Master of Solitude (Mountain Masters & Dark Haven Book 8) Read online

  The man spun around. “We’re just talking. Beat it, bitch.” When he straightened, and his hand covered Zoe’s mouth, Mallory realized how big he was.

  Don’t be stupid. Mallory skidded to a stop, yanked out her phone so fast she almost dropped it, and punched in 911.

  “911. What is your emergency?”

  Mallory raised her voice. “A girl is being attacked up on Kestrel Mountain Road, the turnout on the north side. Before Whiskey Creek Lane. Hurry!” Leaving the phone on, she shoved it into her jeans as the operator continued to talk. Mallory took a firmer grip on her flashlight.

  “You fucking bitch.” The man turned toward Mallory, his hand closing into a fist.

  Yanking her arm from his hold, Zoe lurched into a run toward Mallory. Blood streamed down her chin from a split lip.

  The thug chased after the girl.

  Hiss and spit, why didn’t he leave? “Get behind me, hon.”

  Running past Mallory, Zoe tripped and fell to her knees.

  The attacker was far too close; escape wasn’t possible.

  The flashlight seemed woefully inadequate for self-defense. With her free hand, Mallory snatched up a dead branch. Heart hammering, she took a step forward, planting herself squarely in front of Zoe. Her mouth felt too dry as she faced the man, and her voice creaked. “You’d better leave before the cops get here.”

  “You dumb bitch. Shouldn’t have butted in.” The last of the light glinted off his piercings, and an ugly sneer pulled his thick lips back. He kept coming.

  Mallory gritted her teeth and set her stance. The Mastersons had taught her self-defense…years and years ago.

  Why did this guy have to be so big?

  He swung at her.

  Ducking low, she smacked the long flashlight into his side so hard her hand went numb. As he shouted in pain, she poked him in the stomach with the branch.

  It broke in two. Stupid branch. She dropped it and back-pedaled.

  “Fucking cunt.” He kept coming, swinging at her like an enraged grizzly.

  Although she dodged one swing, the other slammed into her shoulder like a wrecking ball. Knocked onto the ground, she rolled and scrambled up—and threw a handful of dirt and gravel into his face.

  As he scrubbed his hands over his eyes, Mallory danced away, looking for Zoe.

  The girl had wormed her way under Mallory’s pickup. Good. With the cops coming, that was the safest place for her.

  Mallory’d have to keep the man away from Zoe until help arrived. Oh, sure. Fear had her breathing far too fast. She backed up farther and tightened her grip on the heavy metal flashlight.

  Tears streamed from the man’s reddened eyes as he blinked furiously. “Fucking, fucking bitch. I’m going to rip you to pieces.” His aura was black with his rage.

  He rushed her and swung one fist.

  Mallory jumped to one side, whacked his forearm hard with the flashlight, and darted away.

  Lunging, he snagged her loose work shirt and yanked her toward him.

  Bending forward against his pull, she kicked backward. Her boot smashed into his shin.

  “Shit!” He lost his grip on her shirt.

  Off balance, she fell forward, clambered back to her feet. Even as she turned, he charged her.

  And a big muscular stranger sprang from behind the car. He grabbed the thug’s arm and used the momentum to slam the bastard against Zoe’s battered Ford. The car toppled off the jack and bounced on creaking springs.

  Heart hammering, Mallory retreated.

  With a yell of pain, the thug whirled to face the other man. “I’ll gut you, asshole.” Pulling a switchblade, the brute attacked.

  Mallory bit back a scream.

  The rescuer dodged to the side and landed a solid punch to the thug’s ribs.

  “Fuck!” The thug backed away, then moved forward more cautiously. His blade weaved a defensive net, stabbing here and there, at the rescuer…who was weaponless.

  Oh, no. Horrorstruck, Mallory searched for a weapon—and spotted Zoe’s flat tire. The tire was heavy in her hands as she picked it up. Summoning up strength, she heaved it at the thug with all her might.

  The solid tire hit his ass, knocked him forward—and right into the rescuer’s big fist. With a terrible groan, the thug staggered back.

  Following through, the good guy flattened him with the next punch.

