Master of Solitude (Mountain Masters & Dark Haven Book 8) by Cherise Sinclair
Kallie set a hand on her shoulder. “You okay?”
No. Really not. “My ankle’s a bit sore.” Pulling her gaze from the lane, she sucked in a stabilizing breath. Anchoring herself in the bright morning, she let the heartache move through her and away, like a bobbing twig in a swift-flowing stream. “Want some breakfast?”
“Actually, I brought you some. Becca sent cinnamon rolls with orders for you to indulge in some sugar and white flour.”
Mallory laughed. “The boss has spoken.” She took a hand from her crutch and waved toward the door. “Let’s eat.”
Kallie shook her head. “Can’t. I have a corporate group to guide up to the lakes for team-building exercises. I just ran over to make sure you were all right and to bring the rolls.” She held up the bag. “Let me put these on your table.”
Mallory nodded and watched her friend disappear inside.
When Kallie returned, she hesitated. “Shut me down if I’m out of line, but did you know Sawyer spent time in the prison here?”
“I knew.”
“He seemed awfully at home.”
Like he’d spent the night in her bed? Mallory felt her cheeks heat. “He went out of his way to get me to the doctor and spent the night to be sure I was safe. He was being a good neighbor.” Which was all he wanted to be.
The…the dumbass.
“Oh. Well.” Unlike Becca, Kallie wasn’t the type to push for more. She put her arm around Mallory. “I’m sorry. I know he’s Atticus’s brother and probably a nice guy, and you’re an adult. I’m just in a grumpy mood, I guess.”
Mallory narrowed her eyes. Although Kallie’s aura was difficult to see in the bright morning light, an unhappy darkness tinted the edges. “What happened?” Mallory asked softly.
“Oh, Mal. Someone broke into Pottery and Pages last night and destroyed a bunch of Mrs. Reed’s glassware. Probably because there wasn’t any money in the cash register.”
Mallory swayed, feeling as if a rafter had fallen on her. “Oh, no.”
“I’m so angry—and wishing all the creeps had left when the prison closed. I didn’t mean to be judgmental about your guy.”
Not my guy. The knowledge hurt.
Kallie’s gaze went across the valley. “This was such a safe place to grow up. People trusted each other. And now…”
Now there were drugs, graffiti, assaults, and robberies. “I know. I miss what we had, too.” Mallory’s memories went back almost as far as Kallie’s. At eleven, she’d started spending summers in Bear Flat and had gone to school here for her high school junior and senior years. “But Sawyer truly is an honorable man.”
“Don’t tell me—he’s got a pretty aura?”
“He does. The colors show he’s strong, loyal, and brave. He’s not as sociable as your Jake—no orange—but otherwise, their auras are much alike.” She wouldn’t mention Sawyer’s black streaks of pain.
Kallie snorted. “You know I don’t hold with new-agey stuff.”
Mallory just smiled.
“Okay, so I’ve never seen you wrong about a person. He might be the first, you know.”
“You’re as stubborn as Wyatt. Maybe even Morgan.”
Kallie laughed. “Now you’re just being mean. Fine, Sawyer’s a nice guy—and I won’t be grumpy anymore.” Back to her usual even temper, she gave Mallory a hug and trotted down the steps to her SUV.
As Mallory watched Kallie drive away, she sighed and turned to go into her quiet, lonely house.
Chapter Thirteen
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Having left his pickup in the ClaimJumper Tavern’s parking lot, Sawyer had dressed in stylish prowling colors—black on black—and patrolled the town’s back alleys.
It was quiet, which wasn’t surprising for a chilly Wednesday night near the end of October. Tourist season was over, although the town celebrated Halloween as if still inundated with visitors. Along the boardwalk were dangling skeletons and ghosts, spider webs and ravens, all illuminated by orange lights along the roof. Despite the recent break-in, Pottery and Pages had hosted a pumpkin-carving contest with the winning entries displayed in store windows.
The weekly newspaper had listed their choices for best-decorated houses, from “Seriously Scary” down to “Safe for preschoolers.” Unable to resist, Sawyer had driven by the “Seriously Scary” choices on his way in tonight. Good shit.
