RattlingtheCage

  Rattling the Cage

  Ann Cory

  Montana Lee wants a life outside of Rattler City, Nevada, a hellhole of a town where the law strikes fear in its residents. Slapped with a reputation from a mother she hardly knew and a debt that keeps her slaving for pennies at the bar, her dream of escaping to become a dancer remains out of reach. But the winds change when a muscle-bound drifter named Lawson struts into town exuding danger and an undercurrent of raw sexual energy. Convinced he’s the key to her escape, Montana makes it a priority to capture his attention.

  Anger and darkness have consumed Lawson for years, leading him back to the town that robbed him of his childhood. His plans for vengeance are simple—find the stolen money, kill the one responsible for the demise of his family and destroy the town. He didn’t count on Montana or her will to seduce…both proving impossible to ignore.

  Rattling the Cage

  Ann Cory

  Dedication

  For the ladies who understand and love a complex man.

  Chapter One

  He breezed into the bar, a flurry of rough denim and attitude. Fire blazed behind his silvery-blue eyes. Jaws clenched as though he had fangs for teeth. The glimmer of a dimple in his left cheek as he twisted his face into a sneer gave away the fact that he was indeed human. In one fluid motion he grabbed the pool stick from one of the regulars and slammed the unsuspecting cuss up against the wall.

  “I don’t like scum who touch my truck. Catch my drift?”

  Amos shook in his raggedy-ass boots, and if he hadn’t been wearing his oversized coat, everyone else would have noticed him piss his pants. Montana Lee happened to have been close enough to smell the pungent odor, but ignored it, too intrigued by the testosterone-induced altercation.

  The Stetson-wearing stranger let go of Amos and the sniveling man sank to the floor, the whites of his eyes stained yellow in the dim light. No one spoke. No one moved. Even the jukebox quieted.

  Mister Mysterious guzzled back a pint of beer and propped his body against the bar. Montana remembered how her limbs worked and shut off the water faucet before the sink overflowed. A shattered shot glass lay at her feet.

  He was the roughest thing she’d seen in all her twenty-three years. His fine ass filled out tight black jeans, and a well-chiseled chest peeked out from his white shirt missing its top two buttons. From beneath his hat, dark shoulder-length hair, black as oil, beckoned her fingers to run through it, and his eyes raged like a butcher after a fresh killing.

  He glanced in her direction and she almost swallowed her gum. She wondered how he liked his women.

  She wanted to be his woman, if only for a night.

  Again the dimple made its appearance, and a hint of mischief accompanied his smile.

  From his back pocket he pulled out a wad of bills and tossed it onto the countertop. Montana jutted out her breasts and leaned over for show. While not model perfect, her lean muscles and curves provoked attention.

  To her dismay, his eyes remained upright.

  Stung by his disinterest, she pivoted and pushed a loose hair from her brow. Feeding his ego didn’t rate high on her priority list.

  Montana snagged a dishtowel and busied herself with drying glasses. She blew a large pink bubble with her gum to the count of ten, sucked it back in and faced the now empty space at the bar.

  The door ahead swung shut.

  On the floor, Amos snored, oblivious to the dark stain on his pants. With the tip of her boot, she poked his side.

  “Amos?”

  His eyes opened a crack and a jack-o’-lantern grin bunched his wrinkled face. “What’s a pretty girl like you doing working in a place like this?”

  She scooped her arms under his back to help him up. The foul combination of body odor, whiskey and urine hit hard and sent her stomach into spasms.

  Blinking back tears, she hollered, “Can I get some help here?”

  Bigsby, a regular, pulled him to his feet.

  “Thanks,” she said, impressed by the scrawny man’s strength.

  “Sure thing, girly. Whatcha gonna do for me in return?”

  Montana ignored his unsettling question and beamed at Amos. “Now, you best get on home, you hear? Ava will be worried.”

  Amos staggered between tables along his path to the door, toppling chairs and offending drinkers with his stench. She considered propping the door open to air out the place but changed her mind when deafening cheers erupted. Some leotard-wearing bastard on TV got thrown into the ropes, flew a good two feet back into the ring, only to meet an outstretched arm of his opponent that sent him into a stupor for the full count of ten.

