I smiled and met his eyes. “We can’t build an army without weapons and equipment. It’s a good plan.”
My real mission—taking Valhalla back from the brigade—took on a new urgency. I’d planned to analyze the situation and strike at the most advantageous moment. Now, with a ticking clock hanging over my head, I’d have to hasten the operation.
Time to bring Bear into the loop.
Dwight and Darryl staggered onto the porch clutching cups of coffee. “Libby said breakfast will be ready in five minutes,” Darryl said, yawning.
“We’ll talk tonight after dinner,” Boyd told me.
“Looking forward to it.”
Tuck joined us at the table in time to help himself to scrambled eggs and toast. After breakfast, Tuck released Bear from confinement, and Dwight and Darryl escorted him outside. Under the pretext of learning how the ranch operated, I tagged along.
Bear’s eyes narrowed when he spied me. I could almost see the cogs turning in his head. Another enemy to deal with when he made his move, and if he was half the man Kyle said he was, he was definitely planning to make a move. The odds, already against him, just took a turn for the worse.
He shuffled across the yard toward the largest barn, hands still cuffed and a chain dragging between his feet. Dwight and Darryl trailed behind, shotguns at the ready. If I was to get the chance to speak privately with Bear, even for a few seconds, I was going to have to act like a real asshole.
“Hey, cowboy,” I called. Bear paused, then turned to face me. I grinned at Darryl—like we were buddies sharing a joke—and stepped close to Bear, getting right in his face.
“In my experience, only little girls love horsies. Real men want something more powerful between their legs. You ever ride a Harley, or for that matter, a woman? One you didn’t have to pay for, I mean?”
Without warning, without a blink or twitch to signal his intent, Bear headbutted me. With his wrists and ankles shackled, the man was at a definite disadvantage, but he didn’t hesitate. I twisted my head just in time to avoid a broken nose, but the force of the blow split the skin over my cheekbone.
Fuuuck. That hurt. Smiling, I wiped the blood away with the back of my hand. I liked the cowboy. If we both survived the battle with the brigade, Bear and I might just end up friends.
I tackled him to the ground. All things equal, we would’ve grappled for dominance, and the powerfully built cowboy might’ve given me a run for my money. Hampered by the chains, he didn’t stand a chance. I grabbed him from behind and clamped my arm around his neck, overpowering him with a headlock.
“Give it up,” I shouted. I lowered my mouth to his ear. “Kyle sent me,” I hissed. “Kyle, the hitchhiker.”
Bear’s struggling ceased. I released his neck, and he slumped forward, gasping for breath.
I shoved him onto his side. “Try anything like that again, and I will finish you,” I snarled.
“You might want to think twice about killing the cowboy,” Dwight said. “Unless you want to shovel shit and do all the other crap jobs he does.”
I snorted, then rose to my feet. “If I have to kill him, it ain’t gonna be me shoveling shit.” I swung my eyes toward the brothers. “You feel me, Darryl?”
Darryl frowned. “You’re new. You aren’t blood. You aren’t a Wilcox. The low man on the totem pole doesn’t get to call the shots.”
I frowned, not because Darryl scored any points in his rebuttal, but because the dickhead’s language was all kinds of wrong, and he probably didn’t realize it. Not that he’d care. Shit. He’d be proud to give offense. I said “low man on the totem pole” once in front of my buddy Henry, and he sat me down and talked about so-called innocent phrases that disrespect indigenous culture. I swore to do better, yet here I was, a card-carrying member of a white supremacist brigade. Mac said we were on the side of the angels. Maybe, but this charade was going to leave a bad taste in my mouth for a long time.
“Ripper! Ripper!” Libby’s voice rang out. “Come quick. Mac needs you.”
Something was wrong with Mac?
I sprinted toward the house.
THIRTY-SIX
Kenzie
A gentle rapping on the door woke me from my slumber. Eyes closed, smiling to myself, I stretched and rolled onto my stomach, burrowing into the sheets. Big mistake. My eyes flew open as I turned onto my back and gently touched my stomach. A fine tracery of lines—pink, puffy welts—crisscrossed my belly and breasts.
“Holy shit,” I mouthed, remembering the night before.
Had I ever been more turned on than when Ripper knelt over me, his eyes glittering, his knife clenched in his hand? I absolutely trusted the man, had one hundred percent confidence in his promise never to do me harm. Still, primitive terror had sparked in my hindbrain at the sight of the blade, at the knowledge that he would ply his skills on my not-unwilling flesh. Terror had fused with curiosity and an arousal so all consuming that I shivered and nearly came the moment the knife touched my skin.
Damn. It had been intense. With my fingertip I traced a stripe that started at my collarbone, curved over my left breast, traversed my belly before ending at my hip.
It hadn’t hurt when he cut me, not really, but when he had finished, tears seeped out of the corners of my eyes and pooled on my pillow. Erotic pleasure dulls pain. I felt little more than a tantalizing sting when the blade swept over my body. I hadn’t cried because it hurt. No. My tears sprang from a tumultuous maelstrom of emotion and sensation. Fear, lust, and trust inundated my senses, creating a connection as intimate as sex.
Someone knocked on the door again, the sound louder and more insistent. I sat up, clutching the sheet over my chest. I cleared my throat. “Come in.”
Libby stuck her head in the door. “Ripper said to let you sleep in. He said you guys had quite a night, but it’s getting late. I could use your help cleaning up after breakfast, then I want to show you the chicken coop and garden.”
“I’ll be right there.” I swung my legs out of bed, and my gaze fell on the still-angry-looking burn on my left calf. Staring at the red blotch, I had an idea.
Sahdev. I had to find a way to see Sahdev again.
Last night, Tuck had escorted Libby and me while we fed their prisoners. He’d pulled a key out of the front left pocket of his jeans to unlock their doors. I followed Libby into a back room and found Sahdev sitting on a bed. He looked tired, but otherwise in good shape—thank God—sporting no bruises or other signs of abuse. Leg irons shackled his ankles together with just enough slack between the cuffs to allow him to walk. Well, more likely to shuffle, but definitely not enough to let him run. His wrists were cuffed together, too. A ten-foot chain linked a leg cuff to a heavy eyebolt screwed into a wall stud, allowing him just enough mobility to use the bucket in the corner of the room.
He had raised his brows when he saw me, and I frowned, warning him to give no sign that he recognized me. Libby offered him a paper plate full of spaghetti that she’d scraped off the dinner plates. No cutlery, apparently he was expected to eat with his hands. I handed him a bottle of water. We left the room without speaking to him.
We repeated the process in the room across the hall. Bear didn’t know me, and at first the blond cowboy shot me the same hostile glower that he gave Libby and Tuck. God. As far as he was concerned, I was a Nazi sympathizer. I fought the impulse to speak up, to disassociate myself from them and squirmed under the judgment I saw in his eyes. Things got weird after I’d introduced myself and he smiled at me. What was up with that?