Not Their First Rodeo Read online

  Suddenly, his frustration turned to a sharp anger. How could she have thought so little of him? He was about to ask her exactly that when his youngest brother came slamming out of the kitchen door.

  “Hey, Violet, what are you doing here?” Mitchell Junior, better known as MJ to his older siblings, was the baby of the family. “I haven’t seen you since that time you and Marcus took me to the Spring Fling Festival, and you guys made me sit by myself on the Ferris wheel so you could make out.”

  “I don’t remember that,” Marcus snapped, annoyed at his little brother’s interruption of their emotionally charged conversation.

  “Unfortunately, I do remember that.” Violet’s frown made it look as though she was cringing. “That was pretty selfish of us. Didn’t you end up puking halfway through the ride, and the operator made us hose out the car where you were sitting?”

  Now, that part Marcus remembered. Violet had taken MJ to the bathroom to clean him up, and Marcus had been left with a traveling carny named Smoke or Blade or some other nefarious moniker who took a cigarette break as Marcus fought an old garden hose to scrub out his kid brother’s mess. It was what he’d deserved for not taking better care of his younger brother.

  “Where are you going?” Marcus asked his brother.

  “Aunt Freckles doesn’t like Mom’s soy butter, so she gave me some money to go to the store and get some special brand. She said to sneak out of here before Uncle Rider finds out where I’m going and asks me to get him a can of dip.”

  Uncle Rider, their dad’s twin brother, was a tough-as-nails eighty-year-old cowboy struggling to follow his doctor’s advice to quit chewing tobacco. Aunt Freckles, Rider’s estranged wife, loved cooking for her extended family almost as much as she loved driving her former husband crazy.

  It wasn’t until the kid drove away that Marcus remembered the market in town had been closed today for the funeral. The only businesses that had stayed open were the gas station and the liquor store.

  That should’ve been Marcus’s first clue that things were only going to get worse from here.

  * * *

  Violet was still reeling from the revelation that Marcus hadn’t known she’d miscarried.

  She was even more upset that he’d spent all these years assuming she hadn’t wanted their children. So much hurt and heartache could have been cleared up if only they’d been able to talk to each other all those years ago. She’d been about to say as much when his younger brother had come outside and interrupted their heated conversation.

  Which was probably for the best. Clearly, the day of his father’s funeral wasn’t the best time or place to argue about the secret they’d hidden from his family or to angrily rehash all their old mistakes. She looked at her watch. Damn. She should’ve asked MJ for a ride into town. No way was she going to make the last flight out at this rate.

  The kitchen door opened, and Jordan poked his head outside and looked directly at Violet. “Are you getting another migraine?”

  “Who has a migraine?” a woman asked. Violet would have recognized that voice anywhere.

  Sherilee King.

  Marcus’s mom had been the quintessential politician’s wife. A woman with impeccable manners and no tolerance for anyone who didn’t have her family’s best interest at heart. Despite her closeness with the rest of the King family all those years ago, Violet had never been able to tell if Sherilee liked her or hated her—probably a little of both—and always wondered if Marcus’s mother had somehow influenced his decision to not contact Violet after the miscarriage. Obviously, she didn’t have to wonder about the second part any longer. According to Marcus, it was her own mother who’d caused the damage. Still. The protective matriarch of the King family was a force to be reckoned with.

  Growing up the daughter of the powerful and vocal Senator Cortez-Hill, Violet was well-accustomed to female role models with strong opinions. But Sherilee King was one of the few women who Violet considered downright intimidating. Or at least she used to feel that way when she’d been a teenager and had binge-watched all The Godfather movies with her father. Marcus’s mom had the uncanny ability to give off a serious mafia boss–type of vibe while looking like an upscale suburban housewife. Like she could order fancy designer cupcakes for the women’s-club luncheon just as easily as she could order a hit on someone for daring to wear sneakers under their gown to one of her black-tie galas.

