Page 245 of Things Left Unsaid

“Not a crime to care,” I murmur.

I get it.

The fatigue she must feel from being hypervigilant is something I can’t imagine dealing with, and now, she has me, Tee, Callan,andMrs. Abelman monitoring her blood sugar. It’s only because we give a damn but it must be tiring.

“No,” she mumbles. “Sorry. Callan came at me while you were out, about my cookies.”

“What about them?”

“He says my blood sugar spikes when I decorate them.”

My brows lift. “He wouldn’t say that if it weren’t true.”

“I’m a perfectionist,” she counters.

And that makes her blood sugar spike? How random.

“It doesn’t matter. It’s just why I’m grouchy.”

Nodding my understanding, I turn to watch Jas as she prances in the water. Which is when I come to an admittedly abrupt decision, but today feels like a good day for that. “Things will be getting busier over the upcoming year.”

She tilts her head to the side. “Why?”

“I’ll be setting up the breeding program.”

She rests her arms on the open window and pushes her face toward mine. “I know you mentioned it before, but are you shifting away from beef stock?”

“Not entirely, though we both know it isn’t sustainable. Not in these numbers.” I snag her fingers in mine. “I thought maybe you’d want to be a part of it.”

“Me?”

The joy in her eyes only cements my belief that this is the right time. “Yeah. You were always great with the horses.”

“Maybe with the care, but I’m no good with stuff like breeding. I always feel sorry for the mares.” Her free hand toys with the medallion she always wears.

“You equine feminist, you.”

“Don’t you know it.” She shivers. “I hate the noises they make. It creeps me out.” It doesn’t take much to figure out why that is and I gently squeeze her fingers in comfort. Instead of blanching or blushing though, she mutters, “You know when I went to see the triplets andGrand-mère?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I found something in one of the drawers in Mom’s vanity.”

Her tone tells me it wasn’t a ‘good’ something.

I stay silent, waiting for her to find her words.

“I think Clyde was paying Mom for sex.”

That has me blinking.

And gaping at her like a fish.

“That’s pretty much how I’ve felt ever since I found out,” she mumbles.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” I chide, opening the door. Soft enough it doesn’t jar her but enough that we have to untangle our fingers.

In a flurry of movement, I shove my seat back as soon as we’re apart, then I open the door wider, grab her hand, and haul her onto my lap.

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