Page 95 of Double Bucked

I toss my bag over my shoulder and head out. Before heading back to the house, I make a quick loop around the property.

Arris Dagney’s office is a small, narrow building behind the Preacher house. As our bloodstock agent, in charge of buying and selling breeding horses, he’s only ever here a couple times a week, tops. Most days, he’s busy with the Equestrian Club and Benefactor’s Society. So it’s 50/50 when I knock on his door, but I hear from inside: “Come in.”

I enter and I’m hit with a blast of AC. He’s behind his desk, but he glances up at me when I step in. Even in this ice box, he’s got a fan going, and his papers flutter in the manufactured wind.

I take off my hat and hold it. “Mr. Dagney. You got a minute?”

His gaze falls back to his papers. “Ransom. What can I do for you?”

“Some of the men had some questions about their paychecks. Said they were running late.”

He scratches his jaw. The scruff makes a rough sound. “I’ll get it sorted. Thank you. Remind them that we’re shut down for the rest of the week.”

“How’s that?”

He glances up at me. “The Belleflower Festival.”

Right. Keep forgetting about that damn festival.

Everything shuts down for the festival.

Between Mr. Preacher’s death and Claire coming back to town and the shitstorm that was last night, I haven’t exactly had time to think about a parade.

As if he can read my mind, Arris closes his ledger book. He looks me in the eyes when he says, “Losing Preacher was hard on all of us. Get some rest. When we start back up again, we should talk about your place on the ranch.”

I shift my weight from one foot to the other. “Am I getting fired?”

A low chuckle. “You’re getting promoted. You really…put your back into your work here. That kind of loyalty should be rewarded, don’t you think?”

The way he’s looking at me has me wondering…what isn’t he saying?

Does he know something? About Jade? About Mr. Preacher?

I can’t tell, but there’s a jagged edge to his stare that leaves me uncomfortable.

I play it off. “Well. I’ll let you be.”

Before I can leave, I hear him ask: “How’s Claire?”

I stop, hand on the doorknob. “Surviving.”

“She’s a fighter, that one. Perhaps she should stop.”

“Stop what?”

“Fighting so hard.”

The papers shudder and flap.

I exit, leaving him to his work. The Kentucky sun hits me in the face. Something doesn’t feel right, but everything’s off kilter. Too much to wrap my head around. I head back to the main house.

It smells good when I step inside. Like eggs and coffee. I go into the kitchen. Claire’s sitting at the table, brow furrowed at her laptop, fingers tapping over the keyboard. Everett has a plate of breakfast in hand and he nudges it across the table to her.

“Claire,” he says lowly, “you have to eat.”

“I don’t have to do anything.”

Everett glares at me when I enter the room. Like this is somehow my fault.

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