  When the older woman stepped around her grandson and out onto the porch, Violet managed a weak smile and a wave.

  “Hi, Mrs. King.” Violet didn’t dare address her by her first name. “I’m very sorry for your loss. Mr. King was always so kind to me whenever we saw each other, and I’ll always have fond memories of him.”

  Sherilee’s face softened into a brief smile, but then her professionally styled hair stayed in place as her head moved right to left, scanning the long driveway and parking area the size of a strip mall. “Your mother isn’t here, is she?”

  “No, ma’am.” Violet shook her head quickly, her own uncombed hair falling into her face. It was no secret that Sherilee King and Eva Cortez-Hill were friendly with each other when the media was present, but when the cameras were gone, they were like a pair of rival gang leaders waiting for the other to throw the first verbal punch. “My parents left after the church service. I was just about to call for an Uber or a cab so I could catch a later flight.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherilee said, causing Violet to immediately feel ridiculous. The woman put an arm around her grandson, lovingly pulling the concerned boy against the side of her tailored black pencil skirt. “And don’t be so formal. One of Marcus’s deputies or our stable foreman can give you a ride to the airport. Unless you have your dad’s private jet on standby, you might be hard-pressed to find an open seat on a commercial flight. But if you have a migraine, you should come into the house and lie down. Marcus, go get Violet a glass of wine or something stronger to take the edge off.”

  Jordan lifted his serious face to his grandmother’s. “Actually, Gan Gan, alcohol wouldn’t be very good for Miss Violet if she has a migraine.”

  “What about a soda?” Sherilee consulted the young child as though he was wearing a white lab coat and had an advanced medical degree. “The caffeine might help?”

  “You know, my headache is long gone,” Violet said before Marcus’s mom and son could finish their unsolicited medical assessment. “Truly, I’m fine and don’t want to impose any more than I already have—”

  “Dear,” Sherilee said as she put up a palm, her enormous diamond ring flashing in the afternoon sun as she interrupted, “it’s been a rough day for all of us, okay? Now, Jordan here is worried about your health, and he’s going to keep coming outside to check on you until he’s convinced you’re better. You’ve always been a good girl, despite having a hardheaded shark for a mother. You don’t want to worry the boys needlessly, do you?”

  Violet’s mouth was hanging open as she tried to figure out if she’d just been praised or chastised. Likely both.

  “Marcus, why are you still standing there?” Sherilee asked. “I said bring Violet inside.”

  “Mom, please. She’s a grown woman.” Marcus crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m not going to throw her over my shoulder and carry her through the door if she doesn’t want to go.”

  “Do you see what I have to put up with, Violet dear?” Sherilee rubbed her smooth forehead, which was reputed to have been surgically enhanced by some of the top cosmetic surgeons in the world. “The older my kids get, the more rebellious they are.”

  That was twice Sherilee King had called her dear, making Violet much more tempted to accept the offer of a cold drink and maybe even the piece of chocolate cake without walnuts Jack had mentioned earlier—if any was left. Plus, drowsiness was one of the side effects from the medication she’d taken earlier and was just now starting to kick in. She could use som
e caffeine, come to think of it...

  “You think I’m rebellious?” Marcus asked his mom, who flicked her wrist dismissively at him. Clearly, this was an old argument she didn’t have the patience to hear again. Yet, her son was determined to continue as though he was itching for a fight with someone and anyone would do. “What about Finn and Dahlia? What about MJ? Did you know he just—”

  “Stop,” Violet whispered, cutting Marcus off mid-sentence. “If you start listing all of the transgressions your siblings ever committed, we’ll be here all night. Besides, your mom’s right. It’s been a long day for everyone. I’ll come inside for a bit and get something to eat and drink, and then I’ll be on my way.”

  He threw his hands in the air and shrugged. “Fine. But I have every intention of finishing our earlier conversation.”

