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Every muscle in Kane’s body was suddenly tight as a bowstring. What did he care? Claire Holland could marry anyone she damn well pleased. She was a snooty rich girl with an attitude, and his feelings for her were just plain stupid—a schoolboy crush that he’d nurtured over the years. Yet he couldn’t just roll over and play dead, not when he felt as he did. It had been nearly two weeks since he’d last seen her, and soon he and Uncle Sam had a date. Time was running out.
Kane tipped his bottle back, drained it, and let it drop to the ground. Then he hoisted his own .22 and took careful aim. He squeezed the trigger and missed. Jack let out a whoop reminiscent of Indians in old black-and-white movies. “Pathetic white man,” he taunted. It was their running joke.
“Yeah, well let’s see how you do with a bow and arrow.”
“A damned sight better than you.” He checked his watch and swore. “Son of a bitch. Son of a goddamned bitch.” Then he grinned. “Late for work again.”
“You shouldn’t have lost track of time.”
“How would you like working for Weston Taggert?” Jack’s lips curled into a snarl and hate tightened the skin over the planes of his face.
“I wouldn’t.”
“Neither do I. Already had a fight with my ma about it, just this morning. Told her I was gonna quit, and she said I’d never get another job around these parts. Made her late for work. Boy, was she pissed!” He tossed a hank of jet black hair off his face and a sly expression crossed the bladed features of his face. “You know what needs to happen to Weston Taggert?”
“I can think of a lot of things.”
“Someone needs to sneak into his room at night and scare the living shit out of him by taking off some of his scalp—at least his hair. Just for fun.” He aimed quickly and got off three shots. Two cans danced, and a bottle shattered.
“Dead eye,” Kane remarked, looking at Jack’s handiwork. Three broken bottles and umpteen cans littered the ground by the target.
“I just wish I was aiming at Taggert’s ugly head.”
You’re not the only one, Kane thought as he steadied himself and sighted the last bottle, but didn’t squeeze the trigger. “Be careful what you say around these parts.”
“Yeah, it could get back to him, through my sister.” Jack saw a hawk circling and aimed straight up, as if he intended to blow the bird out of the sky. “Why she wants to be that bastard’s whore is beyond me.” Blade-thin, Jack’s mouth was suddenly cruel. “He’s just using her.”
“He uses everyone.”
“Maybe I should start screwing his little sister and see how he likes it.”
“She’s just a kid. And a funny one at that. An oddball.” In Kane’s estimation Paige Taggert wasn’t playing with a full deck, but then what did he know, he was just poor white trash. Poor white trash with a crush on one of the local princesses. If he had a lick of sense he’d blow town now, insist on joining up this week instead of waiting . . . for what? He squinted up at the threatening sky and felt the same premonition of evil that he had for the better part of a week.
r /> Jack was still ranting. “Yeah, well Crystal’s just a kid, too, but she’ll lie on her back for that lowlife son of a bitch and turn a blind eye when he screws around on her.”
“She’ll wise up.”
“Or get knocked up,” Jack growled, as Kane took another shot at the last bottle and it remained standing, taunting him.
“You’d better give this up,” Jack said, swinging his rifle around and snapping off a shot. Glass shattered and sprayed. “You’re just no damned good at it.” Slinging his rifle over his back, he started off at a trot through the fields. “See ya later. Maybe if I’m lucky, I’ll get fired.”
“You’re not marrying anyone, especially a Taggert, and that’s final,” Dutch said at the dinner table, his lips barely moving, his rage pulsing in an irritated throb under his jaw. “Hell, I’m only out of town two nights and what happens? You”—he swung cold blue eyes on his youngest daughter—“are seen drinking, drinking, mind you, when you’re six years underage, at the resort, my resort, and then spotted later with Weston Taggert, and you”—his attention landed with full hostile force upon Claire again—“are stupid enough to plan to marry the Milquetoast of that damned family.” He shoved his plate away from him in a fit of fury. Juice from his slab of baron of beef splattered over the linen tablecloth as he reached into his inside jacket pocket for a cigar.
“For the love of God, Benedict, control yourself.” Dominique’s face was taut and white, her mouth puckered in disgust. “At least the Taggert boys have some respectability.”
“You mean money,” Tessa corrected, and Miranda wished her youngest sister would just shut up. When their father was in this kind of mood, there wasn’t any talking to him.
“There isn’t a respectable bone in the whole stinking family.” Dutch was on his feet, jamming the cigar between his teeth. “I knew this would happen, you know,” he said to his wife as his hand rested on the handle of the French doors. His cigar wagged in his mouth. “Didn’t I tell you? When each of them was born. Trouble.”
“You wanted sons,” Dominique said, defeat and disappointment edging her words.
Claire bit her lower lip, Tessa rolled her eyes, and Miranda, who had heard this argument before, felt a headache beginning to build at the base of her skull.
“You bet I wanted sons. Big, strapping boys who would inherit everything I’ve worked for. I came from a family of men, Dominique.”
“This isn’t about her,” Tessa cut in.
“Sure it is. It’s about all of you. I feel like a fish out of water in my own damned home. Girls! I’ve been threatening to send you to boarding schools. Hell, your mother here would love it if you would study in Switzerland or goddamned France and, believe me, I’ll send all three of you abroad if there’s any more talk about marrying a Taggert.”
