Deacon. It was crazy, but in just over a year that boy had gone from being a beanpole with hair to a big, bossy, thought-he-knew-everything man.
“You two should be home,” he said. “Weather’s getting testy.”
“We like testy weather,” Mac piped up beside me, then tossed me a grin. Nothing Mac liked better than to make my brothers bristle.
Deacon’s mouth thinned and he turned Friction in a circle. “Your party’s been moved indoors, Cass, and while I’m sure Mackenzie here’ll be just fine in ripped jeans and dusty boots, Mom’s expecting you to clean up.”
“I’m fine, too,” I said, raising my chin like I’d seen Mac do a hundred times.
“No. You smell like manure.”
“How would you know? You can’t smell me from there.”
His eyes narrowed. “Because you and Mac always smell like manure.”
“They say shit’s good for the soul,” Mac called out, kicking up one foot and splashing me with cold water. “And for the skin.”
He eyed Mac sternly. “That’s enough out of you, Mackenzie Byrd.”
Mac just chuckled and continued to splash. “It’ll never be enough, Deacon Cavanaugh.”
Once again, he circled his horse at the top of the ridge. “I don’t like you hanging around my little sister. Cussing and stealing horses. You’re a bad influence.”
“And you’re a mama’s boy, riding all the way out here to fetch us,” she called back.
His face went red and he slid his aggravated gaze back to me. “I want you back at the house in twenty minutes, Cass.”
“Takes that long to ride,” I whined.
“Exactly.”
He turned, then gave Friction a hearty “Yup,” and took off at a gallop. Grumbling, I scrambled to my feet and made my way over to Mrs. Lincoln.
“Being the only girl sucks,” I mumbled, slipping the bridle from the tree.
Mac came up beside me, boots on over her wet feet, and gave me a leg up onto the mare’s back. “Good thing you have me,” she said, leaping up to sit in front of me.
I laughed, “You know it,” and wrapped my arms around her waist. “Deacon’s so damn bossy.”
Mac shrugged as we climbed the gentle incline. “He’s the oldest. Comes with the territory, I guess.”
“I know. I just wish he’d ease up a little. Maybe I should find him a girlfriend.”
Deacon had been right about the weather changing. Gray clouds sailed across the sky and the wind was kicking up good.
“Does he go out with anyone?” Mac asked as she gave the mare a gentle kick, setting her into a slow canter.
“Shoot if I know. He doesn’t tell me nothing. But we sure get a lot of calls after six o’clock at night.”
“Well, they can have him for now, I suppose,” Mac said, leaning into the wind. “But come my eighteenth birthday, that boy’s mine.”
“What?” The word fairly croaked out of my mouth. I was sure I hadn’t heard her right. “What are you talking about, Mac?”
“The guy I plan to marry someday?” Mac said with a grin in her voice. “It’s bossy, overbearing, know-it-all Deacon Cavanaugh.”
Shock barreled through me as I turned her words, her declaration, over in mind. But by the time my tongue felt brave enough to work, the gunmetal clouds overhead opened up and cried something vicious, and Mac urged Mrs. Lincoln into a run.
1
2014
The glass doors slid open and Deacon Cavanaugh walked out onto the roof of his thirty-story office building. Sunlight blazed down, mingling with the saunalike air to form a potent cocktail of sweat and irritation. The heat of a Texas summer seemed to hit the moment the sky faded from black to gray, and by seven a.m., it was a living thing. A perfect irony for the day ahead.
“I’ve rescheduled your meetings for the rest of the week, sir.”
Falling into step beside him, his executive assistant, Sheridan O’Neil, handed off his briefcase, iPad, and business smartphone to the helicopter pilot.
“Good,” Deacon told her, heading for the blue chopper, the platinum
“I have no confirmation at this time,” she said.
Which was code for
Deacon stopped and turned to regard her. Petite, dressed impeccably, sleek black hair pulled back in a perfect bun to reveal a stunningly pretty face, Sheridan O’Neil made many of the males in his office forget their names when she walked by. But it was her brains, her guts, her instincts, and her refusal to take any shit that made Deacon respect her. In fact, it had made him hire her right out of graduate school. When he’d interviewed her, the ink on her diploma had barely dried. But despite her inexperience, her unabashed confidence in proclaiming that she wanted to be him in ten years hit his gut with a
“What’s the problem, Sheridan?” he asked her.
She released a breath. “I attempted to move Mr. Breyer to next week, but he refused. As you requested, I told no one where you’re going or why.” Her steely gray gaze grew thoughtful. “Sir, if you would just let me explain to the clients—”
“No.”
“Sir.”
Deacon’s voice turned to ice. “I’ll be back on Friday by five, Sheridan.”
She nodded. “Of course, sir.”
She followed him toward the waiting chopper. “Should I ask Miss Monroe if she’s free to accompany you on Friday?”
Only the mildest strain of interest moved through him at the mention of Pamela Monroe. Dallas’s hottest fashion designer had been his go-to for functions lately. She was beautiful, cultured, and uncomplicated. But lately, he’d been starting to question her loyalty as certain members of the press had begun showing up whenever they went out.
“Not yet,” he said.
“Mr. Breyer is bringing his . . . date—” Sheridan stumbled. “And he’s more comfortable when you bring one as well.”
A slash of a grin hit Deacon’s mouth. “What did you wish to call the woman, Sheridan?”
“His daughter, sir.”
Deacon chuckled. His assistant could always be counted on for the truth. “I’ll let you know in the next few days if I require Pamela.”
He stepped into the chopper and nodded at the company’s pilot. “I’m taking her, Rush. Bell’s been instructed to deliver another if you need it.”
The pilot gave him a quick salute. “Very good, sir.”
“Mr. Cavanaugh?”
Deacon turned and lifted an eyebrow at his assistant, who was now just outside the chopper’s door. “What is it, Sheridan?”
Her normally severe gaze softened imperceptibly. “I’m sorry about your father.”
“Thank you.”
