Bounty (Colorado Mountain #7) Read online

Inside, there were two-by-fours delineating rooms and cabinet-shaped, movers’-blanket-wrapped bundles sitting around the space, a kitchen waiting to be unearthed and constructed. There were also open steel boxes set high and low to the two-by-four-walls with wires poking out. Piles of what looked like hardwood floors waiting to be put in. Stacks of sheets of drywall waiting to be installed. More bags and boxes of this, that and the other, possibly powdered grout, tile, light switches (who knew?) to be unearthed and utilized.

  That was it.

  It needed walls. Flooring. Stairs to the upper level (even if the two sides of the levels already had a bridge that spanned the middle space to get from one side to the other, that bridge and the landings around it had makeshift railings).

  Turning my head slowly from side to side, I could see copper pipes which meant at least the bones of some of the plumbing had been laid.

  But there was nothing else. Except for a hallway that led off to the left where the garage was and where I was suspecting the completed master was, it was a shell.

  I moved deeper into the space from where I stood at the front door, doing this cautiously, feeling my way with my feet as my attention moved from what was around me to what was beyond me.

  “When done, there’ll be this great room, complete with kitchen, of course,” the agent persevered. “A study at the front of the house. Dining room at the back, off the kitchen, with semi-panoramic views. A playroom or informal family room between study and dining room. A guest suite with sitting room and its own full bath upstairs to the left. Two bedrooms with Jack-and-Jill upstairs to the right. There’s the balcony off to that side. A covered deck blocked out to go in along the back, the roof over it already complete. A private deck off the master that’s also already complete. A very big utility room with five plus cubic foot front-load appliances ready to be installed, big sink, storage, drying racks. This space we’re in is designed to be warm and cozy but as you saw in the specs, the house is actually over three thousand square feet with four bedrooms and three and a half baths.”

  As she droned on, I kept moving, drawn to the huge windows opposite that went from counter height two stories up (and then some) to reach the peak that ran down the center of the house.

  I stopped at the windows and looked out.

  As the agent said, poles embedded in the dirt that blocked out a deck, a roof over it, the columns holding it up beautifully laid with stone, but no deck.

  Then there were trees, more trees, and some more trees.

  Last, not far from the house, down a rather steep slope the deck would jut over, there was a small river gushing along smooth gray rock.

  “The couple who had this place designed and started the build had a, well…uh, we’ll call it a marital meltdown,” the agent carried on. “But the contractor who began the job for them is willing to finish it. In fact, he’s eager to see the job done, and not because he needs the business. Holden Maxwell is a busy man in these parts. Just that he, like I, think once this is done, it’s going to be incredible. A quiet, forest oasis. Hidden away. Private. A masterpiece, really. And if you want more space, stables, other outbuildings, Max, that’s what Holden is known as, can surely accommodate you.”

  “Please, no offense,” I said softly, “but can you be quiet a second?”

  She did as I asked.

  I stared at the view.

  Nothing but trees, dirt, leaves and water.

  No other houses. No other sounds. No cars. No roads.

  Nothing.

  Nothing but quiet nature as far as I could see, which wasn’t far as the cool shade of the green trees swallowed up any space, even most of the sky, making me feel, as I stood there at that huge window, like this was the only house on the planet.

  Dad would have loved it here. He’d have been here all the time. Taking up the guest suite. Sitting on that deck. Wandering through those trees, on foot, on horseback. He’d build a studio there so he could work, close to all that, close to me.

  Dana would love it here too. Maybe enough they’d have built somewhere on that land. To be there. To be together.

  To be with me.

  It was less than I was used to.

  But so much more.

  Just what I needed.

  And it had a space in that house. It had a space where I could keep both Dad and Granddad with me.

  “I’ll take it,” I told the window.

  “Excellent,” the agent breathed excitedly.

  I turned to her.

  “Offer one hundred K lower than asking,” I demanded.

  Her face paled and her eyes got big.