Bear Flat was a hell of a little town.
As Sawyer patrolled the south alley, which ran parallel to Main Street, he checked each business. Robbers typically used back doors and were rarely as quiet as they’d hoped. He slowed to listen. A lone car drove down Main. A woman’s laughter came from an apartment over a business.
Country-western music drifted from the ClaimJumper as he went past.
Once he reached the end of this alley, he’d check the cross-alley and return to the tavern for his vehicle. Almost done, thank fuck. His boots felt as if they were loaded with lead and dragging in the dirt. He’d been up late every night, either observing the Aryan Hammers’ house or patrolling the town. By himself.
In the SEALs, someone had always had his six. In Bear Flat, he was on his own. If shit hit the fan, Atticus would try to help. Unfortunately, his brother was the law, and Sawyer’s tactics weren’t exactly legal. Might even be called something insulting like vigilantism.
But he wasn’t out for revenge or justice after the fact. He wanted to catch the bad guys in the act and leave them for the law—like a citizen’s arrest. If a few heads or bones got busted during said citizen’s arrest, well…oops.
Unfortunately, his plan had a few flaws—like he couldn’t stay awake every night. He had work to do on his property and a four-legged ball of energy to care for.
Yeah, he was tired.
And irritable, too. His night with Mallory over a week ago had created a craving for…for what?
He shook his head and checked another door.
For more than sex. Finding someone to fuck wasn’t difficult, but he wanted more than just sex. With Mallory, he’d found it—warmth, concern, friendship, affection.
Yeah, she was someone special. Last week, he’d hiked up to a remote mountain lake. The only sounds had been the slough of the wind in the pines. Lying on the sunny bank, he’d breathed in the clean air…and the peace.
Being in Mallory’s presence, he felt that same sense of tranquility.
Last week for the final days of remodeling, he’d kept their interactions short and impersonal. Staying businesslike hadn’t been easy when all he wanted to do was pull her up to his loft bedroom and take her. Slowly and thoroughly. And then sleep with her in his arms.
On Friday, he’d given her the final construction payment with his thanks.
Dammit, he missed her. Missed listening to her banter with her crew, teach the Booth brothers fine carpentry—something the young men could do during the winters—and play with Achilles.
It was good she was gone and the temptation was removed.
Speaking of temptation, get your head in the game, Ware.
Silently, Sawyer approached the T-intersection where this alley ran into another. From the shadows, he checked around the corner. Nothing in sight to the left or right. Straight ahead was the rear of the professional building that housed the local law and CPA firms, counseling offices, and realty office. He crossed to give the doors a quick check. All good.
A change in the light caught his attention.
Backlit by the streetlight on Main, two men moved into the alley.
Well, well, well.
All his muscles tensed. Knowing the men’s eyes required a few seconds to adjust to the lack of light, Sawyer crouched in the shadows behind a small dumpster.
One man was Sawyer’s height and moved like an athlete. Light glinted off his shaved scalp. The other was average height and weight with short, light-colored hair. They might be locals simply taking a short cut, but their wary bearing was suspicious.
Considering their coloring and build, he doubted t
As Average Man watched the alley with a black box in his hand, Skinhead was messing with the back door to the veterinary office—the same office where Achilles had received his shots not quite two weeks before.
Veterinarians performed surgery and would have narcotics on the premises. Sawyer frowned. He’d bet the black box was a wireless jammer. Although the medical clinic had an excellent security system, a veterinarian might not be as careful.
When Skinhead succeeded in opening the door, no alarm went off.
Sawyer sighed. Yep, it was a crap security system. Idiot veterinarian. The guy probably didn’t have a heavy-duty lockup for controlled substances, either.
The two burglars disappeared into the building without leaving a guard on the exit. Tension crept into Sawyer’s body. Here was a chance to get rid of a couple more Hammers.
And, as any operator knew, action always held the possibility things would go wrong. Someone might be killed. Adrenaline flowed into his veins, drying his mouth and increasing his heart rate.
After yanking on a black ski mask and black latex gloves, Sawyer stole down the alleyway and waited outside the back door. He wasn’t about to enter a building where a burglary was taking place. One prison tour was enough.
