Page 96 of The Outlaw and the Heir

"Depends. How much do the lives of everyone in this building weigh against whatever they might demand of him?"

It was a perfectly reasonable question, but I could see the way it hung around Ambrose's head and clung to his thoughts. We'd never spoken about it, but I knew he’d spent too much of his life hanging onto everything his father was or wasn't in his head. And he’d spent just as much time chasing his father's affection, and if not that, at least a little pride in his youngest son.

The old man would never give him something like that, but being hardheaded about showing your child affection or encouragement wasn't the same as not loving them. It was, in my experience, incredibly common to watch fathers struggle to show true affection to their sons, which got worse the further west you went. I had been lucky regarding my patient and loving father. Looking at Ambrose, I thought about how different his father was from mine and how difficult that must have been, and yet?—

"I don't think your life weighs less than anything material in this house or on this land...or the land itself, for that matter."

"His pride is strong."

"He’d sell his pride for the sake of his son."

Ambrose looked at me with a frown. “You don't know him."

"I knowpeople," I told him with a roll of my eyes. "I understand, as much as I can, that your dad is a hard man to love, and it's hard to see past who he is, but maybe it's time to stop chasing after what you think your father should be and look at him as he is."

"What in the hell are you talking about?"

"I mean that your father comes off as a hardheaded, cold, controlling jackass, and yet he had no problem letting you take over a good chunk of the ranch. He's let you make changes where you saw fit, hire people you think are best, and even let you take over keeping an eye on me, Grumpy, and company. He didn't say a word against your plan with Elizabeth, and as long as I've been around, he's never said anything harsh about you and has let youtake care of things as you wanted. Your father isn't affectionate and warm, but he trusts you with his family's legacy and lets you live your life as you see fit. That's love. Not warm love, but it's love."

"I—"

I turned away from him, staring at the door to the hallway. I thought I’d heard a door close further into the house. “He wouldn't sell you out any more than his other children or grandchildren."

To his right, Hipolita finally looked over with a smile. “Finally, someone gets it."

"Really, you too?" Ambrose asked her with a groan. "Are you?—"

"I'm fine," she said with a shake of her head. "They just rounded those of us up who didn't fight. Not much fight left in this body anyway. I didn't see much point in giving them trouble."

"A shame that your powers to make men shake in their boots and stop acting like spoiled little boys don't work on this lot," I told her with a smirk.

"What thefuckare you jabbering on about over there?" one of the guards demanded, stepping forward.

"We have been having an entire conversation about your lineage, and you're only just now figuring out we were talking?" I asked him, arching my brow.

"My what now?"

"Your lineage. Your bloodline. I've been wondering how that disfigurement, I'm sure you call a nose and forehead, came about. The only theory that holds any water is inbreeding."

"In...what?"

"I have to ask, were your parents related by blood by chance?"

"You son of a…" the guard snarled, ripping his gun from the holster and only stopping when the doors to the hallway opened, and another man walked in.

"Quit fuckin' around," the new one answered, pointing at me and Ambrose. "Bring those two and the woman. Boss wants 'em."

"This sonuvabitch just asked if?—"

"Boss doesn't care, and I don't either. Bring 'em,now."

We were yanked up by our arms, and I paid for my mouthiness when the wound on my back pulled. Spots danced before my eyes, and I groaned, slumping against the furious guard. "Careful now, I'm a little...tender there."

At my gasp, he smirked. "Not so smart now, are ya?"

"Guess not," I said, fingers wrapping around the small knife in his belt and pulling it free when he yanked me upright so I was no longer using him as support.

"Move," he growled, giving me a push far too close to the wound that I thought I’d collapse from the pain. Instead, I gritted my teeth and twisted the small knife so it was hidden in the rope around my wrist, the handle hidden by my hand. Two knives were better than one, and a knife in my hand was better than one on my shoulder.

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