Trouble Maker: A MacKenzie Family Novel (The MacKenzie Family) (5 page)

“He’s coming,” she croaked out, but he didn’t hear her over his rage. So she took the chance and lifted her head so she could look right at him. “He’s coming. The sheriff is on his way, and there are cars following him with angry men. They’re going to drag you off to jail where you deserve to be.”

He stopped and stared at her, sweat covering his face and dampening his clothes. The belt was slack down by his side. His breaths were heavy and his cold blue eyes were mean.

“Get up,” he said. “And look me in the eye and say it. I don’t hear no sirens. I think you’re lyin’.”

Marnie wasn’t sure where she found the strength to get to her feet, but she did. She needed to be more convincing. Blood dripped down her back and into the waistband of her shorts and shivers wracked her body. And then something took over her. Defiance and rage and everything she hated about the man who’d created her.

Her voice wasn’t recognizable as she spoke. But it held strength and power, and the vision washed over her with such clarity she almost wept in relief. She saw the end with a mighty force that gave her the strength to go on.

“They are coming for you, and they will find you,” she said without inflection. “But they will not find you as you are now. I see your end. Your death is near, and it comes with screams of horror and flames. There will be no escape. Only the slow and torturous slide into death. And then hell awaits you. Run now. Maybe you can escape your fate.”

He stared at her with fear in his eyes and he lifted the belt once more, but she didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. Then he turned and walked back to the truck, got inside, threw it in reverse, and drove away.

Two miles she walked. Until her body burned with fever and her feet developed blisters. She stood in front of the ramshackle house in the flood plain of the valley, the white paint peeling and the yard overgrown with weeds. The lights were out, and if the moon hadn’t been full it would’ve been impossible to see anything.

But she put one foot in front of the other until she was inside. She moved through the house on autopilot, keeping the lights off. Her face throbbed. Her body was a mess, but she couldn’t stomach the thought of standing long enough to take a shower.

She peeled the bloody top from her back, weeping as the dried patches pulled and tore her flesh. She discarded the shorts and shoes and stole one of her father’s oversized undershirts from the basket of folded laundry on the table. He wouldn’t be needing it. And then she gingerly crawled into bed and curled into a ball as the tears continued to fall.

Marnie lay huddled in the dark and waited for her father to die.

Chapter Four

Sometimes the visions crept in like fog across the water. But usually they slapped her with the force of a hurricane.

Pain and fever had lulled her to sleep, but when the vision came it appeared with such clarity that she felt his every thought and movement, as if she were an extension of his body.

The truck smelled of whiskey-soaked sweat, and his hands gripped the wheel like a vise so they wouldn’t shake. His heart raced and fear had a stranglehold on him as he sped along the two-lane road toward the mountains. He was more afraid of her words than the cops catching him. Sheriff Rafferty was old and slow, and he’d spent too many years sitting behind a desk with his feet propped up. Besides, if Rafferty tried to take him in he could just kill him. One more body wouldn’t make a difference.

Harley knew the roads like the back of his hand, and the moon was bright enough he didn’t even need to turn on his headlights. They’d never catch him. He’d be over the mountains and across the border into Canada by the time they got their thumb out of their asses long enough to put out an alert for him.

But Helen was going to be a problem. He turned his head to look at his wife. Stupid bitch couldn’t live without him. Didn’t have the skills to live on her own, and damned if she hadn’t been waiting for him with her rattletrap car parked so it blocked the street, waving her hands to get him to stop.

He didn’t know how she’d found him, but he guessed she probably knew his habits better than most. She’d never been dumb, just worthless. Though he’d appreciated the money she’d earned from selling her jams and quilts at the carnival. It wasn’t much, but added to the money he’d taken from the pot after Mitch had had the poor sense to die, he could live for a few days until he could steal some more or find another poker game.