  Zoe’s attacker landed on his back.

  Mallory’s trembling legs threatened to drop her to the ground beside him. Leaning against the truck, she stared at the unmoving attacker.

  He was out cold.

  Okay. As she tried to catch her breath, she glanced at the victor…and blinked.

  His aura…oh, she’d never seen anything more lovely. In predominance was the clear, deep red of strength and determination. Grounded in reality, this man could take anything and survive. Green was his secondary color—he was probably a hard-working perfectionist. An outdoorsman. Generous. Loyal. Streaks of brilliant darkness spoke of pain, both physical and emotional—and called to her.

  He noticed her watching and moved forward.

  One hand on the truck, Mallory pushed herself upright. “Thank you so much.”

  “No problem.” The way his black T-shirt stretched over his heavily muscled shoulders and chest distracted her for a moment before she noticed how he’d braced his hand against his side.

  She didn’t remember him getting hit or cut. “Have you been hu—”

  Looking down at her, he frowned. “Are you all right, miss?” His hand curled around her upper arm, and his grip was powerful. Careful.

  “I—” She realized she was trembling like an aspen during a high wind. She tried to straighten her spine…yet the unexpected sensation of being cared for and protected made her want to bury her head in his shoulder.

  His brown hair was cut very short, and his face was all hard angles. “Miss?” In the shadowy light, his eyes were a dark, dark blue. His gaze appraised her, up and down, before returning to her face. “Are you hurt?”

  Considering his size and the rugged lines of his face, she’d expected a deep, harsh voice. Instead, his voice was a smooth, dark velvet, reminding her of the guy in Die Hard.

  The hero in Die Hard.

  She had a hero here.

  And he was waiting for her answer…

  “I’m fine. Thanks to you.” She patted his hand and pulled free. Ignoring the quivering of her legs, Mallory went down on one knee and looked under the truck. “Zoe.”

  The girl was curled into a ball in the gravel, shaking and crying.

  The attacker was still out cold, or Mallory might’ve kicked him a few times. Despite the fury raging inside, she gentled her voice. “Let’s get you out of there, honey.”

  Once she’d managed to coax Zoe from under the truck, Mallory pulled the trembling girl close…and watched two police cars come wailing around the bend.

  The first patrol officer out of the black-and-white spotted her. “Mallory! What’s going on? Are you hurt?”

  “No, I’m fine.” She gave the girl a squeeze. “I think Zoe could use a ride home, though…after you remove the garbage lying there.”

  To her delight, Zoe managed a tiny sputter of a laugh.

  Sawyer rubbed his bruised knuckles as he talked with the police officer. Ex-cons weren’t always given the benefit of the doubt, but the young cop had recognized him—because of Atticus—and listened rather than automatically clapping on the cuffs.

  Another officer had taken the two females to one side—because the terrified kid wasn’t about to be separated from the woman—and apparently the females had confirmed his account.

  The asshole assailant sealed his fate by cursing the cops and resisting arrest.

  Although Sawyer’s side throbbed from the action, he enjoyed when the bastard got cuffed and tossed into the patrol car. A fine finish. He didn’t want to think of what would have happened if he hadn’t driven by just then on his way to Atticus’s house. Still…all g
ood. The kid’s only injury had been a slap and a huge fright. The woman would have some bruises but nothing more.

  Full dark had fallen before one patrol car took the asshole away and another left to drive the girl to her parents. Sawyer let out a relieved sigh and climbed into his pickup. Amazing how quiet the night was without everyone around.

  As he started the ignition, his headlights spotlighted the other vehicle parked at the end of the turnout. Melissa—no, the cop had called her Mallory—sat unmoving on the tailgate of her pickup.

  Well, hell. Sawyer turned the key, got out, and walked over. “You okay?”

  “Mmmhmm.” Her gaze came up. “Did I thank you?”

  “Several times.” He frowned.

  She’d wrapped her arms around her waist and was shaking hard enough to bust bones. Not surprising. Most civilians weren’t used to violence. The young woman had fought well and afterward had kept herself together to comfort the girl. Now, everything had caught up with her.