  “I want the three additional acres,” I went on, ignoring her reaction. “I also want a friendly approach made to the neighbor. If he’s not actually ready to sell, he’s going to be my neighbor, so I don’t want to start that relationship in a bad place. I can wait for that to happen, or not. But if he’s willing to let five to fifteen acres go, I want it. And I’ll need this Maxwell guy’s contact details.”

  “One hundred K off?” she asked. “The owners have already come down twenty K.”

  “And the property has been on the market for ten months, they’re in the midst of a messy divorce and they need to unload it. Offer one hundred K lower than asking, but be nice about that too. We’ll jump off from there.”

  She wasn’t far away but she shifted closer.

  “With due respect, Justice, it’ll be hard to be nice about offering that far under asking price. They’ll be offended and shut us down. And they’ve had other offers so they know that there’s interest. But if you want to settle around these parts, there isn’t much that’s available to you with the specifications you’re searching for, including land on which to build.”

  “I don’t know what these other offers were,” I returned, “but beyond that three acres that’s for sale is a ranch with twice this much acreage with a fully-functional house on it that’s only fifty square feet less than this and it has a stable. It sold for what I’m going to offer to start. It’s not a slap in the face. It’s a healthy comp.”

  “That house was built in the seventies and needs an entire upgrade.”

  “That house is livable,” I countered. “This one is not.”

  “You haven’t seen the master and it’s amazing.”

  I was certain it was. I saw everything this house could be.

  Everything.

  “Joni, with that comp’s acreage and stable, it’s a healthy comp,” I returned firmly. “Communicated appropriately, it won’t be insulting. And by that I’m saying keep the door open.”

  “Perhaps we should start with a more substantial offer so that…”

  “Joni,” I said low and she shut her mouth.

  I stared into her eyes.

  “You know who I am,” I stated.

  “I—”

  She knew. I knew she knew. With my name, even if she didn’t know because of who I was and what I’d done, she’d still know.

  So I didn’t let her continue.

  “You do and you think I’m a whale. But I know I’m not a whale so I know how to guard against being taken advantage of. You’re my agent, not theirs. I want this property and I’m willing to negotiate something fair with the current owners. It’s over-priced and we both know that. Their agent also knows that. If they have a solid offer, cash, closing in two weeks, they will not shut you down. That’s our starting point. This means you communicate that so we can start at that point and we’ll move on from there. But the deal you negotiate will be the best deal for me. Not them. Not you. Me.”

  “Of course,” she returned, clearly annoyed and not good at hiding it.

  Not offended.

  Annoyed.

  I knew her kind. I could smell it a mile away. I’d learned that at age six.

  However, she was the fifth real estate agent in that area I talked to and the only one where the stench wasn’t overwhelming.

  Precisely why I needed that forest oasis away from everything.r />
  “Thank you,” I said politely. “Now, I’ll take a look at the rest of the space and wander the property.”

  “At your leisure, Justice,” she mumbled, throwing out a hand.

  At my leisure, I did just that.

  * * * * *

  Two Weeks, Three Days Later

  I sat in my beat-up, red Ford pickup that I’d backed into a spot opposite the building and I stared across the space at said building, which was a bar.

  Across the top, Bubba’s, in neon.

  Parked to my left, eight bikes—seven Harleys, one Indian slightly removed.

  Parked to my right, a truck more beat-up than mine, a shiny black Escalade, a shinier red Camaro and black Dyna Glide Harley.

  Other vehicles dotted here and there, all pickups and SUVs, except one silver Camry that had seen better days.

  It was late day, but still hours before normal work time was over, and the bar had a good crowd.

  This was the life of a number of bars.

  Especially biker bars, which this one was. I could have sensed that even without the line of bikes sharing that intel and even with practice turned rusty.

  It had been years since I’d been to a biker bar. Lacey getting on with her career. Bianca’s journey taking an alarming turn. Me following in Dad’s footsteps only to feel the quicksand of that life slurping at my feet, sucking me under, terrifying me to such an extreme I jumped right off that path and never went back.

