9781618854490WildChelceeNC
WILD
Montana Men 5
Jaydyn Chelcee
Erotic Romance
Secret Cravings Publishing
www.secretcravingspublishing.com
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A Secret Cravings Publishing Book
Erotic Romance
Wild
Copyright © 2012 Jaydyn Chelcee
E-book ISBN: 978-1-61885-449-0
First E-book Publication: December 2012
Cover design by Dawne Dominique
Edited by Colleen McSpirit
Proofread by Ariana Gaynor
All cover art and logo copyright © 2012 by Secret Cravings Publishing
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.
All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.
PUBLISHER
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www.secretcravingspublishing.com
Dedication
This book is dedicated to all the fans of the Montana Men who have waited patiently for this final book in the series. You know who you are.
Happy Reading,
Jaydyn Chelcee
Acknowledgement
Thank you, Secret Cravings Publishing, for taking me and my books in and getting them out to market so fast this past year. You all are the best! Thank you to my wonderful editors, Colleen McSpirit and Ariana Gaynor for all the suggestions you make that enrich my books and make them so much better, and for making the job fun.
Hugs,
Jaydyn Chelcee
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*Taming the Cougar, a western, erotic romance:
Marla isn't looking for love or anything else from a man. Can Marla put aside her distrust of men for a younger man? Can Chris convince her he's not like other guys?
*Hunting Jaguar, paranormal erotic romance:
Rachel Hayes' father set out to prove the existence of the Miloni temple and the Jaguar people. Tumi is a descendant of the Miloni race and is sworn to protect their secret with his life. Will he be forced to uphold his vow at the cost of his heart and Rachel's life?
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WILD
Montana Men 5
Jaydyn Chelcee
Copyright © 2012
Prologue One
There will be time to murder and create.
~T.S. Elliot
Northern Montana
February 20, Friday,
2:00 a.m.
“Punch the button,” the brunette screamed, charging inside the elevator like the lead steer in a stampede. “Punch the button! Hurry!” She whirled to steal a look past the open door. Her hands jittered nervously at her sides. “Oh my God, he’s coming,” she shouted, and backed up a step.
Although Jayla Ross barely caught a glimpse of the woman’s face before she stumbled back into her, she heard the undeniable panic in her shaky voice. The lady’s terror slid over Jayla like a dark and dangerous storm. A trace of saliva coated her tongue. Shaken, she stared at the back of the woman’s dark head.
What on Earth?
Frightened by the unknown, Jayla looked around even though she knew darn well there was no immediate escape from the box she was trapped in. They were trapped in.
Who was out there past those yawning doors?
How the hell was she supposed to push the button when the hysterical lady stood smack in front of the panel weeping and wringing her hands? Jayla started to nudge her aside when the oddest sounds—pop-pop—reached the inside of the elevator from down the corridor.
Although the faint noises were unfamiliar, they sounded ominous and sent a tingle of apprehension up her spine. It gave her reason to hurry, but she didn’t. She stood there frozen, her mind refusing to function. The muffled sounds reminded her of a firecracker that fizzled, withholding the big bang.
Her lungs chugged inside the tiny four-wall space sounding worse than a clogged engine. Sweat popped out on her forehead. Her blood chilled. Her fingers turned to ice. Everything happened so fast, a kaleidoscope of sounds, screams, blood—death.
Shrieking, the woman threw up her hands in a self-defensive gesture. “No,” she cried, but the word was as useless as her impotent defense. A thi
rd pop! Not another sound escaped her as the back of her head exploded like an over-ripe tomato—
Startled by the rumbling growls of a semi-truck’s engine as it lumbered past her parked car, Jayla Ross jerked out of the petrifying past she’d sank into. Disoriented, she stared at her palms in the pale light reflected inside the car from the rest stop’s generous lighting. No blood. No blood on her clothes or her hands—this time.
Damn! Jayla wished she’d stop remembering, stop seeing the blood and gore in her mind’s eye, but it was there, every time she tried to rest. It drifted back inside her head, dark and gruesome, a picture that’d never go away if she lived an eternity. Tears filled her eyes and blurred her vision. She knew better than to let her mind wander. It only revived the dreadful thing she’d seen, plus she let down her guard, and that was dangerous.
Three nights ago her world crashed down around her head when she witnessed Molly Westcott, the First Lady of the United States be assassinated. She hadn’t watched the event unfold on TV or from a news film. She’d observed the gruesome murder up close and personal.
“Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. Nowhere safe…not as long as the assassin lives.”
Jayla turned the key and started the engine, best to keep moving. She glanced over her shoulder before putting the little Mustang in reverse and backing out of the parking space. Facing forward once again, Jayla shifted the gear into drive and punched the gas feed. Time to move on before he caught up with her. She had no doubt the killer was tracking her. Keep on moving had become her adage. At least until she reached her destination, then she didn’t know what she’d do.
Glancing at her set expression in the rearview mirror, she cringed—a woman on a mission, that was her all right. She’d driven half-way across the country to find a man who had every right to hate her.
It didn’t matter.
She had one last thing to do before she died—tell Wild Remington the truth about why she lied on the witness stand seven years ago.
Why she sent him to prison for a crime he didn’t commit.
Jayla drew a deep breath and slowly released it. That confession was going to take every bit of the smattering of courage she had left.
She didn’t know which was worse, facing the man determined to kill her, or facing the man who had every right to want her dead.
Squaring her shoulders, Jayla glanced at the clock glowing like a full moon on the dash. “Please let me reach Wild in time, and if You’re listening, maybe You could talk to him about forgiveness?” Grateful the traffic was light this time of night, she melted into the flow of moving vehicles headed west. Jayla laid a protective hand on her stomach. “Please? I’m not asking for me…we need his help.”