  Although she’d insisted she was fine, the cops should have made sure she was taken care of—but they were young, and what with tourist season and Saturday night, short-handed. “You got someone at home who could pick you up?”

  “No. No one.” Her big eyes darkened in a way that tugged at him.

  “I’m sorry.” Needing to extend comfort, Sawyer rested his hand on her shoulder—and realized he was far too close. She was female, and smart women ran from ex-convicts.

  “How about I call someone else?” he asked. Let go of her, fool.

  “No, thank you. I’m fine. I just need a moment to pull myself together.” Her attempt at a smile was heartbreaking.

  “All right, you take the time you need.” Trouble was, the night was dark, and she was sitting on the side of the road. He’d be damned if he’d leave her here alone. “I’ll wait with you.”

  She smiled at him. “Thank you. And thank you for the rescue. You were right in time.”

  The thought of her being hurt by the bastard was unsettling.

  And he wanted to kiss her more than he wanted his next breath.

  No. Just no. Come on, Ware.

  But…damn…

  She wasn’t what some idiots would call classically beautiful; her face was lean and tanned, her mouth wide, her chin firm. This was a strong woman. Yet her big green eyes held vulnerability. The mixture was incredibly appealing.

  He’d overheard the teen tell the cop how Mallory’d taken on the assailant to protect her. This woman was totally, crazily brave, and he was a sucker for courage. Not that he’d do anything about it. Nice girls and ex-cons didn’t belong together.

  Unable to help himself, he ran a finger down her cheek, finding her skin as soft as it looked, then brushed a strand of her long, sun-streaked, dark brown hair back. The surprise showed in her eyes. Yeah, he shouldn’t have touched her. In fact, he braced himself, waiting to see her flinch away.

  She didn’t. Instead, her gaze dropped, and she bit her lip. And then shook her head. “I need to go home.” Yeah, she did. Unfortunately, from the way her hands were shaking, she might not get there.

  “I’m not sure you’re up to driving.”

  With a rueful smile, she turned her hands over and watched them shake. “It’s a good thing I live close.”

  No shit. Idiot cops to leave her here. “I’m going to follow you home and make sure you get there. You can call the police station and let them know, if you want.”

  She laughed, actually laughed. Her voice was crystal clear and fucking beautiful. “If you don’t mind, I’d appreciate an escort. Thank you again.”

  A few minutes later, following the red taillights of her pickup, Sawyer was startled to see her turn onto Whiskey Creek Lane—the gravel road his brother lived on. She drove past Atticus’s acres to the end of the lane and turned into a private drive, which curved upward toward an older farmhouse.

  When Sawyer stepped out of his pickup, he took a long breath of pine-scented air and looked out over the land. He’d seen it from Atticus’s house, but it was even more stunning from this higher vantage point. Forested mountains encircled the wide valley. Moonlight bathed the creek-fed meadow and fenced pastureland.

  Mallory stopped at the foot of the steps, her hand gripping the railing. Maybe unsure her legs would hold her.

  No porch light. The house was dark. Not a comforting place after the violence she’d endured. Frowning, he walked over and put a hand under her arm. “Let’s get you inside and put some lights on.”

  She let out a soft sigh. “Thank you.”

  He helped her up the steps, unlocked the front door for her, and flipped on the hallway lights.

  She stepped inside and hesitated. “Um. Would you…would you like to come in for a drink?”

  “Seriously?” In his far-too-extensive past, “come in for a drink” was usually code for “wanna have sex?” He shook his head. “Not a good idea. I don’t think you realize who or what you’re asking in, Mallory.”

  “I do. I know exactly what you are. You’re a…” In the light from the hallway, he could see her face darken with her flush. She bit her lip, obviously unwilling to say the word.

  Yeah, well, he knew the word. Ex-con. Fucking great. Another woman who got off on violence. This shit was getting old. In the Navy, he’d enjoyed the tag chasers who wanted to score with a uniform. At least, at first. After all, young men lived for sex. Then, he’d realized he wanted more than meaningless sex—and as a SEAL, he’d avoided the frog hogs who had competitions for the numbers of SEALs they’d fucked.