  Now I was here in a town called Carnal where I’d just bought a house.

  I looked down at the seat beside me and saw the bulky, legal-sized, white plastic folder with the real estate agent’s logo on the front.

  My paperwork. The ink was barely dry.

  As of about an hour ago, I owned a shell of a house in the middle of a forest that had a killer master suite and not much else.

  And I was on Holden “Max” Maxwell’s schedule to start up again.

  The problem was, that schedule was busy so he couldn’t even start for six weeks, and that was if his other jobs finished on time, something he told me happened, but also didn’t.

  In order not to think of this inconvenience, I dug my phone out of my purse as it had been ringing on my way to find somewhere to celebrate the news I just bought a home. My first home that was mine.

  My oasis.

  Alas, at this current juncture of my life, there weren’t a lot of calls I wanted to take, and as I tugged my phone out of my purse and saw who had called and left a voicemail, I noted this was one of those calls.

  But who it was, I had no choice.

  I sat in my truck and engaged my phone, going to voicemail, seeing Mr. T listed at the top, the same name also listed under that (and under that), with Dana being under that, then Joni, then Joss, but Mr. T again under my mom’s name.

  I sighed, took the new voicemail and put it on speaker.

  “Justice. I’ve had another communication from your brother and his mother. It likely won’t surprise you it was another unpleasant one. I think I’ve been thorough in explaining to you the consequences if your brother continues on this path he seems bent on taking. It’s become such a nuisance, the only reason I’m persevering in trying to find some way to get through to him is that I know how deeply distressed your father would be if he knew this was happening. I’m aware you’re also trying to get through to him but I’m strongly suggesting you try harder.”

  His voice changed, became less cross and more threatening.

  “I’m ready to let this go to court, Justice. Speak to your brother. Get him away from that woman and find some way to get through to him. I don’t have to tell you the consequences will be dire if you and I don’t succeed.”

  I pressed my lips together, rolled them and engaged my texts, pulling up Mr. T’s string.

  I then tapped in: I received your voicemail and I’m still doing what I can. I closed today, Mr. T, so I’m having a celebration drink. I’ll take a sip for you. More as soon as I can. Peace and love…

  I hit send and stared at the “Mr. T” fighting a smile.

  My dad’s balding, stooped, seventy-three-year-old sergeant major (literally, he was a former Marine) manager did not look at all like the famous Mr. T. I called him Mr. T for short (and this was adopted by everyone), not as a joke (he wouldn’t get it anyway, he likely had no earthly clue who the famous Mr. T was) but because his name was William Thurston and calling him Mr. Thurston was a mouthful.

  And no way was I going to call him William, Will or Bill (what my granddad had called him). He wasn’t that kind of guy.

  He was a guy who expected a Mister.

  Even from my father, who gave it to him.

  Though he was not like the other Mr. T, my Mr. T was ballsy, tough-as-nails, impatient, curt, had the bullshit detector to end all bullshit detectors and had never demonstrated he could be soft, or even pretend to be, even when he personally handed me my birthday presents.

  But he was loyal to the extreme.

  Dad, in part, was what he was because of Mr. Thurston.

  So (in part) was Granddad.

  So (in part) was I.

  And it was no surprise even now Mr. Thurston was a dog with a bone with the shit my brother Maverick was pulling.

  Not because I wanted to, but because Mr. T was right, Dad would want me to, I went to my contacts and phoned my half-brother.

  It rang half a dozen times before I got, “This is Mav. If I like you, leave a message. If you’re my bitch of a sister calling to hand me more shit, go fuck yourself. And if you’re that greedy, gold-digging cunt who tricked my father into marrying her, eat shit and die.”

  This was new.

  And a new, much deeper descent into assholery.

  In order not to lose my fucking mind, I took in a very deep breath as I waited for the beep.