  Montana rolled her eyes and straightened salt shakers on tables. She wondered about the stranger’s intentions in the hell-hole known as Rattler City, Nevada. Other than gravel roads and withering old buildings, there wasn’t much for people to see. She’d wanted out since the day she’d arrived.

  Her eyes flickered to the clock. The second hand taunted her with its penchant to slow during the final minutes of work. Sometimes stopping altogether. She drummed her nails along the countertop. The activity around her disappeared into a pink haze as she blew bubble after bubble.

  At midnight her breath whooshed out and noise resumed.

  She cupped her hands around her mouth. “Okay, boys, time to go home. See ya’ll tomorrow.”

  The men filed out as if they were headed off to war. After a brief check throughout the bar and toilet for stragglers, she locked the door.

  “Finally. Some goddamn peace around here.”

  Montana swept up the broken shot glass, wiped down tables, stacked chairs and restocked napkins. The register added up right for a change—her tips, not so much. The blue-and-chrome jukebox, her one true vice, played an upbeat tune. Most nights she’d stay late and dance. Her dream of performing onstage never far from her mind.

  She leaned against the jukebox with its blinking electric-blue lights. Through the window she admired the moon. She longed to reach out and grasp its crescent point, to find something worthwhile to hold onto that would spirit her away. To start over in a new place without a reputation hanging over her like a noose.

  Deemed a lowlife piece of trash from folks in the town, she didn’t expect to amount to anything. Her blink-and-you-missed-it childhood consisted of a beat-up trailer, a neglectful mother who died too young and a string of so-called uncles, some who paid her the wrong kind of attention. When it came to men, she knew to watch her back.

  The dark-haired drifter returned to her thoughts. He’d stirred up a dust cloud deep within her soul. An unbearable, restless ache. She pictured his hands. Manly. Tornado strong. Able to fling grown men like Amos, or leotard-wearing bastards like the guy from TV, into oblivion. Able to hoist her up and around his waist and take her hard against the wall.

  A slow burn smoldered between her thighs.

  Dragging herself away from the window, she checked the safe, grabbed her keys and locked up. Outside, the dry heat invaded her body like a dirty old man.

  Her skin bristled at the familiar rattle and hum of Deputy Garvey’s car. He pulled alongside her, leaving little room to walk.

  “Hey, beautiful. Lookin’ hot tonight.”

  Musty cigar and cheap booze emanated from his car.

  She angled her face his way, pinched her nose and waved him on. Though three years older, he didn’t act it, and with his curly blond hair, he didn’t look it either.

  “How ’bout I get a bucket of ice and help cool you off.”

  Montana stopped. “I let a bunch of drunken men out of the bar not even ten minutes ago. Shouldn’t you be driving up and down Duncan Street?”

  “Now why would I be looking after some drunkards when there’s a mighty right vision in need of
an escort home?” His dirt-brown eyes reflected his unsavory intentions.

  She glanced forward. An empty road lay ahead. Not a witness in sight. The scenario she expected if she climbed into his car didn’t appeal in the least. Even with a deputy. The law in Rattler City didn’t protect its citizens. The law frightened them.

  She dragged the toe of her boot along the loose gravel. “Look, I’ve told you before, I prefer to walk home. It’s the only time I’m outside all day. Besides, my legs need a good stretch.”

  Garvey’s lips molded into a distorted shape. “I can think of other ways to stretch those legs of yours.”

  Her body tensed at the visual. “Thanks, but no.”

  Eyes wild, he rolled up the window halfway. “One of these days I’m going to haul your sweet ass into my car and give you a helluva ride.”

  “Doubt that.”

  For years he’d spouted veiled threats about getting with her.

  “Last chance.”

  “No chance,” she said and continued on. The gravel dug into her boots, making it impossible to move fast enough.

  Garvey revved the engine and spun the car, sending rocks at the back of her legs.

