Page 75 of Westin

“Sounds correct,” he says.

He turns, dragging a log from the water and rolling it up the bank. I follow him, standing back to watch the river start flowing again. We both sink down, taking off our hats, to get a drink. Sovereign hands me a water bottle and takes out a pack of cigarettes.

“I think he's cousin to the Garrisons, but not blood,” he says. “I don't have any direct dealings with him. As long as he’s not fucking with Sovereign Mountain, he’s fine.”

We have a smoke in silence.

Finally, Sovereign lets out a short sigh. “I’d better get back,” he says. “I told Keira I wouldn’t be late today.”

The world didn’t change much when he brought Keira to Sovereign Mountain. She’s quiet, and I rarely see her except during meals. They spend most of their free time alone. It grates on me that he got his girl and I’m still high and dry, someone else’s wedding ring on Diane’s hand.

Sovereign has a deep, enduring disgust for infidelity. His first love’s faithlessness scarred him so deeply that he wasn’t willing to touch Keira until Clint was cold seven months in the ground. If he knew what I did with Diane, he’d never look at me the same.

All my excuses sound like bullshit. He won’t believe that Thomas agreed to an open marriage. I barely believe it myself.

I drop my head.

“How long are you expecting to let the Garrison brothers live?” I ask, keeping my voice casual.

“Why?” His forehead creases.

“I don’t think it’s good to let this go on forever.”

Sovereign shrugs, getting to his feet. “It’s better to kill them during the winter, but I may wait longer—I don’t want heat from the authorities. It hasn’t been long enough since we took out Clint.”

He has a point, but God, it kills me inside. We don’t speak as we gather our things and take Rocky and Shadow back down to the barn. We finish up chores, and I head to the gatehouse.

In my office, I get a cold beer from the fridge and flip my laptop open. I don’t know if I have it in me to wait until Thomas is dead. I need to find a way to get Diane out and save her farm now. It seems like locating Corbin Buchanan and seeing if he’s willing to talk business is the best idea.

Three days later, I put on my good hat, the one where the SMR logo still shines gunmetal gray, and take the truck into the city. It’s not my favorite place; maybe I like it even less than Sovereign does. It takes me an hour to find parking, then another hour to get into the city building. The streets are more crowded than I remember, but then, I haven’t come into the city in months.

A woman with neat blonde hair tucked into a bun sits at the front desk. Before I can say why I’m here, she points me through the scanners. I go through security and head up to where the stairs are split. At the top is the room where they hear city meetings. I’ve been here once or twice for zoning hearings and the like.

It’s quiet when I push open the door and slip in. Right at the front of the room is a long table with four men and a woman seated at it. My eyes flick over the name plates until I get to the one I’m looking for—Mr. Corbin Buchanan.

I sink into the back seat and study him. He’s older than Sovereign and me, by maybe five years. His hair is black and his skin light beige, some salt and pepper in his beard. I can’t tell if he’s from around here, but if I had to guess, he is. I make a mental note to start sorting through his past.

The meeting isn’t anything I’m interested in—parking meters, city parks, that kind of thing—but I wait until the end, watching Mr. Buchanan talk.

He’s confident; I can tell he’s got money. There’s an aura of assurance around men who’ve never wondered where their next meal was coming from. He has a little bit of the Garrisons in his face, even though he’s not blood. Maybe it’s my bias talking, but I see it in the hint of arrogance.

I flick my eyes over his body. His suit is tailored. His boots are leather. The hat that sits on the table before him is a fine, dark material.

I narrow my gaze. I think I might not like Corbin Buchanan too well.

The meeting concludes. I wait until the room is cleared and the last person follows Corbin out. Then, I put on my hat and follow him out into the hall.

“Mr. Buchanan,” I say.

He turns, a line appearing between his brows. “Hello. Can I help you with something, sir?”

I hold out my hand. He shakes it.

“Westin Quinn,” I say. “I’d like to talk to you.”

He glances over his shoulder. His assistant waits at the end of the hall.

“Do you want to make an appointment?” he asks.

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