Page 47 of Riding Jamie

“What? No, I got these from Shane,” I say. “He said his aunt Tammy was a lawyer, that these were from a case she was putting together for you a long time ago.”

My mom turns, concern written across her face.

“Shane?” she asks. “Your coworker?”

“I—yes. Why does that matter?”

She shoots a look at my dad, but he’s too busy poring over the papers to catch it.

“What did you say his last name was?” she asks carefully.

I stare at her, my mouth dropped open in confusion and annoyance. There are more important things to talk about than Shane, for fuck’s sake. Why doeseveryonekeep bringing him up?

“Wallace, I think?”

My dad’s head swings up at that, and the confusion on his face shifts to anger. He and my mom share a look that holds the weight of a million words.

“You said Shane’s aunt was named Tammy, right?” he says slowly.

I nod.

“I think we need to have a conversation with yourfriend.” His voice is caustic, his face screwed up in a scowl. “Did he tell you he’s the nephew of the financial advisor I fired when you were young?”

A befuddled, shocked laugh falls from my lips. Why would Shane have any connection to my family at all? Peter Wallace is a scumbag who got chased out of town for embezzling money from several people. His lawyer wife covered his tracks. But Wallace isn’t that uncommon of a last name, right? It’s just a coincidence.

“His uncle is why we almost went bankrupt, Oakley,” my mom says, her voice dark and heavy. “Whatever he’s trying to do, it’s nothing good.”

Understanding falls like a sack of bricks when I remember how my parents met Peter Wallace in the first place. His best friend is Mark Ward, another man who used to spend a lot of time—and money—at the rodeo.

Mark Ward, Savannah Ward’s fucking father.

Oh, that wretched littlebitch.

Was she even trying to go after Jamie, or was she just trying to break us up so Shane would have a shot with me? Rage fills me like fire, and I have to bite down harshly on my tongue to stop myself from screaming.

There’s still other things to figure out.

“But what about these?” I ask, clawing for something that I can actually understand.

“These are just old emails between Greg and I,” my dad says, sitting down at the table to look at the pages more closely. “Half of them aren't even in here, but I never tried tosuehim. He may be an asshole, but he never did anything illegal.”

“So what even happened?” I ask, annoyed and desperate for a real answer. “You and Greg Walker have been at each other's throats since I was a kid. If it wasn't blackmail, what was it?”

My dad puts the papers down, sighing heavily. He won't meet my eyes, and he's tapping his knuckles over the table the way he always does when he's anxious.

“You tell her or I will,” my mom says bluntly, not turning around from where she's drying plates.

He blows out a breath and scratches at the back of his head, but he finally answers me.

“We made a bet,” he says, waving his hand in the air in annoyance. “I lost a lot of money. He would never admit that he rigged it, and we fell out.”

“Abet?” I swear to God, if we've been playing this family feud game for so long over something stupid, I'm fit to walk right out. “What was it even about?”

My dad waves the question off, pushing up from the table. He has the papers in his hand, and I stand, following him as he heads into the kitchen.

“Look, Oakley, it was a long time ago.” He pulls a bottle of whiskey down from the cabinet, and my suspicion piques immediately. “It's not important.”

I snag the bottle from his hand and take several steps back holding it out of his reach. I'm getting answers one way or another.

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