Firelight at Mustang Ridge (24 page)

“Anything,” he said, the anger draining away. “Everything. My life, if she needed it.”

Wyatt didn't look the slightest bit surprised, the bastard. “So why are you pushing her away?”

Because the idea of moving her into Windfall made him want to drive off Hangman's Curve. Which had to be his instincts telling him something important.

“Don't you have wedding stuff to do?” Sam grated.

Seeming satisfied that he had made his point, Wyatt nodded. “Sure do. I'm helping the girls surprise Krista for her bachelorette party tonight. Limo, dinner, drinking, hotel suite, the works.” He paused. “They'll all be at the Steak Shack for dinner, then the Rope Burn after. If I were you, I'd get over yourself, get down there, and do some serious groveling in public, with all the other ladies watching. Girl like that, been through what she's been through, she deserves a to-do.”

Frustration tore at Sam, making him want to snarl. “I can't—”

“There's a big difference between
can't
and
won't
.” Wyatt clapped him on the shoulder. “Take it from me. There was a time not long ago that I would've sworn long and hard that I'd never walk down any sort of aisle headed for a woman wearing white, never have a family of my own. Now I can't picture it any other way.”

“I'm not like you,” Sam grated, staring at the broken bolt. “That's not my life.” If it were, the very thought of walking down an aisle wouldn't suck all the oxygen out of his lungs.

“If you say so.” Wyatt headed for the doorway. “Me? I'd say that love can change a man in very good ways if he's smart enough to let it.” Then, before Sam could muster a decent response to that—if there even was such a thing—Wyatt disappeared out into the bright day.

Sam glared at the empty doorway, tempted to go after his so-called friend and tell him that it wasn't about being stupid, stubborn, scared, or whatever else he thought was going on. It was about knowing his own damn limits and not setting him and Danny both up to fail. How was that wrong?

“It's not wrong,” he muttered. “It's smart, and it's the right thing to do.”

And if part of him wondered why it hurt so much if it was the right thing, there was a plenty easy answer to that: sometimes doing the right thing bloody well hurt.

W
hen Danny rolled into the parking lot at Mustang Ridge in time to be part of the planned abduction, she was grimly determined to either enjoy herself at the bachelorette party or do a good job of faking it. But as she parked the Gator, Shelby and Jenny rushed out of the house to meet her, and their faces left zero doubt that the grapevine had been hard at work.

“Sweetie!” Jenny threw her arms around Danny. “Are you okay? Do you want to tell us about it?”

Danny fended her off, feeling her brittle shell of self-control crack around the edges. “I'm fine. And, no, I don't want to talk about it.” Talk about it, think about it, even admit any of it had happened. The last thing she wanted to do was bring down the mood. Forcing a smile, she asked, “Is everything set for the kidnapping?”

“Yes and no,” Shelby said. “Come inside. There's somebody we want you to meet first.”

Danny hesitated. “It better not be a guy.” She might kill somebody.

“It's not.” Jenny tugged her along. “Come on.”

Figuring it was one of the friends Krista had invited
from out of town, Danny let Jenny lead her up the hewn-log steps and through the main door into the ranch house, where the guest services desk sat in one corner of a family-style sitting room. There, a tall, willowy blonde stood up from one of the rustic, overstuffed sofas and gave her a little wave. “Hey again.”

It was the woman who'd been cozying up with Sam.

Danny stopped dead as a hot flush suffused her. “What is
she
doing here?”

“Don't freak,” Jenny said, grabbing her arm like she was afraid she might bolt. Or maybe attack. “Ashley is Wyatt's little sister.”

“She's—” Danny snapped her mouth shut, suddenly seeing the resemblance. “What the hell? Why . . . ?”

“Why did I go to Sam's place rather than come straight here? Because I'm a wimp. I told myself it was because I didn't want to mess with Wyatt's mojo right before the wedding, but it was really because I didn't want to have to tell him I lost another job. I needed a place to stay, and I figured I could crash with Sam.” Ashley made a pair of lost-puppy eyes. “I didn't mean to start trouble.”

Danny wasn't a big fan of the
don't be mad, I'm so cute
routine under the best of circumstances, and this was a far cry from the best of anything. But she managed to say, “You didn't start the trouble. I guess you just walked into the middle of it.”