  An hour later, Violet had been heartily welcomed into the bosom of the King inner circle as though she hadn’t been gone for fourteen years. All three of Marcus’s sisters—Tessa, Dahlia and Finn—hugged Violet the moment they saw her.

  His brother Duke, still wearing his Navy dress uniform, lifted her off her feet and spun her around. When he set her on her feet, he whispered, “I was waiting for Marcus to get over the shock of seeing you again before coming over and saying hi. Thanks for coming. It means a lot to have you here.”

  Duke was only a year younger and, as far as she knew, had been the only King who’d known about her pregnancy. It was likely he’d also assumed the worst about her just as Marcus had. So it gave her a boost of confidence to know that he was glad to see her.

  Duke introduced her to his handsome and charming husband, Tom, who was a surgeon in the Navy. After Jordan’s insistent prompting, Tom asked Violet a few routine questions before assuring his young nephew. “It is my professional opinion that the patient is not suffering any long-lasting effects of her earlier migraine.”

  “I think someone should go tell Dad,” Jack said. “He keeps staring over here at Miss Violet and frowning.”

  Duke chuckled. “Don’t worry about your dad, kiddos. He’s probably just grumpy all the brownies are gone already. Why don’t you go see if the caterers put out any more?”

  Marcus’s boys finally went off to the dessert table with their cousin Amelia, and Violet was surprised to realize she was actually way more comfortable than she’d expected to be. Surrounded once again by the family she’d loved so much, she finally began to relax. There was no way he would bring up the subject of her miscarriage or their breakup with so many witnesses.

  The main house at the Twin Kings was nearly twelve thousand square feet, and there were still plenty of friends and neighbors in attendance at the reception following the funeral. She ate a little food, said hello to a few of the people she already knew and then found an unoccupied sitting area in the corner where she could escape from the curious glances and scroll through her phone as she tried to hold back several yawns. As long as Violet pretended to ignore his stormy stares from across the hotel lobby–sized living room, she was able to avoid Marcus—for the most part.

  Thank God he had his back to her when he took off his suit jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves, because it was the one time she hadn’t been able to look away. His shoulders rolled back in circles as he stretched, and her palms suddenly itched to feel the tense muscles underneath and slowly massage away the day’s stress.

  Instead, she chugged her watered down iced tea in an effort to make her mouth less dry and her cheeks less warm. She needed to get out of here before she lost complete control.

  Eventually, Violet was able to catch the attention of a Secret Service agent who was going off duty, and she snuck out of the Kings’ house through the busy kitchen without so much as a goodbye.

  It was better this way, she thought, as she rode in the back seat of one of the catering vans that was returning to Jackson Hole. No awkward goodbyes, no promises to keep in touch when everyone knew they wouldn’t.

  Plus, she wanted to talk to her mother in person and ask her if she’d really implied that Violet had had an abortion. Not that she didn’t believe Marcus, but she wanted to find out why on earth her mom had done such a thing.

  Oh, who was she kidding? The woman would argue that she’d been trying to protect Violet. And the truth was that her mom had been the one to physically take care of her when she’d slid into a postpartum depression afterward.

  But confronting anyone would have to wait another day.

  Sherilee King had been right when she’d warned that most of the commercial flights out of town were full. Even most of the hotels were packed with avid skiers who’d booked their vacations in advance, as well as guests who’d come to pay tribute to the former vice president. Violet was lucky to get a room at a nondescript chain motel and hoped she’d be able to rent a car the next day and drive to an airport in a bigger city.

  Even though the medication she’d taken earlier had wiped out the worst of the headache, it had left her a little groggy, especially after the events of the day. It also helped her fall asleep the moment her head hit the pillow. When her cell phone rang early the following morning, Violet struggled to open her eyes and tapped the green button before her brain had the chance to wonder who was calling her from a Washington, DC, area code.

  “Violet! You haven’t left town yet, have you?”

  “Mrs. King?” Violet squinted at the bedside clock that read 7:03 a.m. “What’s wrong?”