  I was still close to losing my mind but had it enough in check to say, “Mav, dude, seriously low. You’re better than that and I know it. Dad knew it. Not sure why you’re hell-bent to prove us wrong. But that doesn’t matter. What matters is you getting your head out of your ass because this shit has gone south and you don’t want it to go any more south. It does, you’ll be so deep in Antarctica, you’ll freeze to death. I hope you take my meaning because Dad made things clear and ironclad. Don’t fuck up, brother. I don’t want that for you. And Dana doesn’t either, by the way, so stop being such a douche about her.”

  I hit the button to disconnect, thinking I could have probably worded that better but, like Mr. T, beginning not to care.

  When I’d arrived at that bar, it was time for a drink.

  After all that, it was time for a drink.

  My door screamed in protest as I pushed it open and it did the same after I jumped down and shut it. It was so loud, I jotted a trip to somewhere in this little burg to find some WD-40 in order to fix that. And it was also so loud I nearly didn’t hear my phone beep with a text.

  As I walked to the front door of the bar, I looked down at it to see it was from Mr. T.

  Enjoy your drink but be safe and be smart. Congratulations on your new home.

  I wonder if his fingers were burning having to type out the word “congratulations.”

  Thus I had a small smile on my face as I pushed open the door to the bar and walked in.

  It didn’t have a lot of windows and it didn’t have a lot of light. It was sunny outside so it took me a couple of beats to let my eyes adjust.

  And when they did, I went completely still.

  This was because, at the end of the bar that was dead ahead of the door, standing next to an older guy in a ball cap who was sitting on a stool was Deke.

  Deke.

  Deke of the biker bar in the middle of nowhere in Wyoming who invited me for a ride and never showed. Deke who was now in a biker bar in the middle of nowhere in Colorado, looking no less larger-than-life, vital and amazing, chatting with an older guy in a ball cap who was sitting on a stool.

  Deke who made me think during a
conversation that might have lasted about ten minutes (if that) that in all I had, I could have more. Get to the important part. Finally find the reason I was put on that planet. Something that had, now for thirty-four years, eluded me.

  Deke who didn’t even know who I was and all that meant, but he still turned his back, walked away and never came back for more.

  Seven years, ten minutes, and I knew him at a glance.

  Seven years, ten minutes, I was right then drawn to him so deeply, it was taking physical effort to stop my body swaying his way, my feet from moving to him.

  Deke, now leaning into a forearm in the bar, torso turned sideways, feet in motorcycle boots crossed at the ankles, profile expressionless (from what I could see), clearly not moved even to show interest at whatever random person just walked into the bar. Definitely not sensing that random person was his soulmate, lost in Wyoming, found in Colorado seven years later, turning to me and rushing me, sweeping me off my feet, begging forgiveness and then handing me a new world.

  The world where I was meant to be.

  “Yo! Free People! We got a show-at-the-bar, set-your-ass-down, buy-a-fuckin’-drink policy. Not a stand-inside-the-doors-and-stare-at-fine-male-ass policy.”

  I felt my body jerk as did my eyes to a petite woman behind the bar who had ebony hair, long, the ends flipped in a style that screamed 70’s jack-off poster, the tips of the flips flaming red.

  She was also glaring at me.

  Unbelievably (because I couldn’t remember the last time it happened), I fought the heat in my cheeks. At the same time I fought the desire to turn on my sandal and flee (and not just because I was embarrassed but also because it was clear the bartenders in this joint were cool with being unbelievably rude) as I forced myself to make my way to her. And as I did, I forced myself to look left first, to see bikers and other patrons hanging at tables and playing pool, before I looked right.

  The right sweep included seeing Deke had turned toward me. His eyes were making a descent of my body, and as I walked, they hit the bottom and came back up.

  He looked at my face.

  Then he turned to the guy with the ball cap.

  My stomach sank, and not for the first time I cursed the poet’s soul my father gave to me because this didn’t feel like that guy who you were attracted to not being attracted to you.