  “Stupid asshole,” she mumbled.

  She’d never be desperate enough to settle for the likes of Garvey. But he’d continue hounding her until the day she left town. And Montana wanted out now.

  Dance halls beckoned with spotlights and glittering outfits. Her name flashing on the marquee. The need to escape rippled through her veins. She attributed it to the stranger’s arrival. Stuck didn’t seem a state of mind he’d ever find himself in. He’d mentioned a truck. With him she’d have a ride and protection.

  Renewed energy quickened her pace. After a shower to slough away the booze and cigarettes and drunk men from her skin, she’d figure out a way to convince the drifter to get her away from her empty life, and out of Rattler City.

  Chapter Two

  His eyes watered at the cloying fungus and underlying smoke in the motel room. Rattler City reeked of lies and deceit.

  Eyelids heavy, he collapsed onto the bed. Rain pelted the window like a child plunking piano keys. He hated the rain. It gave his shoulder grief.

  Lawson scratched at the two-day stubble on his chin. His initial idea to keep a low profile failed. Set off by the reed-thin man pissing on the rear tire of his truck, he’d lost his cool. Not that he cared what others thought, he did regret his tantrum in front of the sultry brunette. He liked how she flirted, breathtaking with her green, cat-like eyes and rose-red lips. He’d have preferred his hands on her lissome body rather than around a drunk’s neck. With her lean legs tucked into high-heel fuck-me boots, she reminded him of a not-so-innocent Snow White trapped in a cavern of perverted old men.

  Arm draped over his eyes, he groaned. His purpose in Rattler City didn’t allow time for women and he reiterated to himself his strict policies—never form attachments. Never buy a woman. Keep thoughts from both heads separated. Rules created after one too many mishaps.

  Lawson rummaged a silver dollar from his pocket and let it tumble back and forth along his knuckles. His grandmother’s last words echoed in his mind.

  You think the coin’s worthless now, but I guarantee it will be priceless when you need it most.

  The silver dollar was all he had left of her. Someday he hoped to understand the meaning behind her words.

  He rolled to his side and his gaze followed the spidery cracks along the mustard-colored walls. Years of planning and preparing, and finally, he was where he wanted…and didn’t want to be. Come morning he’d scope out the town and scout people for information. In return he’d feed them whatever they wanted. Food. Money. Bullshit.

  He flopped to his back and pressed the silver dollar to his lips, its smooth surface warm. “They’re all going to pay,” he said. “Just like I said they would.”

  The coils inside the mattress poked into his body. Injuries left him no stranger to pain. His usual remedy of beer until he blacked out wouldn’t cut it. For the next few days, he needed his thoughts clear and reflexes sharp. It took focus to kill a man and torch a town.

  * * * * *

  Sunshine seeped in through the flimsy moth-eaten curtains far too early in his opinion. Lawson moved to a sitting position and snarled. Sharp stabbing pain sliced through his shoulder. Damn rain. Head against the wall, he waited until the room stopped spiraling.

  He teetered into the bathroom for a shower. Nerve-shattering clangs resounded from the pipes, and blobs of rusty water splattered the tile. He fought with the knob until it stopped and then tried the faucet. Clear water poured out. Hurriedly, he scrubbed his face and hair and dressed in a fresh shirt and jeans. Lawson ran his hand through his hair and dropped his dusky black hat on his head. The brief sleep had done him good. Before he hit the town he aimed to find something greasy with a pound and a half of ketchup.

  An elderly man with the name Frank on his shirt sat behind the front desk, his nose in a tattered book.

  Lawson rapped his knuckles on the desk. “Morning.”

  “Morning, sir,” the man wheezed. “What can I do for you?”

  “Tell me where I can get a decent meal around here.”

  “That would be Libby’s.” Frank pointed a bony finger across the street toward a building with pasty windows. “If you don’t mind greasy fried food.”

  Lawson punched himself in the gut. “Got an iron stomach. Grease works for me.”

  “Suit yerself.”

  “About the shower.” He hated to complain but sink baths weren’t his style. “All I get is rusty water.”