But Helen was a liability, and she’d only slow him down. He decided to kill her with the same nonchalant shrug one might have when choosing ham or turkey on their sandwich. She sat beside him, twisting her hands nervously in her lap. She didn’t ask what he’d done or why he was leaving. She would’ve heard the rumblings while she was at the fair. The old biddies in town knew things almost as soon as they’d happened. But Helen was a loyal lapdog and she’d served her purpose. He’d wait to kill her until they were in the mountains. The animals would get her before anyone would be able to find her body.

Harley turned on the radio to fill the silence, rapidly skipping through the channels since most of them were static. He came across a station that was mostly clear and then took a swig from the bottle of Jim Beam in the cup holder. He was going to wait a little while for a drink so his head could clear, but Helen was driving him crazy with her silent judgment. He didn’t know if he could wait until they were in the mountains to kill her. Stupid bitch.

Even in the vision Marnie was amazed that he never once thought of her. Of what he’d done or how he’d left her. She was nothing to him. He truly didn’t care if she lived or died.

The farther he drove the more irritated he became, until his mouth formed a snarl and sweat dripped from his temples. And then he heard the alert on the radio. They gave his name and a description of his truck. Then they said he was wanted for murder and considered highly dangerous. He almost grinned at that. Of course he was fucking dangerous. Nobody messed with Harley Whitlock. Just ask old Mitch.

He pressed down on the accelerator a little harder. It wouldn’t be long until they got to the narrow one-way road that led to the mountain pass. The smile on his face was unnatural—anticipatory—for the only thought in his mind was seeing the surprise on Helen’s face when he bashed her in the face with a rock.

He’d liked the surprise on Mitch’s face when he’d hit him that first time. It made him chuckle just thinking about it, and he shook his head and sped a little faster. You could never recapture that first look of surprise. After the first time it was only screams and fear and begging. Though that held its own kind of appeal.

God, why wouldn’t she shut up? The little whimpers escaping her thin, pinched lips were driving him fucking crazy. His hand shot out and he backhanded her across the mouth. And then he laughed. Nobody could touch him.

They drove another hour and the heater in the old truck couldn’t keep up with the rapidly dropping temperatures. There was still snow up in the mountains. It was a good place to leave a body, and just the thought of what was coming made him hard with anticipation. Hell, maybe he’d give the old ball and chain one last go for old time’s sake. Pussy was pussy. And he’d been going through a dry spell ever since that bitch Lavina had decided he’d been a little too rough with her.

How was he supposed to know she’d pass out? Lavina liked it rough just like he did, and boy, did she always go crazy writhing underneath him when he put his hands around her neck and squeezed. It made him shoot off like a rocket every time. But Lavina had been like all the other bitches out there. Begging for it and then crying foul like she hadn’t wanted it in the first place.

He was rock hard and ready after thinking of that last time with Lavina and decided the least he could do was give Helen a little farewell fuck so her last moments would be enjoyable. That’s the kind of thoughtful man he was. Always thinking of others.

He laughed again and fought the urge to just pull over and rut like a deer in mating season. It was all in the timing.

“We’re going to stop up here and take a little break,” he said, glancing at Helen. Her face was bloody and a little bruised, but he didn’t mind that. He didn’t have to look at her face. Wasn’t much to look at anyway. But she had a nice round ass that he could plow into and her tits weren’t so bad either.

The excitement had him accelerating toward the next curve, but it was sharper than he remembered. By the time he pumped the brake and turned the wheel, it was too late. The truck skidded and fishtailed before falling over the side of the mountain.

Marnie cried out in her sleep as the truck cleared a path through the trees down the side of the mountain. They hit a boulder at the edge of the ravine and her father hit his head on the steering wheel. Her mother was already dead. Killed with the first impact. But drunk drivers were numbed by the alcohol and usually didn’t know what was happening until someone was pulling them from the wreckage.

But not this time. Marnie smelled the gasoline and heard the hiss of the engine. Blood from the wound on his head dripped into his eyes and his hands were unsteady as he reached for the door handle. But it wouldn’t open.

The soft whoosh of flames from beneath the hood spread quickly, and she felt the first sober panic penetrate his brain. He was going to die. And then he thought of her and the last words she’d spoken to him, and he knew his fate had been foretold. He died screaming, trapped in the flames.