  “I need a criminal defense attorney.”

  Technically, Violet was a public defender, which meant she wasn’t for hire. But if Sherilee King had the resources to track her down, then the woman already knew that fact and wasn’t about to let a little thing like retainer fees or state bar requirements stop her. Violet sat up in bed and asked, “For yourself?”

  “No, not for myself.” The woman muttered a curse. “For MJ. Marcus went and arrested his own brother last night. How soon can you get down to the Ridgecrest County Courthouse?”

  * * *

  “I know what you’re trying to do, Mom, and it won’t work,” Marcus said as he followed his mother up the wide back-porch steps of the main house on the family’s ranch later that morning. “Hiring Violet to represent MJ is not going to make me drop the charges.”

  “I’m trying to save my youngest son from being framed for a crime he didn’t commit,” Sherilee snapped back at him before stomping into the kitchen. “You know what would happen to a young, impressionable kid like MJ in prison.”

  “MJ is not going to prison,” Marcus practically growled in frustration. “He was charged with underage drinking and resisting arrest. It’s a misdemeanor.”

  His mom’s professionally shaped eyebrows lifted. “If it’s no big deal, then why are you still holding him in a jail cell?”

  “I didn’t say it wasn’t a big deal. MJ went out drinking with Deputy Broman’s eighteen-year-old daughter last night. When her dad busted them, MJ punched the man—a sworn peace officer on duty.”

  “So says Deputy Broman.” His mother pointed a manicured finger at Marcus’s chest. “You know that guy has it in for our family. How do you know he isn’t making this up to make you look bad before next year’s election?”

  “Besides the fact that Broman has a black eye and MJ had a blood alcohol level of twice the legal limit? My deputies wear body cameras, and I saw the video footage.”

  “Damn it!” His mom picked up one of Aunt Freckles’s famous homemade biscuits, slathered it with honey butter and then loaded it down with a couple of cold pieces of leftover bacon before shoving half of it in her mouth. So much for her claimed vegan lifestyle. Sherilee King only ate like this when she was under extreme stress. Her lipstick was still covered in crumbs when she asked, “Okay, so how about we compromise. You give MJ a warning or a ticket or something and release him to my custody?”

  “As if that’ll teach the kid a lesson.” Marcus snorted
. “Listen, Mom, I know you don’t want to hear this, but MJ has been flying under the radar and getting away with stuff us older kids never would have gotten past you and Dad. Do you have any idea how blatantly biased it would be for the county sheriff to turn a blind eye to illegal behavior just because it’s his kid brother doing it? If we don’t make him face the music now, his next arrest could possibly be a felony. Is that what you want?”

  “What I want is for my kids to look out for each other. To protect each other.”

  Marcus refused to cave. “Well, this is my way of looking out for him. Consider it an intervention.”

  Marcus suddenly realized that none of his adult siblings were stepping foot in the kitchen right now. What did they know that he didn’t?

  “And that’s why I hired Violet to represent him.” His mom put her hands on her hips, and he saw a quick flash of a knowing smirk, a determined glint in her eye. “Because maybe you need an intervention of your own.”

  A cold shiver raced down the back of Marcus’s neck. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You were in the briefing room with the Secret Service agents just a few minutes ago.” His mother jerked her head toward the custom-built bunkhouse across the main road. The one that housed their father’s assigned security detail whenever he’d traveled from Washington to visit the family home. “This has the potential to become a really big deal, and you can’t be on duty all the time. You can’t designate yourself the family protector when there is too much other stuff going on. If it wasn’t tough enough dealing with your father’s death and funeral, now we’ve got the media scandal of the year with Tessa fainting in that agent’s arms yesterday. It’s only a matter of time before all those reporters lined up outside the gate find out about MJ, too.” Her tone softened. “Look, Marcus, I get it that you want to teach him a lesson, and I’m sure you’re right. But now’s really not the best time to do it.”