  A reddish tinge mottled the man’s face. “I’m sorry, sir. I’ll fix it straight away. We don’t get many overnight visitors.”

  He figured. “Much appreciated.”

  Lawson followed the tempting aroma of grease into Libby’s.

  “Be right with ya, honey.” A cherub-faced woman smiled in his direction and hiked a large tray over the heads of people eating as she made her way to a back table. Bacon, eggs and fresh hash browns frying made his stomach turn flip-flops. He barely remembered the last good meal he’d eaten.

  Libby returned and ushered him through a maze of tables. “It’s a right busy morning, sugar. Credit day and all. You mind sharing part of a table with another group? I’m fresh outta empty chairs.”

  Too hungry to argue, Lawson nodded. “I suppose not.”

  “I’ll seat you with Russ and Corbet. They be fine men and won’t give you trouble.”

  His gaze followed to the table. They looked decent enough. He just wanted food.

  “I’m Libby, in case you didn’t read the sign out front. Here we go.” She pulled out the chair and slapped a menu in his hands. “Gentlemen, we got us a hungry man who needs a seat. Ya’ll won’t mind sharing, will ya?”

  Both men tipped their ball caps at the woman and shook their heads.

  “Sure thing. A man’s gotta eat. Have a seat, mister. Gotta git here early if you’s wanna table to yerself.”

  “Thanks. I’ll know better next time.” Lawson set his hat on the table and squeezed into a seat more accustomed for the undernourished.

  “You know what you want, darlin’, or should I give you a few?”

  He glanced at Libby’s apple cheeks and watched her long earrings sway. “I’d like a big plate of hash browns, eggs over easy and the greasiest bacon you can do.”

  Her eyes lit like fireworks. “You’re a guy after my own heart. Be right back with your order.”

  “First time in Rattler City, mister?”

  Lawson turned his attention from the bright-yellow walls and fixtures to his table mates. They were comical in their overalls.

  “Been here once, long time ago.”

  “You here visitin’ a friend?”

  He brushed invisible lint from his Stetson. “Don’t have friends around here. Thought I’d take a breather on my way to Washington. Place seems nice enough.”

  The men leered at one
another, their brows disappearing into their caps. “Name’s Corbet.” He reached forward and Lawson returned the handshake. “Ain’t reckon we ever heard anyone use them two words together about this town. Whatcha think, Russ?”

  With his big belly and green cap, his friend looked every bit the part of a country farmer. “Nope. I’ve seen turtles race through these parts, if you catch my drift.”

  Lawson leaned forward on his elbows. “Hm. I must be missing something.”

  Corbet sucked up the rest of what looked like coffee and shook his head. “You see, ain’t nuthin’ but poor folk ’round here. Trash. That’s what the sheriff calls us. No good, filthy trash. This town has nuthin’ to offer travelers ’cept a warning. Spend yer money or git the hell out.”

  Russ wiped his forehead with a checkered handkerchief. “It’s true. Sheriff don’t like strangers pokin’ where they don’t belong. So, if you’s gotta notion in yer head ’bout staying, I’d think twice.”

  “If everyone’s so poor, how do you have the money to eat and drink?”

  “We’re on a credit system here,” Corbet explained. “Russ and I yield some decent crops each year, so we ain’t as bad off as most folks. If you prove yer worth, you can eat well enough. But you have to mind yer business.”

  Lawson processed the information and then lowered his voice. “What can you tell me about Clint Mitchum?”

  Both men visibly shuddered. Russ leaned in. “Mitchum runs this place with an iron fist. You don’t wanna git in his face. He has no problem shootin’ for the sake of shootin’.”

  Lawson leaned back in his chair at the same time Libby arrived with his plate.

  “Here ya go, honey. You enjoy. Can I get you something to whet your whistle?”

  “Water will do.”

  He smothered the hash browns with ketchup and dug into the food as if it was his last meal. His new friends kept talking.

  “People ’round here are too scared to complain about the way we’s treated, see. The law don’t work for no one but the law.”