Page 23 of Frosty the Biker

“Baby girl, whether you should have or shouldn’t have is irrelevant at this time. There’s no sense in dwelling on the coulda, shoulda, woulda shit. You can only deal with the now shit. So, where the heck has he been?”

“Montana.”

“Saywhat? No wonder we couldn’t find him. Good heavens, why the hell would he go up to the frozen tundra like that?”

I explained all of the bizarre twists of fate that created the situation we found ourselves in today. Speaking it aloud didn’t make it any easier to believe. It was insane. The only thing I left out when I filled my mom in on the day I’d had was Anson having visions and that damn letter those goons dropped off today. Those could wait.

“How are you feeling?” I asked her after we’d finished discussing everything.

“I’m actually feeling pretty good, all things considered. However, it’s late and I have a store to open in the morning so I’m going to bed.” She stood up and kissed me on my head. “I love you, Ryian. You’re my only baby, with my only grandchild, and I’m glad to have you home.”

“Love you too, Momma,” I murmured. “I’ll shut off all the lights.”

I stayed up a little bit longer, staring out the windows at the twinkling lights of the city.

What if Dalton did want to rekindle what we had?

What if he wants to try to be a real family?

Could we actually make it work?

Do I want to?

“Tomorrow”—Sixx:A.M.

The next morning, I decided to get up early and go by the attorney’s office that signed the will. The front desk receptionist didn’t seem overly optimistic that Mr. Rushing would be able to squeeze me in, but I was waiting until I absolutely had to leave.

Just in case.

“Mr. Dixon?” a rotund man with heavily gray hair asked as he stuck his head out into the waiting room.

“Yes, sir. That’s me,” I replied.

“Come with me, please,” he instructed, and I immediately jumped to my feet. I followed him down a short hall and into an office full of open books, several computer screens, and plenty of sunshine filtering in through the sheer curtains. “Have a seat.”

I did and waited.

“I’m surprised that you came in. I’d been in the process of tracking you down. Without a forwarding address, it’s been a process. Legalities, you understand,” he began. He clicked away at his keyboard before he found what he was looking for, then he returned his attention to me. “All the furniture and belongings were sold in an estate sale, per the conditions of the will. She figured you wouldn’t want any of it because you didn’t know her. That money was donated to a children’s home, per her wishes.”

“I don’t really care about all that. What I care about is how this happened. How did a woman whom I’ve never met, leave her home to me? How long was she aware of who I was? And why didn’t she come forward sooner—like back when I was a kid?” I asked.

He sighed and removed his glasses. “When Mrs. Dickson found out she was dying, she was alone. At the urging of a neighbor, she did one of those DNA tests to see if her deceased son or grandson had any illegitimate children she didn’t know about. You came up but your last known address was here—and you weren’t. She also didn’t know why your name was spelled differently—unless it was to hide you from your great grandmother out of spite.” He shrugged.

I let out a heavy breath I hadn’t been aware I was holding.

“Though she died before she was able to find you, you are her only heir, and she wanted you to have her home. Mrs. Dickson was a… uh… overly, um… stern woman. It had caused a rift between her and her son, then in turn, she never really knew her grandson—your father. In her later years, I think she realized what that had cost her, and she was trying to make amends. This probably means very little to you at this point, but I felt you had a right to know. I honestly don’t expect you to keep the house since you live out of state. I don’t think she did either.”

“Jesus,” I muttered as I ran a shaking hand through my dark-blond hair.

“How did you find out about the house anyway?” he asked with unhidden curiosity in his tone.

A humorless laugh escaped my throat. “I’m not sure you’d believe me if I told you.”

“Try me,” he countered.

With a sigh, I explained what had happened. By the time I was done, the attorney’s eyes were wide, and he shook his head in disbelief. “Mr. Kris Kimble, you said?”

“Yeah. At least that’s what the waitress said his name was.” I shrugged.

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