Prologue Two
Life is like a movie, if you’ve sat through more than half of it and its sucked every second so far, it probably isn’t gonna get great right at the end and make it all worthwhile. None should blame you for walking out early.
~Doug Stanhope
Northern Montana
West side of Dancing Star Ranch
February 20, Friday
2:00 p.m.
Wild Remington perched on the rough edge of an old wooden apple crate and stared down the dark, endless barrel of a Dan Wesson Colt .45 Single Action pistol—a family heirloom. Although the nickel finish was a bit spotty with age, the worn walnut grips fit his big hands perfectly—a decent bore, good action, and a great revolver for accuracy.
Not that he was likely to miss at this range, but he wanted a special gun—one guaranteed to do the job right. There was his rifle, of course. It resided above the fireplace in an old gun rack he’d made from a slab of cedar way back in high school. It went without saying that a Colt was a fitting gun for a man to end it all with.
His elder brother would shit when he realized the revolver was missing from the family’s collection. He counted on Jace not noticing for a while since his brother was still recuperating from surgery.
Eyeing the sinister black hole at the end of the old barrel reminded Wild of his bleak, empty life. Like the history of the pistol, he’d brought nothing but death or pain to everyone he loved, starting with the day his mother pushed him out of the womb and her subsequent death minutes later, right up ‘til the day he’d been released from prison two years ago on his twenty-fifth birthday.
Wild thumbed open the chamber, dropped a cartridge into a slot, and snapped it shut. One heavyweight bullet was all he needed. Hell, if it came right down to it, if he did the job right, any gun, any bullet, would do the job.
Today, he planned to get it right.
He admired the revolver that had been called the gun that won the West. He liked the solid weight of it in his hands, the utter cold and finality of it. Like him, it was a lifeless piece of work, as dangerous as a coiled rattler when disturbed or in the wrong hands. A fitting end to the five years of misery he served behind bars, the two years of icy freedom that followed that didn’t feel like freedom at all, that felt worse than the time he’d spent behind bars.
God, did it make him weak not to have any desire to go on? Was his character flawed because he wanted to forget it all—end the God forsaken memories—the emptiness of his existence, the unbearable loneliness, the shame and embarrassment he’d brought to his family?
He couldn’t bear another day of the silent condemnation in people’s eyes, never wanted to see it again—the proverbial leper—that was him. No more.
Wild regretted the pain his death would cause Jace, Duel, and Dianna. His siblings wouldn’t understand, but they weren’t him, and he simply couldn’t explain the unbearable weight of it all so they’d comprehend his reasons. They couldn’t begin to know how his soul cried for freedom, the torment he’d gone through locked in prison or what it did to a man’s spirit. They could never understand how his gut tightened when a woman stared at him, silent accusation in her sidelong glances.
Yeah, his family would want to know why, but how did he explain the unexplainable? How did he make clear that nothing about his existence was ever going to change? He knew their questions before they asked them. He couldn’t go on trying to fit in, fighting, or clawing his way into a life that kept spitting him back out. Something inside him curled up and died every time a woman crossed the street in Rimrock to avoid him. His soul cracked and another chunk of his heart withered. Hell, they didn’t have to run, or hide. He read it on their faces. Their distaste, their silent accusation rang loud and clear—rapist!
He’d denied the allegation during the trial and numerous times since. Even though his innocence was no longer in question, the uncertainty, the finger pointing continued—sometimes unspoken—sometimes vocalized. His mind screamed, “I’m innocent,” but no one heard his silent declaration.
Jayla eventually came forward and admitted her lies, but he’d already served five years in the Montana State Prison at Deer Lodge. The stigma and distrust lingered. There’d always be that niggle of doubt in a woman’s mind, in her eyes, the instinctive urge to fear and shun him.
For so long, he’d refused to face the fact he wasn’t welcome in Rimrock, and wasn’t going to be a part of the community again. Okay. So he’d give the good people of the town what they sought, but he wasn’t exiting the way they wanted. It wasn’t going to be nice and tidy or all tied up real pretty for them. He’d choose his own mode of transportation, and the people—the sons of bitches could rot in hell for all he cared.
“Fuck it.” The time had come for him to walk away—or rather be carried away.
For a moment, Wild stared into the chalky-gray ashes in the fireplace, a chilling reminder he’d soon be as cold and lifeless as the dead fire. Slowly, he placed the end of the old barrel in his mouth and curled his finger around the trigger.
His breath lodged in his throat.
His heart thundered, knocking hard against his chest.
So this was it then, no regrets, except one. Damn it, he’d wanted the chance to make Jayla Ross pay for her lies, but it
wasn’t to be.
Wild closed his eyes and silently prayed for forgiveness. Boom!
Chapter One
If you define cowardice as running away at the first sign of danger, screaming and tripping and begging for mercy, then yes, Mr. Brave man, I guess I’m a coward.
~Jack Handy
Northern Montana
February 20, Friday
10:00 a.m.
Jayla Ross gripped the steering wheel of her snazzy red Mustang a little tighter. How was she going to get out of the sticky mess she’d managed to get herself entangled in?
Earlier in the morning, she’d left Williston, North Dakota, traveling west on Highway 2 through northern Montana—better known as The Hi-Line region—big mountains, bigger sky—bear, elk, and moose country—a part of Western America where men were men and their deeds spoke louder than words.
When Jayla saw the lights of Shelby, she sighed with relief. “Soon.” Before long, she’d reach her destination. But not nearly quick enough.
Her body reminded her she was in a bad way. No sleep, except for quick power naps for the last three days and two nights, and a bullet still lodged in her shoulder that left her screaming in agony every time she moved her left arm. Running on adrenaline and caffeine, she knew when the inevitable crash hit, she’d go down hard. Before that happened, she wanted to reach her destination.