Page 3 of The Way to a Cowboy's Heart

“Emily.”

“Jay?” she said, still in shock.

“You’re just in time.” He tilted his head back against the wall with a sigh. “Welcome to the end of everything.”

*

An hour later,she stood on the curb in front of the building in the pouring rain, alongside Mitch Abrams, Rachel Dougherty, and Kendall Black, each cradling a smallish cardboard box full of their personal things—all strictly inspected by the FBI for contraband before leaving the building. No one needed to tell them it was the end of their firm, regardless of whatever the outcome of the FBI probe. William Bledsoe had been led away in handcuffs without a single glance at his employees. No apologies or explanations. Just gone.

As the rain soaked them, the three briefly hugged, knowing they’d likely never cross paths again and went their separate ways, all of them unsuccessfully choking back tears.

Emily thought of hailing a cab, but she had a better chance of being struck by lightning than she did getting a cab in NYC in the rain. So, she headed back toward the subway.

But she’d only gone a half block before she caught the heel of her useless Louboutin shoe in a sidewalk grate, neatly snapping it off. She wobbled comically trying to catch her balance, before nearly face planting on the sidewalk. But for the box she held that spilled across the walkway, she would have done more than scrape the hell out of her knees and wrists.

She muttered another curse.

For the longest moment, she lay there, with the wind knocked out of her, and the rain soaking her, wondering what wicked thing she must have done to deserve this day. This utter cataclysm. Some karmic debt maybe? Some past transgression? All these years of hard work and this was the end? Gutted by a man she’d trusted with her life?

Her knees and palms burned as she got to her feet to collect her scattered things, her wet hair dangling in her face.

Someone reached for the shattered picture frame with a photo of her sister and her and handed it to her. Emily looked up.

Pete stared down at her with a worried frown. “Can I give ya’ll a hand, Ms. Quinn?”

On a near sob, she reached for his hand, and he helped her up. “Thank you, Pete.”

“It ain’t nothin’. I’ll get these things for you. Walk you to the subway.”

“You really needn’t—”

“I’m goin’ that way anyway. Be happy to carry these for you.”

His kindness was almost too much to bear right now. So, she simply nodded and let him collect the remnants of the life she’d lived for the past six years, all contained in a half-collapsed cardboard box. With a hostile wrench, she tore the broken heel off her shoe and tossed it in a rubbish can.

As she limped along beside him, he said not a word about the broken shoe—not as if he hadn’t warned her—nor did he ask her a single thing about why she was carrying her life down the street. No doubt he and every other Wall Street patron and pedestrian had seen the FBI swarming the street like busy little bees, disassembling the lives of all of her friends.

And hers.

She wouldn’t be able to buy a job in this town now. Not for months. Or maybe years. Maybe never. Her resume would now be worth approximately what these useless shoes of hers were worth, because her name would be tainted with William’s ill-gotten gains forever.

She still couldn’t believe it. But she saw it. They all saw it on his face. He knew he’d been caught. Busted. And he’d screwed people he knew. Loved, even. And he’d screwed his employees as well.

She wiped the rain off her face, glad that Pete couldn’t see that the rain had mixed with tears. She guessed her mascara was a bloody mess by now.

Think of the chocolate tart. Or the vinaigrette.

In her mind, she poured the ingredients together into the carafe, but it all got muddled and wrong. Oh, no. Should she cancel dinner altogether?Couldshe now?

She wanted to call Muriel, tell her what happened, but the FBI still had her phone.

They climbed down the subway stairs to the tunnel and Pete carried her box the whole way.

When they were almost at the platform, he stopped in front of her. “You bleedin’ there, Ms. Quinn,” Pete said, pointing at the trickle of blood sliding down her leg. “Maybe we should stop and buy some bandages before you get on that dirty subway.”

She breathed a laugh. Really. She’d shredded her knees on a filthy NYC sidewalk. How much worse could it get? “I’ll be okay. Thank you, though.”

“Will you, though?” he asked sincerely.

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