Can't Let Go

  If Jude got hurt...

  Sickness churned in Ryanne's stomach. He'd faced more dangerous situations in the military. He would walk away from this one, too.

  With a sigh, she petted and kissed the cats before trudging out of her room at the Strawberry Inn. She should be happy. The wounds left by years of hurt had finally scabbed over. All because of Jude. Because, despite everything, he'd been there for her when she needed him. Because he'd held her close, protecting her, as she'd crumbled. Yet...

  The thought of leaving him, even for a month, caused a new hurt.

  I will not act like my mother. I will not spend my life catering to the needs of an emotionally distant man.

  Determined, Ryanne headed to the lobby to meet Dorothea. By some miracle, her friend had convinced her to wake at an ungodly hour and go jogging, promising exercise would clear Ryanne's mind and heart, or some crap like that.

  "How in the world do you look like sex while wearing yoga pants?" Dorothea anchored her hands on her hips, trying to hide a wealth of tension behind a smile. Had she fought with Daniel? "I look like five pounds of sausage meat stuffed into a one-pound wrapper."

  Ryanne rolled her eyes. "You look like a ray of sunshine. I look like death." She hadn't slept well since the fire. Any time she closed her eyes, she saw Jude rushing into the flames, felt the same sense of helplessness, wondering if she was going to lose her man, her cats and her business all in the same night.

  "Sunshine? Score! Now stop flirting with me, and come on."

  The first two miles, Ryanne was able to keep up. By the third mile, she was drenched in sweat, panting and wheezing. She stopped in the middle of a dirt road, hunching over to brace her hands on her knees.

  "Wait," she managed to call. "Hospital...dying...heart attack."

  A laughing Dorothea backtracked and jogged in place. Her breaths were even, only a glimmer of perspiration on her brow.

  "You can't be human," Ryanne grumbled, and her friend barked out another laugh.

  Except her laughter didn't last long, the tension Ryanne noticed earlier returning. "Okay, I have to tell you something, but please, please, please stay calm, okay? I wasn't sure when to tell you, so I decided to wait until we were away from the inn and you could react the way you wanted, without fearing someone would see or hear."

  Panic struck. Acid churned in her stomach, waves of nausea nearly choking her. "What happened? What's wrong? Tell me!"

  "Just before you came down to the lobby, I received a text from Daniel. The tent..." Color seeped from Dorothea's cheeks, leaving her waxen. "Sometime after you closed last night, someone shredded your tent and tore up your parking lot, turning the gravel into a giant mud puddle."

  Meaning, she wouldn't be able to open tonight or any other night for a while. Probably a long while. She could go without the tent, but she couldn't serve her customers in mud. No one wanted to get dirty while on the prowl for a hookup.

  Dushku. He was to blame.

  "I'm so, so freaking sorry, Ryanne."

  Tears stung her eyes, and glass shards seemed to join the acid, her nausea intensifying until--

  There, on the dirt road, she vomited the contents of her stomach. A cup of water and a banana.

  With a cry of concern, Dorothea rushed to her side. "Oh, Ryanne. If there's anything I can do..."

  Again and again, Ryanne had fought Dushku's underhanded attacks and come out on top. But what had it gotten her? Another devastating blow. Why keep fighting? Why not give up, give in and save herself another defeat?

  "I want to go home," she whispered. But she didn't have a home, did she. Her war with Dushku had cost her the apartment, temporarily, and some of her favorite possessions, permanently. The smell of smoke could be cleaned from most pieces of furniture, maybe, hopefully, but broken vases and warped paintings could not be repaired.

  Her friend helped her to her feet, but the emotional upheaval proved too strong and her stomach protested again. She threw up one more time before she had the power to head back to the inn.

  When they reached the town square, residents were stirring, opening their businesses for the day. Virgil Porter and Anthony Rodriguez were already outside Style Me Tender, playing checkers as usual. Both men smiled and waved, then stood and approached when they noticed her fragile condition.

  "Poor Miss Wade," Anthony said. "Did you have yourself one of them heatstrokes?"

  "Nah. This girl's in distress," Virgil said. "You tell us what's wrong, and we'll fix it, lickety-split."

  "Thanks, guys, but I just need to rest," she muttered.

