Relentless (Fallon Sisters Trilogy: Book #1) by P. J. O'Dwyer Page A
Authors: P. J. O'Dwyer
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to. He didn't appear to have any sustained injuries. Jeremy brought him to his feet and began walking him around the twenty-foot squared-off area of the chute. He then motioned to one of Lyle's men. "Lead him in the back into one of the stalls."
"Breakstone, I'm bidding on that pair," Wes yelled over the rail.
Bren clenched her hands and turned around. "Go to hell, Connelly."
Wes stood like a peacock in his plumage, dressed in a three-piece suit and red power tie. His head and face, ruddy and pocked and shades darker against the thick, silver nest of hair, always reminded her of a cork getting ready to pop.
"Lyle?"The word, slippery with intent, fell from Wes's lips. His buddy, his alibi and co-conspirator, surely caught his meaning, even if she and everyone else didn't. The only thing she knew was it didn't bode well for her. Wes's cold, steely eyes continued to hold her gaze. Bren shook with anger and fear. Kill buyers didn't normally bid on colts—small with little meat, they'd cost more to house and fatten up. He was paying her back for the newspaper ad.
"What's your bid?" Lyle tapped the gavel in his hand.
"Jeremy, can't you—"
"Five twenty-five for the pair."
Jeremy's expression hardened. "Come on, Jameson. Bren's right—auction them next Friday. This one," he said, motioning to the colt he held by the halter, "needs to be checked out." He nodded to the broodmare presently tied off toward the end of the chute, snorting and pulling against the rope, her eyes wild with unpredictability. "That one is about to go berserk."
"Time is money, Lyle," Wes added.
Lyle shrugged. "Sorry, Doc. He's got a point."
Bren's head ached. Watching Tweedledee and Tweedledum, she wanted to smack their heads together.
The colt's eyes were wide and awake as he danced on his hooves nervously under the fluorescent lights. He gave a snort and whinny. Jeremy handed him off to her. "He's all yours."
No. The colt and the mare were a pair now, thanks to Wes—a more expensive pair.
Lyle grabbed his gavel. "You bidding, Bren?"
Bren's heart quickened. She and Finn had seen this colt earlier. Finn had fallen in love with him at first sight. She'd been thinking of bidding. She'd promised Finn a colt. If she didn't bid, they'd be Wes's. He'd ship the frightened pair off to Mexico for twenty-eight cents a pound in deplorable conditions, take a hit on the colt, and call it even, knowing he'd gotten his revenge.
Cost be damned.
"Five thirty-five."
"Seven hundred." A wicked grin curled the ends of Wes's lips.
Bren took a step, tempted to charge the son of a bitch and knock him on his sanctimonious ass.
Finn leaned over the rail. "Mom?" His voice quivered with uncertainty.
She nodded in his direction. "It's okay, baby."
Straightening, Bren set her eyes on Wes, who grabbed an old lawn chair sitting askew on the dirt floor of the sale barn. He loosened his tie and popped the top button of his white dress shirt, then slipped out of his navy suit jacket, folding it neatly in half and placing it over the rail. Searching his pants pockets, he pulled out a thin cheroot, ignoring the straw strewn about on the dirt floor and bales stacked in the corners and against every available wall space.
Bren tightened her grip on the rope as Wes lit up. The colt's eyes flashed, exposing the whites in the corner as he attempted to rear. She held tight, keeping him grounded, and spoke to him soothingly. The colt let out another snort and a whinny and settled down. Wes sat back into the lawn chair and crossed his legs, taking several drags off his cheroot.
"You know you're stealing this colt from a seven-year-old boy," she said.
"You're bidding, not the boy."
Finn's head turned from her to Wes. He stood alone on the dirt floor, clenching his small little hands by his side. David and Goliath. That was their only shot to save this colt, and she was taking it. Bren patted the colt and moved toward the rail. Spying a wooden crate in the corner, she motioned
"Breakstone, I'm bidding on that pair," Wes yelled over the rail.
Bren clenched her hands and turned around. "Go to hell, Connelly."
Wes stood like a peacock in his plumage, dressed in a three-piece suit and red power tie. His head and face, ruddy and pocked and shades darker against the thick, silver nest of hair, always reminded her of a cork getting ready to pop.
"Lyle?"The word, slippery with intent, fell from Wes's lips. His buddy, his alibi and co-conspirator, surely caught his meaning, even if she and everyone else didn't. The only thing she knew was it didn't bode well for her. Wes's cold, steely eyes continued to hold her gaze. Bren shook with anger and fear. Kill buyers didn't normally bid on colts—small with little meat, they'd cost more to house and fatten up. He was paying her back for the newspaper ad.
"What's your bid?" Lyle tapped the gavel in his hand.
"Jeremy, can't you—"
"Five twenty-five for the pair."
Jeremy's expression hardened. "Come on, Jameson. Bren's right—auction them next Friday. This one," he said, motioning to the colt he held by the halter, "needs to be checked out." He nodded to the broodmare presently tied off toward the end of the chute, snorting and pulling against the rope, her eyes wild with unpredictability. "That one is about to go berserk."
"Time is money, Lyle," Wes added.
Lyle shrugged. "Sorry, Doc. He's got a point."
Bren's head ached. Watching Tweedledee and Tweedledum, she wanted to smack their heads together.
The colt's eyes were wide and awake as he danced on his hooves nervously under the fluorescent lights. He gave a snort and whinny. Jeremy handed him off to her. "He's all yours."
No. The colt and the mare were a pair now, thanks to Wes—a more expensive pair.
Lyle grabbed his gavel. "You bidding, Bren?"
Bren's heart quickened. She and Finn had seen this colt earlier. Finn had fallen in love with him at first sight. She'd been thinking of bidding. She'd promised Finn a colt. If she didn't bid, they'd be Wes's. He'd ship the frightened pair off to Mexico for twenty-eight cents a pound in deplorable conditions, take a hit on the colt, and call it even, knowing he'd gotten his revenge.
Cost be damned.
"Five thirty-five."
"Seven hundred." A wicked grin curled the ends of Wes's lips.
Bren took a step, tempted to charge the son of a bitch and knock him on his sanctimonious ass.
Finn leaned over the rail. "Mom?" His voice quivered with uncertainty.
She nodded in his direction. "It's okay, baby."
Straightening, Bren set her eyes on Wes, who grabbed an old lawn chair sitting askew on the dirt floor of the sale barn. He loosened his tie and popped the top button of his white dress shirt, then slipped out of his navy suit jacket, folding it neatly in half and placing it over the rail. Searching his pants pockets, he pulled out a thin cheroot, ignoring the straw strewn about on the dirt floor and bales stacked in the corners and against every available wall space.
Bren tightened her grip on the rope as Wes lit up. The colt's eyes flashed, exposing the whites in the corner as he attempted to rear. She held tight, keeping him grounded, and spoke to him soothingly. The colt let out another snort and a whinny and settled down. Wes sat back into the lawn chair and crossed his legs, taking several drags off his cheroot.
"You know you're stealing this colt from a seven-year-old boy," she said.
"You're bidding, not the boy."
Finn's head turned from her to Wes. He stood alone on the dirt floor, clenching his small little hands by his side. David and Goliath. That was their only shot to save this colt, and she was taking it. Bren patted the colt and moved toward the rail. Spying a wooden crate in the corner, she motioned
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