Page 110 of Things Left Unsaid

“Like Pops does,” he continues, “then it’s not enough and will run out fast. I know for a fact he’d have been in debt. It’s how he works. When I took over the ranch, he owed our creditors millions despite having the liquidity to cover the loans.”

“Why are you showing me this?” I ask, tone soft.

“There’s your motive.Thatis why he set fire to the stables. It’s why he didn’t let the horses loose. Franny was a blood bay with a sire who’d won gold at the Kentucky Derby. She won the King’s Plate the previous year and we were starting her on the US circuit for the upcoming season. Alone, her insurance payout would have given him the funds to establish himself.”

Bewildered, I just gape at him.

“He falsified Uncle Clay’s will—I have a copy of that too. But because he’s useless at ranching, we were operating near bankruptcy that season and had no working capital. So, to save the Seven Cs from ruin, he set fire to the stables, banked the millions from the insurance, and coasted along like the best of con artists.”

Feeling sick, I ball my hands into fists that I press into my lap. It’s either that or tear the will apart.

“I hate him,” I intone, the words seething with my wrath.

“No more than I do,” is his grim retort.

“What are you going to do?”

“That’s the bitch of it. Though I’ve set an investigation into motion, I have no proof that hedidset fire to the stables. Only an eyewitness…”

The sensation of nausea swirling around my insides intensifies. “You want me to file a report?”

“That’s down to you,” he assures me, his voice calm, as if he can read my panic.

My mind drifts to the many times that people blamedmefor the fire.

And that same old fear metastasizes inside me.

“No one would believe me,” I rasp.

“I do.”

I jerk to my feet. “You’re you and even you didn’t believe me without the Loki connection. Everyone in town hates me.”

“More than they hate him?”

“No. They’re scared of him. All the more reason to keep things simple and blame me.” My hands are trembling as I cup my elbows. “Y-You know the authorities would never take my side over his. I-I want to b-but?—”

He gets to his feet too. Warily, I watch him approach me. As his hands settle on my shoulders, he urges me to lean on him.

For a second, I hover there.

I want to collapse into him, needing him to prop me up when I’m most vulnerable, but this isn’t ten years ago.

Then, one of those large paws of his settles at the center of my back.

The heat of it whispers through me, like smoke getting into all the cracks, warming me from the inside out.

He encourages me to rest against him, and because I’m a weak, weak, weak woman, I do.

Gingerly, he curves his arms around me, and as the scent of him permeates the air, I sag in his hold.

God, he feels good.

So strong and stalwart.

As if he could take the burden of the world off my back and would carry it for me.

But that’s wishful thinking, isn’t it?

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