  Finally she and Dorothea reached the entrance of the inn. Dorothea held open the doors, and Ryanne shuffled inside...where her mother waited at the counter, flirting with Daniel Porter, a suitcase at her feet.

  *

  JUDE PARKED IN front of the Dushku estate. Best property in Blueberry Hill. A fifty-five-acre working blueberry farm with an eight-thousand-square-foot antebellum estate. Armed guards walked the balcony, Anton and Dennis among them.

  Considering Jude had spent twenty minutes at the security gate at the entrance, the pair he'd beaten at the Scratching Post had already been notified of his presence. Both males stopped to aim their semiautomatics at him.

  Go ahead. Shoot me.

  The worst that could happen? He'd die.

  Wasn't like death was a big deal. Through no fault of his own, he would join his family at long last. Considering his emotional state the past few weeks, he could use the peace.

  I'll never give up.

  A muscle jumped in his jaw. Fight to live. He couldn't, wouldn't, leave Ryanne to deal with Dushku alone.

  If all went according to plan, Savannah and Thomas would be safe within the next half hour. Using Dushku's playbook against him, Jude had created a distraction earlier this morning, sneaking onto the property and setting the blueberry fields on fire. Tit for tat. Any other day, guilt would have slayed him. Today, Dushku had shredded Ryanne's tent, and ruined her parking lot--Jude had thrown the match without a single qualm.

  The blaze had been extinguished, but smoke still thickened the air, the perfect cover for Savannah and Thomas. More than that, most of Dushku's men were still in the fields to mitigate the damage.

  As Jude emerged from his truck, Dushku opened the front doors and descended the porch steps. The usual smug smile had been replaced by a fierce scowl. "Jude Laurent. To what do I owe this visit?"

  Game on. "I'd like to chat about your destruction of Ryanne's property."

  "Do you hope to trick me into confessing to a crime while you wear a wire? Too bad. I'm innocent." Dushku pressed a weathered hand against his double-breasted suit. "If I happen to profit from her bad luck, well, she should take heart. The fact that she's alive and well is a true miracle. And if she were smart, she'd sell the bar before things get worse. What if another tragedy befalls her?"

  Calm. Steady.

  Screw it. I'm going to kill him. Rage dotted Jude's vision. As long as this man drew breath, he would be a thorn in Jude's side. He had no respect for women or children, or life; reasoning with him was impossible.

  With a single strike, Jude could sever his carotid artery. If he got hit by a hail of gunfire in the process, he got hit. Even injured he could dive into his truck and burn rubber past the gate. He'd survived worse.

  Remember--can't help anyone if you're in prison for murder.

  Right. He settled his weight in his heels, and remained in place. "You haven't met your match--the truth is, I'm way out of your league."

  Dushku arched a brow, unperturbed. "Is that so?"

  "I tried to tell you before, but you failed to understand. You made the biggest mistake of your life when you decided to go after Ryanne Wade. Without her, I'll be free to end you, damn the consequences. I have nothing else to live for. And without me, my friends will feel free to end you, damn the consequences. They take their revenge seriously. Either way, you're screwed."

  For the first time, Jude detected a glimmer of
fear in the old man's eyes.

  "Brock sees her. She's headed his way." A familiar voice whispered through the piece in Jude's ear. Daniel was keeping track of both Jude and Brock, who'd apparently spotted Savannah.

  He smiled.

  "What?" Dushku demanded.

  The front doors suddenly swung open. Anton came stomping out, menace in every step. "Where is she? Where's Savannah?"

  "What are you talking about?" Dushku's brow wrinkled with confusion. "I saw her twenty minutes ago."

  The last time he'd seen her, Jude had just reached the security gate. Everything was happening according to plan.

  "She and the boy are missing. They aren't in her room." Anton flared his nostrils like a bull about to charge and focused on Jude. "Where is she? Tell me, or so help me, I'll--"

  Motion short and jerky, Dushku held up his hand in a bid for silence. "Did you search the house?"

  "Not all of it," Anton admitted, his tone stiff.

  "She couldn't have gotten far. Go. Search every room, even the storm shelter." Dushku pointed to two other guards. "You, search the surrounding woods."

  Leveling his gaze on Jude, he grated, "I know you had something to do with this."

  "Me? Go against you?" Jude arched a brow. "Why would I dare?"