“I told him he should have told you who I was right away. And I'm not staying there anymore, either.” Ashley clasped her hands in front of her body, looking anxious and suddenly very young, and making Danny think that maybe it wasn't entirely an act. “After you
left and Sam locked himself in with his video games, I came straight to Wyatt and told him everything. I think he went over there to see what he could do.”

Danny didn't want to know any of it. Didn't want to envy Sam the ability to close the door, plug in, and tune out the rest of the world. In fact, what she really wanted to do was go outside and lock herself in a guest cabin and wait for the pain to stop. She couldn't, though—not with Jenny and Shelby standing there, looking expectant, their faces practically shouting,
Please hug and make up so we can get this show on the road!

A week ago, she had been looking forward to the bachelorette party. Now, she wished she could bail.

Suck it up,
she told herself, and pasted a smile on her face. “How about we give ourselves a do-over?” She stuck out her hand. “Hi, Ashley. My name is Danny, and I'm a friend of these guys.” She nodded to Jenny and Shelby, who wore identical looks of relief. “I live in an RV, work as a wilderness tour guide, and I have a dog named Whiz. I just broke up with my boyfriend, which sucks, but I'm not going to mess with Krista's wedding mojo, either. So for the next six hours, I'm going to have fun or die trying.”

Ashley's smile said she sympathized, maybe even that she had been there, done that. But as their handshake turned into a hug, she said, “Now you're talking. Let's go kidnap ourselves a bride-to-be!”

*   *   *

As the sun hung in the hot, dusty sky, Sam stood back and looked at the bike, which he had propped up in front of Wolf Rock. Long and low, with the V-shaped engine buried in its chest and the double-barreled
exhaust stacked like rockets on the back, it looked like something out of
Aliens
, only faster and meaner. She wasn't good as new, of course—he'd left the more superficial scrapes and dings alone, and the replacement gas tank had been in the to-be-painted pile when he walked away from the project. She was badass, though. The kind of machine that made a man want to throw a leg over and fire up the engine for real—not just the test revs he'd been giving it along the way but a real blast of noise and speed.

He remembered the look on his dad's face when he'd brought her home, leaned her up on her stand, and swung off. The bones of the mansion had been up, the brick face had been getting mortared into place, and there had been a plywood walkway covering the granite steps. So Sam's boots had echoed as he jogged down. When he hit the bottom, he made a whole lot of “Whoa, dude, awesome!” noises, even though he had helped pick out the bike. Because it was just that kind of machine.

What was it his father had said right then? Something about dreaming big? No, it was the one about the only chances you would come to regret being the ones you didn't take. Which had sounded good at the time, but now put a fist in his gut as Sam jammed a helmet on his head, kicked the bike off its stand, and climbed aboard.

The engine growled to life right away, a deep-throated rumble that vibrated in his clenched-tight gut. Catching movement out of the corner of his eye, he glanced over to see Yoshi staring, ears pricked. “I'll be back in an hour or so,” he called to his horse because there wasn't anybody else around to notice he was leaving. And damned
if that wasn't what his dad had said to him that night.
I'll be back in an hour or so
. Only he hadn't been. He hadn't ever come back.

Sam knew he damn well should have gone with his old man that night. Shouldn't have pushed him on getting the V-Rod. Should have said he loved him, that he was the best dad ever, with or without the money. Instead, he had halfway waved and headed back inside to talk to the wiring guy about the surround-sound setup for the game room.

Forty minutes later, he'd gotten the call.

Four days later, the wrecker had dropped off what was left of the bike.

Four months later he had cleaned up his tools and locked the garage door behind him.

Now, eight-plus years after the V-Rod took his father off the edge of Hangman's Curve, Sam sent it back up the driveway and out onto the open road. As the too-dry air plastered his clothes to his body, he tried to imagine his father's ghost channeling through the roaring machine. What had he been thinking about when he hit the road that day? The mansion? The road trip they were planning? The way their lives had changed so much so fast?

