had ridden along to keep an eye on him. They’d seized supplies and helped Confederate troops and made a name for themselves as the most notorious raiding group the Union army had ever seen. They’d sure-as-shootin’ been a major pain-in-the-ass to Quantrill and his boys.
But then the war had ended, the South had lost, and the Braddocks had headed home.
They’d arrived to find the entire ranch—the main house, the barn, the outbuildings—consumed by flames. The herd had been scattered. And what was left of his family? Gone.
Dead.
A nightmare. That’s what Brent had thought as he’d leapt off his horse and tried to save what he could, who he could. The whole scene had seemed so surreal. The dead bodies, most burned beyond recognition, stretched out here and there——his mother, the half dozen hired hands, the ranch foreman, Colton’s wife Rose, their six year-old son. But then reality had hit along with a very real crack to the back of his skull. He and his brothers had been attacked from behind, each picked off one-by-one, and left to die.
They would have been six feet under for sure if not for Garret Sawyer. Garret was the creative genius behind Skull Creek Choppers, the fastest growing custom motorcycle manufacturer in the South. He was also the two hundred year old vampire who’d turned the Braddock Brothers that night and given them a second chance at life.
At vengeance.
Up until two weeks ago, Brent and the rest of the Braddocks had blamed Garret for the massacre. They’d been hellbent on finding him and doling out justice. Cody had been the lucky one who’d tracked him to Skull Creek first. Only, it had turned out that Garret had been innocent. He’d arrived after the attack and done all he could to save the brothers who’d been just this side of death. Garret had given them his blood and brought them over in the nick of time, but he’d been too late to save anyone else. Or so they’d thought. But Garret had revealed that he’d also turned a wounded couple he’d found several miles away. The vampire had assumed they were victims of an Indian attack and so he’d done what he could to help—he’d given them his blood the moment they’d taken their last breaths.
A man and a woman.
Rose.
After all this time, she was still alive. Still out there somewhere. A vampire.
While Brent had no idea what had happened that night—if she’d been an innocent victim or a cold, calculated murderess who’d orchestrated the massacre and sacrificed her own son—or who the man was that had been with her, he knew that she knew.
She held all the answers and he wouldn’t stop until he’d found her.
All the more reason to forget the damned ache in his gut, hit the gas and lose the woman trailing him.
Cody was waiting.
Even more, Dillon Cash was waiting. Dillon was the one doing the research on Rose, compiling information and trying to come up with a lead. He needed to get his ass in gear and head over to Dillon’s.
At the same time, he couldn’t shake the curiosity that churned inside him. Particularly since he had no clue who the woman was or what she wanted from him.
Nothing. Nada. Zip.
Which didn’t make a damned bit of sense because he was a friggin’ vampire. When it came to the opposite sex, he read every thought, anticipated every move. There were no surprises.
Until now.
Until her.
Sure, he’d connected with her initially like he did with all humans. He’d seen her initial reaction—the surprise, the lust, the longing. But then her expression had closed like a window slamming shut and he hadn’t been able to pick up anything else.
No name.
No background.
No intentions.
One hundred and fifty years and he’d always been able to read a woman’s thoughts. But damned if this one hadn’t shut him out. A fact that made him almost as hard as the lusty beast that lived and breathed inside of him.
He was intrigued. Aroused. Hungry.
And while the last thing Brent needed to do was waste his time with confrontations, suddenly it was the only thing he wanted to do.
He eased off the gas, pulled onto the side of the road and climbed out of the car.
This was not good.
The warning screamed in Abigail’s head the minute she pulled up behind the Camaro.
Her headlights sliced through the darkness, illuminating the abandoned car. Her gaze shifted to the pastureland that stretched for miles on either side of the road. He was nowhere in sight. No shadowy figure fleeing in the moonlight or trucking down the road. Which meant that while the car appeared abandoned, it wasn’t.
Fear made her heart pump faster and she drew on it. Despite what most people thought, fear could be good. It motivated people, kept their senses heightened and sharp. Most of all, it fed the survival instinct. The key was not to let fear get the upper hand and interfere with brain function. It was all about breathing and thinking. Abigail had learned that during her first special ops mission in Iraq. She’d been cornered by a small group of insurgents who would have captured her had she given in to the gripping terror in the pit of her stomach. The visions of interrogation and torture and death. But instead of the outcome, she’d focused on the moment. On thinking of a way to get to the knife in her boot. Plotting a line of attack. Finding a means of escape.
The fear had turned to power then and she’d made it out alive.
She forced another deep breath and stared at the car in front of her, her gaze searching for some sign that he was still in it. He had to be.
Her gut tightened, her instincts screaming yet again that something wasn’t right. Why would he hide unless he had something to hide? She killed her engine, leaving the headlights blazing, and climbed from behind the wheel.
A few seconds later, she eased up beside the car, every nerve in her body on high alert as she slid along the sleek finish and stalled just shy of the door. Her gaze sliced to the right, through the window and the thick darkness to find …
Nothing.
He wasn’t sprawled on the front seat or hunkered in the miniscule space in the back.
The Camaro was empty.
Impossible.
She whirled, drinking in the surrounding countryside. She’d been all of twenty seconds behind him. No way could he have crossed the wide open pasture in that short amount of time. Not flat out running. Not even hauling it on a four-wheeler.
Her mind raced as her attention shifted back to the muscle car. Her gaze dropped to the foot of space between the bottom of the car and the ground. It wasn’t enough to accommodate a man of his size. At the same time, she’d seen seven men stuff themselves into a crawlspace the size of a single shower stall to escape capture. Desperation was the mother of the impossible.
“You might