  Dushku prowled closer to him, then stopped, his nostrils flaring. Realized he'd lose in a physical altercation? "Let's take Mr. Laurent inside. We'll continue our...chat."

  As the guards walked toward him, Jude smiled and tapped the small device in his ear. "I don't think you want to touch me right now. For all you know, I have the sherriff of Strawberry Valley on Bluetooth, listening to every word." He didn't; he had Daniel, who had gone quiet.

  Dushku popped his jaw as Jude climbed in his truck, unencumbered. His gaze remained on his adversary. You and I, we aren't done, though.

  The old man seethed.

  Jude eased down the drive. As he passed the gate, Dushku in his rearview mirror, Daniel spoke up again.

  "She betrayed us. Brock trekked the woods, intending to meet her, only to watch her and the boy climb into someone else's car and speed away. He missed the plates, so we have no way to check out the car's owner."

  In the end, had she not trusted Jude? Or had she used him as a distraction? Perhaps she'd turned to the john who'd given her the cell phone.

  A mistake on her part, but there was nothing Jude could do about it now.

  "By the way," Daniel added, "Ryanne has been throwing up all morning, and on top of that little sundae, her mom showed up at the inn, causing trouble."

  Ryanne...sick...

  A virus? Or something more sinister? Had Dushku struck again?

  "I'm on my way." Fighting panic, Jude put the pedal to the metal and sped toward the Strawberry Inn.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CAN'T DEAL WITH this right now, Ryanne thought.

  She lay in bed, a cool rag draped over her forehead while the kittens used her body as a scratching post--and oh, the irony.

  On top of everything else, Jude was at Dushku's house, helping Savannah. As soon as realization had struck, Ryanne had vomited all over again. He was in danger, and there was nothing she could do to aid him. She just had to wait.

  Now her mother, who'd followed her to her room, wanted to "catch up."

  Selma hadn't aged a day. Her long black hair had no signs of gray, and her flawless olive skin had only a trace of lines. Dark eyes possessed a sensual tilt, and pouty lips promised a thousand delights.

  How many Strawberry Valley males would make a play for her?

  "My carino," Selma said, sitting on the edge of the bed. As if she hadn't ignored Ryanne for years, and their relationship was no longer in tatters. "How can I help you?"

  "You can leave. I feel better now, but I could use some rest."

  "You most certainly do not feel better. I hate to break it to you, baby girl, but you look like someone took you out behind a shed and shot you."

  Emotionally? Nailed it. Ryanne tossed the rag on the nightstand and sat up, glaring at her mother while gently petting William and Cameo. "Why are you here? You disowned me, remember?"

  Cheeks flushing with shame, Selma said, "I only disowned you because you betrayed me, choosing that man over your own flesh and blood. But I've forgiven you. We can move on now."

  That man. Earl. The best person she'd ever known. "Talk about him with respect, or don't talk to me at all. Are we clear?"

  The color in Selma's cheeks deepened, and she shifted uncomfortably. "I'm sorry, carino. All right? Better?" When Ryanne nodded, she grinned. "I admit I was over the moon when you called me."

  Too little, too late. When Selma disowned her, Ryanne had sobbed. She'd mourned. Then she'd picked herself up, with Earl's help, and learned to live without her mother.

  "Just...go away. Please. We'll talk later, okay?" The nausea had finally eased, but the urge to cry had escalated. This was her life. No matter how bad things got, something could always be worse.

  "Te he extranado, carino." I've missed you, sweetheart.

  "Is that why you called, texted and wrote me so many letters?" she snapped.

  A soft sigh. "I was hurt and jealous, that's all. You loved that--Earl so much more than you loved me."

  "Do we have to do this now?" She had a choice to make. Sell the Scratching Post to Dushku, admitting defeat, and get a normal job, or find a way to open the bar regardless of the problems. "I need to be alone, need to think. The bar is closed for repairs, so I've been opening on the patio, but the parking lot is now a mud lake."

  "Ohhh. You should invite men to strip and mud wrestle. I'd pay good money to see that. Well, I'd let a man pay good money for me to see that."

  Of course her mother would pay to see people--Ryanne's mind zinged with the possible solution. Mud wrestling. Or better yet, oil wrestling. Oil was sexier than mud, and watching people oil wrestle would give customers a good reason to get dirty.