A while later—felt like the slow bastards had taken forever—the men walked out and past him before looking around. Definitely incompetent.
Sawyer reached out and slammed their heads together, clocked one in the face then the other. While they were still stunned, he got them zip tied, wrists and ankles, like rodeo calves. In the process, he thumped one asshole against the blacktop for moving too much and the other for cursing too loudly.
Now silent, they glared at him. What with his oversized hoodie and balaclava, he figured they wouldn’t see much. Without speaking, he tossed one gangbanger into the building, and heaved in the other.
Using one of his throwaway cell phones, he dialed the Bear Flat police station and secured his vocal changer’s padded cup over the phone mic. When the station answered, he spoke into the voice changer box. “Two men broke into the veterinary office on Gold Dust Avenue. They’re still inside. Better hurry.”
After removing the cup, he smashed the phone under his boot and tossed the pieces into the dumpster.
Catching a movement to the right, he spun.
A man stood in the entrance to the alley. He was about six-four and bulky with muscle. With the backlighting, Sawyer couldn’t make out his features. His scalp was shiny. Shaved. Probably the getaway driver wanted to see what was taking the others so long.
From the man’s size, Sawyer wondered if this was Animal, cousin of the convict Atticus had killed. He was one of the bastards who’d tried to kill Att with a tire iron.
Eyeing the distance to the Aryan Hammer’s head honcho, Sawyer gave a frustrated growl. He couldn’t catch the bastard before the cops arrived, and even if he could, the asshole hadn’t—technically—done anything.
The first notes of a police siren sounded out on Main.
The gangster jolted, backed out onto Main Street—and bumped into an elderly woman. Without a second thought, the bastard backhanded her and knocked her hard into the wall.
With a pained cry, she crumpled.
The Hammer took off running.
Goddamn bastard. Jesus, how bad was the old lady hurt?
Seething, Sawyer ran toward her—and skidded to a stop when a police car pulled up at the alley entrance.
As the cops jumped out, Sawyer dodged back into the alley behind the ClaimJumper. After ripping off his ski mask, gloves, and black sweatshirt, he bundled everything into a thin waterproof bag. At the bushes surrounding the ClaimJumper parking lot, he dropped the bag into the hole he’d dug there weeks ago. A swipe shoved the bark mulch in place.
In a white Guns N’ Roses T-shirt and jeans, he crossed the parking lot. Sticking to the shadows near the taller vehicles, he reached his pickup without being seen. He could feel his hands shake with his anger. Animal had hit the woman as if she were an annoying fly. Not giving a damn. Not caring she was a fragile, elderly lady.
Sawyer leaned on the hood of his truck and slowed his breathing. The cops would take care of the woman. There was nothing he could have done.
Guilt tangled up inside him anyway.
But dammit, he was doing everything he could to drive the Aryan Hammers out of Bear Flat, and his actions were having an effect. If the cops arrested the two Hammers tonight, the gang would be reduced to about four members. Surely they’d consider Bear Flat a losing proposition and return to Los Angeles. His mission was almost accomplished.
He shook his head, thinking of the old woman. God, don’t let anyone else get hurt.
After a minute, he realized he was swaying in time with the country music coming from the old brick tavern. With adrenaline still zinging through his veins, the happy hum of conversation and laughter drew him like iron to a magnet. Whether anyone would talk with an ex-con or not, at least he’d be around people.
He headed for the front door.
Inside, the noise and heat of the crowded room reminded him of the prison yard in deep summer. Seemed pretty appropriate to hear Johnny Cash singing “Folsom Prison Blues”.
Yeah, Johnny, I’d like to keep from being locked up again, too.
Even on a Wednesday night, the place was two-thirds full with loggers, ranchers, locals, and a scattering of tourists. As usual, as he crossed the room, he collected several unwelcoming stares.
Behind the bar, Gustaf saw him and picked up a glass. His bushy gray eyebrows lifted in inquiry as he touched the Budweiser tap.
Although the old Swede’s obsession with Johnny Cash was exasperating, he apparently also had a hell of memory.
“Thanks, no.” Alcohol and exhaustion—Sawyer fucking knew better. “How about a Coke?”