Probably all of those things, and more, Sam decided as the road unrolled beneath the aggressive rubber tread. There was something elemental about being back on two wheels, without the big truck around him. The bike wanted to surge ahead, like a fresh horse pulling on the bit. And, as he leaned into curve after curve and felt the old rhythm come back, the anger and frustration started to bleed away, leaving him raw, sore,
and tired, and not paying much attention to where he was going.

Until, that is, he reached a familiar turnoff, where the main drag went down and the scenic route headed up and a big, diamond-shaped yellow sign read
DANGEROUS CURVE AHEAD
.

Always before, he had followed the main drag, or avoided the intersection altogether. Now he headed up. Mouth gone sour, he steered along the winding road, not seeing the view so much as the narrow shoulders and knee-high railing on the drop-off side as he climbed. Coming around a sharper turn, he saw another yellow diamond, this one warning of falling rocks. Then, when he reached the top, where the world disappeared beyond the edge of the tarmac, with only open air all the way to the distant mountains, there was another damned yellow diamond.
DANG
EROUS CURVE—10 MPH
.

Riding onto the hard, sunbaked shoulder, he killed the engine, propped the bike on its stand, and walked to the edge. When he reached the chain link–topped railing, he stared off over the edge to where a green-brown valley stretched from one set of mountain foothills all the way to the next. A silver-blue river zigzagged across the landscape, and scrubby trees were brushes of darker green against the putty-purple, sun-hazed scene.

It was the last thing his father had seen before the V-Rod had left the road. And then . . . He hooked his fingers through the chain link and looked down.

Way, way down.

Time and weather had shifted the terrain, but he could still pick out the flat spot where the bike had
ended up. “Well?” he said. “Is this what you wanted me to do?”

He listened for an answer. Didn't get one.

“Stupid,” he muttered. It was stupid to be disappointed. His father was dead and gone, and ghosts didn't really talk to the people they left behind. Even as a young kid he had known that his dad wasn't channeling messages from the other side—he was sharing what he thought his beloved wife would have said if she were still alive, just like when he pretended that Wolf Rock could talk, and that it cared whether Sam took out the garbage. But that was his dad—always imagining things, always dreaming. Which had been one of the best things about him.

So why did you stop with your own dreams?

The thought came out of nowhere, popping into his head full-blown. And damned if it didn't sound like something his father would've said, like his subconscious was suddenly playing his old man's part. It was the wrong question, though—he wasn't worried about the future right now. He was chewing on what Wyatt had gotten him to admit earlier, about how he would give anything to keep Danny safe, even his life. So why couldn't he wrap his head around taking a chance with her? Why did the very thought of it make him want to get back on the bike and ride hard and fast, until he was hundreds of miles away?

How is your faith?

It was something his father used to say when they were out hunting for stones, not so much asking where Sam stood with God, but more with himself. Was he in
the zone? Was he trusting his instincts? And the answer was usually yes. Now, though, he wasn't so sure. Because if he trusted himself, he'd be able to imagine how he wanted things to look going forward. Faith. Dreams. Taking a leap over the edge. Those were all things his old man used to talk about. All things Sam had blocked out because the grief had been too raw, the guilt too huge. But his father had also talked about forgiveness, and about how that was part of what made a man.

Forgive us
.

“There's nothing to forgive.” He said it aloud without thinking, like it was an actual conversation. Like his father's ghost was really there.

Forgive us
. It rang in his head, not letting go.

“What are you talking about? Who's us, you and Mom? Should I forgive you for dying? That's ridiculous. You didn't do it on purpose.”

Neither did you
.

“I . . .” Sam's breath whistled out and he found himself leaning up against all that chain link, looking down. “Oh, hell.” And suddenly, like lightning striking up in the high country, he got it. Adrenaline seared through him as he damn well got it.

For a minute he just stood there while the world spun around him, coming back into focus in a way it hadn't ever before, as if he'd held a faceted gem up to the sunlight and turned it a few degrees to create a pattern that he'd never seen but had been there all along. Then, stirring, he pulled out his phone and punched in Axyl's number.

“Hey,” the old prospector answered. “What's up?”

“I need a favor.”

“Name it.”

Grinning as his pulse picked up, sending the blood racing through his veins like a Harley hugging high-speed turns, Sam said, “Get a group of bikes and riders together, the louder the better. I need to make a grand gesture.” And he hoped to hell he wasn't already too late.