kitchen island, pointed, and said again, “Sit.” He sat down next to her, leaning his head back against the sink cabinet. “Start with Essa—who is she to you?”

Mica was still strangely calm and was clearly fond of her cousin. “Essa, or Esmeralda, is my cousin. She’s the daughter of my mother’s sister, and two years younger than my baby sister, Molly. They’ve grown up together, more like sisters than cousins.”

Slate knew her sister was placed with her family after her daddy was convicted of raping Mica’s best friend when she was barely seventeen. During his trial, Mica had come forward with testimony about years of abuse at her daddy’s hands, and she had been important in his final conviction. Being apart from her little sister was hard for Mica, and her statement just now had been made with a tone of both sadness and ruefulness. It sounded like she’d missed so much of her sister’s childhood. Mica continued, “Aunt Janet and Uncle Rob don’t know she’s here. They know she’s on the circuit, and she was supposed to be headed to a rodeo in Urbana. She kinda detoured to here.”

Slate interrupted, because for him, this was the most critical question of the night, “How did she know where ‘here’ was?”

Mica rolled her neck again, pulling and stretching her muscles. “According to Essa, she got a letter a few weeks ago. All it had in it was a picture of this house, a picture of me, and an address. Molly got one too, but her age division had more events out west, so the girls decided Essa should investigate while up this way.”

Leaning over, Mica laid her head on a pillow. “The pictures are some of the ones Ray had, so I think he must have sent them to the girls. I don’t know why yet…can’t figure it…but I am sure there’s something going on. It’s like something is just outside the range of hearing, you know? I can almost grasp it, but it slithers away. She’s also got something else going on I need to figure out. She wouldn’t talk about it, but it’s there.” Mason and the Rebels had found out about the pictures Nelms had taken weeks ago; it was one of the things that had caused the huge uptick in security.

She yawned, snuggling into the pillow. “I’ll go down to Urbana with her in the morning, make sure she’s solid, and then watch her compete. That will be fun, to be behind the scenes again. I miss it sometimes.” Pulling one hand out from under the pillow, she started chewing on the side of her thumb again, a sure sign she was nervous. Her voice was uneven as she added, “Ray’s taken so much from me, and I hate him, Slate.
I hate him
.”

He hated seeing her like this, not just stressed out, but so clearly and evidently fearful. It had been a long time since he’d seen her face without that dark shadow of fear on it. Maybe if she saw him as a person, not merely one of Mason’s Rebels, but as a man...a friend...then, maybe she’d have confidence that he could keep her safe this time. He knew he had failed her, badly, but he was much more committed now. He wanted to build on a friendship he felt was budding, so reaching out a hand to smooth her hair down her back, he gave her his name—not his road name, but his real one. “Andrew Jones.”

She was confused, looking up into his face. “Huh? Who is Andrew Jones?”

“Me.” Slate smiled at her, seeing the recognition in her face of what he had offered her. It was a window into him as a man, into who he had been before. She seemed to accept this as a precious gift, and he felt a little less exposed. “Sleep, princess, and tomorrow,” he waited for a beat, watching for a nod from her before he continued, and reminded her, “you go, I go, remember?”

They stayed on the floor for a time, Slate watching over her as she slowly relaxed into the pallet on the floor. He curled around her, feeling her loosen and ease into sleep. Waiting patiently beside her as she delved deeper into a healing rest, once he thought she was far enough under, he picked her up and carried her to bed. After straightening the house and putting up the bedding, he settled into a chair in the living room, keeping watch for the rest of the night.

Once the sun came up, he shrugged on his jacket and strolled outside to check on the gelding. Standing near the horse, he saw Mason coming down the street, and watched his bike slow as he took in the strange vehicle set-up and the sight of Slate comfortably handling the horse.

Slate waited on Mason to walk over after he parked. Meeting him with a chin lift, Slate gave a succinct summary of the evening. “Rig belongs to Mica’s cousin, Essa; she’s eighteen. She and Mica’s sister, Molly, got letters with pictures and this address, so she came to see. We’re taking Essa to Urbana this morning, where she’s competing in a rodeo. Mica and I both think the letter and pics probably came from Nelms.”

Mason nodded at him; their version of shorthand worked both ways, and he’d gotten all the key details from what Slate had said. He looked at Slate, narrowing his eyes. “Okay, got it. Sounds under control. Now tell me about trouble in the club.”

Fuck
, he’d nearly forgotten about Tucker with everything that happened last night. Slate blew out a long breath, looking into Mason’s face as he told him what Mica had said about Tucker. Mason was visibly upset, his dark grey eyes turning steely and hard. Slate watched as the muscles in Mason’s jaw tightened and jutted out; he was grinding his teeth together. His question was a snarled, “Tucker put hands on her? Before or after we patched the fucker in?”

Slate frowned; he knew it was an important question, and one that would determine the future of the biker, and perhaps their club. “Both, I believe, Prez.”

“Think anyone saw?” Mason asked. “Because if they did, and didn’t tell, we’ll rip more than one rocker off a fucking patch’s cut.”

“Nah, Prez, this will be a he said/she said if I’ve ever seen one.” Slate didn’t think any of their brothers would have covered up for a freshly patched new member, not when everyone knew how important Mica was to all of them. Slate was a little worried about their ability to defend the accusation, but he knew in his gut she’d told the truth. He shared that confidence with Mason. “I believe Mica though; I pushed her until I got a real reaction, and I know what I saw was truth.”

Folding his arms across his broad chest, Mason shrugged. “Then there’s only one question: Do we stop with the rocker?” He turned and walked towards Mica’s house.

***

Headed into the house behind Mason, Slate grabbed a hot cup of coffee and lounged for a bit, cocking one hip against the kitchen cabinet. He watched the girl stumble into the room, her eyes still half-lidded with sleep. He reached out to set a mug on the cabinet near the coffeemaker, and watched as she filled it and carried it over to the breakfast bar. She wriggled that rounded ass onto one of the stools, leaning far over onto her elbows and keeping her hands wrapped tightly around the mug.

After a few sips of coffee, she seemed more aware of her surroundings, and he caught her looking between him and Digger more than once. He knew that Dig was probably a lot closer to her age, but he was intrigued by this girl, and found himself frowning whenever he caught her eyes on Dig. Mason grabbed her mug and refilled without saying anything to her, and Slate saw her shiver when she looked up at him. She blurted out an “I’m sorry,” to Mason, making Slate want to tell her she’d done nothing wrong. Mason beat him to it, asking her “What the fuck for?” Essa’s response was nonsensical, and Roach laughed loudly at her, bringing quick tears to her eyes that she tried to hide.

Mica checked the time and began hurrying everyone along, so Slate headed outside, saying, “I’ll go load the gelding and get the rig ready to go.” As he swung through the door onto the little back porch, he heard Essa yell, “Breezy, his name is Breezy” and he laughed at her constant defense of that pretty, gray gelding. He loaded the horse, stripping the blanket and putting that and the water bucket back into storage in the living quarters. He closed and locked the gate, shaking it back and forth to ensure it was latched securely.