  Now, he was getting hit on by women excited he’d served time. Last week, one had actually hoped he was a murderer. Earlier today, the local named Candy had flirted with him—again—and begged for stories about prison fights.

  What with prison and surgery, he’d been celibate for a long while, although he’d been getting offers since the day he walked out of the hospital. He’d turned them all down. “I don’t think a drink’d be a good idea.”

  She drew back. “Of course. You have things to do.”

  Although her expression hadn’t changed, he could hear the disappointment—and hurt—in her voice.

  He hesitated. Maybe she had poor taste in her fuck-buddies, but he had to respect her courage. She’d come to a girl’s rescue when almost anyone else would have run away. Then she’d cared for the teen with not only common sense, but enough warmth to melt the hardest heart.

  Hurting this woman didn’t set right with him. Not at all.

  Besides, maybe she only wanted to give him a drink. Have some conversation. He’d enjoy talking to her. Simply being with her made him realize how lonely he’d been.

  He took her hand and ignored the way he wanted to pull her into his arms. “On second thought, I could use a drink.”

  The man’s hand was warm and strong, and Mallory could feel courage flowing into her from him. With a big breath, she led him into her empty, lonely house. Oh, boy, could she do this?

  Becca’s advice kept running through her head, but seriously? Going to bed with a man she’d barely met wasn’t the kind of person she was.

  Still… If he hadn’t rescued her, she could have died tonight. The realization shook her…wakened her…simmered like a fire in her veins. Each moment was to be lived. This life was to be lived, and if she had second thoughts tomorrow, at least she wouldn’t look back and wonder what she’d missed. Wonder what making love with this brave man would be like.

  Not just because he’d saved her, but because he was who he was. She looked at her rescuer and…oh, she’d never felt this way about anyone. His aura was like a bonfire, radiating warmth she wanted to nestle against, to wrap around herself. She cleared her throat. “Do you like scotch?”

  “How could anyone turn down scotch?”

  “Oh, good.” Wasn’t it wonderful she had something he’d like? Every Christmas, one of Gramps’s friends had gifted him with Glenfiddich. Gramps had stored the bottles away, admitting that without Gramma, drinking
made him melancholy.

  Mallory pulled out a bottle and glasses, then frowned and turned the kitchen lights to low, before pouring two hefty drinks.

  When he lifted an eyebrow, she checked the glasses and remembered she hadn’t been pouring wine. This was hard alcohol, and she’d probably dispensed about two shots apiece.

  Oh well…

  She handed him one and raised hers. “To life.”

  He tilted his head. “Good choice.” He clinked his glass against hers and took a drink.

  Although she rarely overindulged, right now, she needed what Gramps had called liquid courage. Because she’d used up all her bravery in the fight. So rather than sipping, she tipped her head back and drank the scotch down.

  An explosion of fire burst in her belly and seared her throat.

  “Boy, scotch sure isn’t wine,” she wheezed.

  His laugh lightened his aura and made her smile.

  Pulling in a breath, she leaned against the counter. “You were holding your side earlier. Did the thug get in a punch I didn’t see?”

  A corner of his mouth tilted up. “You were terrified and still noticing everything, weren’t you?” When she nodded, his chuckle was warmly masculine. “I had surgery about six weeks ago. All healed up, although I still feel it if I exert myself.”

  “You just had surgery and jumped into a fight?”

  He shrugged.

  Why did he have to be so…amazing?

  And why couldn’t she think of any brilliant conversational subjects? He wasn’t that intimidating…quite. They were about the same age, right? She studied him more closely. Laugh lines at the edges of his eyes, deeper creases bracketing his mouth. Well, he might have a few years on her. He not only sounded but kind of looked like the star of Die Hard.

  But with better hair.

  The giggle she tried to smother almost choked her.

  Sun and stars, she was getting stupid. She started to push her glass away, saw how her hands still shook…and filled it instead.

  Watching her, not appearing at all uncomfortable, the man took another sip. “You’ve got some nice land across the lane. You run cattle on it?”

  “It’s not my land. A few years ago, my grandfather split the property, keeping this farmhouse and a few acres on this side of the road. A big shot CEO bought the pastures and the original log cabin on the other side.”