When Marnie woke the next morning she was in the tub, her back and buttocks aching and the wounds crusted with blood. The trickle from the shower head dripped a steady beat on her thighs—her voice was hoarse. And all she could feel was relief.

He was dead.

Chapter Five

Present Day

Surrender, Montana

“Beckett Hamilton! I’ve got something to say to you.”

Beckett stopped in his tracks and closed his eyes, praying the shrill voice that was the equivalent of nails scraping across a chalkboard was a figment of his imagination.

“Are you listenin’ to me?”

Not a figment of his imagination. He should’ve listened to his father when he’d warned him to stay clear of town. Women were nothing but trouble. And this one was more trouble than most.

He’d been up since before dawn with his father at the barn. They’d been culling cows that weren’t fertile to sell off, and administering vaccinations to the ones that were pregnant or still had breeding potential. After that, he’d ridden out to the hayfield to check on a baler that was acting up, and while he’d been out there he’d noticed a section of fence had fallen down. Life was never boring at Big Sky Ranch.

He’d already put in a full day and it was barely noon. His muscles ached and a fine layer of dust coated his clothes. He wouldn’t have it any other way. But he’d gotten cocky. A good day’s work and a crisp, clear day, and he’d decided he’d have lunch in town with Thomas and Riley MacKenzie.

It had been at least a month since he’d thought of Hazel Trout—maybe six weeks. They’d only seen each other a handful of times and a majority of that handful was spent naked. It was when she had her clothes on and her mouth open that he decided he’d better nip things in the bud before she got the wrong idea. But apparently he hadn’t started nipping soon enough.

He’d always gone out of his way to make sure he parted on good terms with his lovers. Sure, some of them were hoping for more, but he always made it clear from the start that he had no intention of settling down any time soon. The ranch had become his life, especially since his father had retired two years ago and put everything in his hands, and there was no room for anything but the occasional good time.

But Hazel had been more persistent than most. And she hadn’t been at all interested in parting as friends or on good terms. He hated that it had come to that, but like his father said, it was his own piss-poor fault for thinking with his dick instead of the brain the good Lord had given him. Hazel wasn’t the kind of woman that would be satisfied with anything less than catching herself a cattleman. And a cattleman with money was even better. Beckett filled both those shoes.

For the last month she’d called and called. And when he’d stopped answering the phone, she’d resorted to leaving messages. They’d started out sweet, but by the time she was done his ears had been ringing. He hadn’t even bothered to listen to the last dozen or so she’d left. She’d been sighted driving past the ranch a time or two, but there was a gate that led up to the main house and he’d made sure it was closed at all times.

But dammit, he refused to be held prisoner on his own land. He hadn’t done anything wrong. The sooner they could bury the hatchet the sooner he could stop looking over his shoulder every time he stepped foot outside his house.

So he’d accepted the invitation from Riley for lunch and he’d driven his work truck into town, parking behind the sheriff’s office. The sky was cloudless and the sun was a bright orange ball directly overhead. Fall had taken hold with a mighty grasp and the leaves had changed and were now falling to the ground. It would only be a week or two before the first frost, but it was nice out so he decided to leave his shearling jacket in the truck. His flannel shirt would be sufficient. He’d adjusted his ball cap and pocketed his keys, not bothering to lock the doors, and headed toward the diner.

There wasn’t much to downtown Surrender. It had been erected in the late 1800s, and not much had changed since, other than the occasional shift of store ownership. The street was bricked and a little longer than a football field, and identical two-story wooden buildings that shared common brick walls lined both sides. They’d all been painted white, and black awnings covered the wooden sidewalks. Gas lanterns hung to the left side of each door and black letterboxes hung on the right.

The sheriff’s office was located at the end of the street directly across from the bakery, and Cooper MacKenzie was near the end of his second term as sheriff. Cooper kept crime low and the occasional skirmish between neighboring ranches to a minimum, so there was no doubt he’d run unopposed again in the next election. Surrender wasn’t exactly a hotbed of crime.