After paying for the soft drink, he turned to survey the room. Through the front window, colored strobe lights reflected off the stores across the street. The rest of the cavalry had arrived in the alley.
He hoped the police appreciated their zip-tied presents…and never figured out where they came from. His shoulders tensed. Att would be pissed off if he knew Sawyer was involved.
Too bad. Sawyer’d be pissed off if his brother got killed by the bastards.
Hell, they’d already busted Att’s ribs.
Damn, the Ware brothers were a mess. What with their asshole stepfather, rodeo events, and the military, he and Att’d accumulated enough damage to look like they’d rolled in barbed wire. Hector didn’t lag far behind.
Sawyer shook his head. It was a wonder Mallory hadn’t fled when she’d seen his scarred-up body. Nonetheless, although she didn’t like violence, she didn’t flee from it either. He smiled, thinking of how she’d wielded the broom without flinching.
In battles and at the construction site, the woman simply took on what was set in front of her—honestly, efficiently, and competently. Yet, she was so fucking serene. Her hands created beauty, not death. She filled her home with flowers, grew vegetables, and had puppy chow in case of strays.
In the sandbox, some soldiers frantically lived as if any second might be their last. Mallory also lived in the moment, but peacefully and with joy. He’d watched the delighted way she greeted…everything…from wayward puppies to an incoming storm. He’d never met anyone more present.
More loving.
Nonetheless, his feelings didn’t matter. Nothing had changed. He needed to stay away from her.
With a sigh, he drank his Coke, watched the patrol car lights’ reflections, and listened to the country-western music.
As exhaustion slowly replaced adrenaline, he knew he was done for the night. Achilles would be up early, raring to go.
Dammit, he couldn’t patrol the town every night, hoping to catch an Aryan Hammer up to no good. They were smart enough to vary their routines—or even stay in for a night.
Time to invest in some technology. He huffed a laugh, thinking of Bart Holder. The hardware store owner probably didn’t carry tracking devices.
It seemed like a trip to San Francisco would be in his near future. He smiled. Not a bad idea, actually. Achilles’d love a road trip, and the city would widen the pup’s horizons. Maybe Mallory would like to join them?
Dumbass. No, Ware.
A man entered the bar, looked around, and headed straight toward Sawyer.
Morgan Masterson. Not as massive as his cop brother, the leanly muscled wilderness guide was closer to Sawyer’s size, although cowboy boots and a black Stetson added inches. He had gray eyes in a weather-roughened face, and a full mustache down the sides of his mouth to his jawline. Might be in his early thirties. Age was tough to judge with outdoorsmen.
Masterson held out his hand. “Ware. I hoped you’d be here. Even swung by your spread on the way here.”
“Is there a problem? Fencing down somewhere?” The north fence ran between his property and Masterson’s—and was the one fence on his place in fair shape.
“Nah.” Handshaking over, Morgan grinned. “I saw the attack pup you got. Nice breed. You planning to run some cattle to keep him busy?”
“Maybe a few. Gotta say, getting a dog wasn’t in my plans. I found him under the porch.”
Morgan’s face darkened. “Puppies usually get eaten after getting dumped.”
“So Mallory said.” And it’d bothered Sawyer. Now…knowing Achilles…the thought fucking stabbed into his chest. “Only an asshole would abandon a puppy.”
“Watch it, Ware. Getting all soft will screw with your dangerous convict rep.”
Sawyer scowled at Morgan’s grin. “Did you have a reason to see me—or are you just here for general harassment?”
“I had a reason, even aside from thanking you for the street fight. Hell of a lot of fun.” Morgan leaned against the bar. “I’m looking for help. Your brother says you’re better with horses than he is—and he’s damn good.”
Sawyer considered. “I’d call it about even. Our kid brother is the best of us.”
“So I hear.” Obviously deliberating, Morgan stroked his mustache with his thumb and forefinger. “I’ve got a problem. I’m taking some fishermen into the backcountry for a week, starting Monday. My brother’s off volunteering his ass in Africa. Kallie’s going on vacation with her husband. Normally, Virgil would pitch in to tend the stock, but the police department is bogged down with the crap going on in town.”