  Pay to play.

  They could lay tarps over the ground. A little mud would find its way to the surface, but a little was better than a lot. Or she could do both mud and oil wrestling, filling giant plastic pools with whatever substance she decided, and charging "combatants" ten dollars a match. Plus a cover fee! Food for thought.

  If someone got hurt and sued...

  Once upon a time, Earl had a mechanical bull. To ride it, patrons had to sign a waiver releasing the bar of any liability, and they had to sign before they'd had a single drink. She could do the same.

  "Thank you," she said, reaching for her phone to call Jude. How excited he would be when he found out--

  Would he be excited?

  Her shoulders sagged, her eyes burned. "You really need to go, Selma."

  "Selma? I'm your dear momma. You should call me--"

  "There's no time to chat. I have a ton of planning to do." She leaped to her feet, careful of the kittens, and propelled a sputtering Selma toward the exit.

  Opening the door, she spotted Jude, headed straight for her, and her heart thudded. Thank the Lord! He was alive and looked to be uninjured.

  He stopped in front of her, their gazes clashing, brown against blue. Concern tightened his features, and locks of sandy-blond hair stuck out in spikes, as if he'd tried to rip out a hunk or two.

  "Are you all right?" he asked. "Daniel told me you've been throwing up. I thought Dushku might have--" His voice cracked.

  Might have what? Poisoned her? And Jude had worried about her health? "No, I'm fine," she assured him, her tone gentle. "How are Savannah and the boy?"

  "You're sure you're okay?" he insisted.

  "Yes."

  Relief brightened his expression. "I'm not sure about Savannah. She chose to leave with someone else."

  What! Why? "As long as she's safe from Dushku, I'm happy, I guess."

  "Who's Savannah? Who's Dushku?" Selma fanned her face as she looked over Jude. "And just who are you, hermoso?"

  "No! Absolutely not. Do not flirt," Ryanne barked. No
t with him. "He's off-limits forever." Not that saying "off-limits" had ever done any good with her mother.

  "What?" Selma wiggled her brows. "I'm single, still young, and I appreciate a man with--"

  "Stop. Just stop." Please. "You don't want my sloppy seconds, okay?" Oh, crap! Had she really just said that? She cast an apologetic look to Jude.

  He looked far from offended. In fact, he studied Selma for several long moments, and his eyes narrowed to tiny slits. From anger--or attraction?

  Of course he found her mother attractive. Who didn't?

  "Oh! Do tell, baby girl. How was he?" Selma bumped their shoulders together. "Spill. Start with every inch of him covered and end with him naked and exhausted."

  Tell her mother about Jude's spectacular bedroom prowess? Gag!

  Ryanne gave the woman a gentle push into the hall, at Jude's side. The two looked good together. She gnashed her teeth. "I'll be opening the Scratching Post tomorrow night." Though she would prefer to wait till the end of the week, after she'd done some planning and spoken to her lawyer, she had to capitalize on the town's ignorance of what had happened to her parking lot. Rather than feeling sorry for her, people might think she'd created the mess on purpose. For fun. "If you decide to stop by, wear clothes you don't mind getting dirty. It's going to be oil and/or mud wrestling night."

  "You're using my idea?" Selma grinned and clapped. "See, carino. We make such a good team!"

  Jude seized the opportunity to enter the room and bid Selma a swift adieu by closing the door in her stunned face. "Oil and/or mud wrestling?" He cocked an eyebrow at Ryanne before striding to the bed to cuddle and pet the kittens.

  Dang it, she'd gone too long without hearing the sound of his voice. Now the huskiness of his tone stroked her ears, and she wanted to purr like the kittens.

  And what a glorious picture he made. The alpha male with a clowder of fragile felines. Worse, his scent permeated the room, intoxicating Ryanne, making her body clench with longing. Her blood heated, and her bones seemed to begin the slow process of liquefying. A reaction only he could cause.

  Stay strong. "You got a problem with oil and mud wrestling, or just the survival of my bar?"

  He flinched. "I thought you forgave me for the smile."

  She had. She really had. Ashamed of herself for lashing out--again--she replied, "You're right. I'm sorry. I have no excuse for my behavior. Except for all the excuses I have. My mother, throwing up a million times and Dushku's latest plot against me."