Page 24 of Cruelest Contract
“Is something wrong?” I ask her.
Getty kicks my seat again. I think about ripping the boot off his foot and making him eat it.
Cecilia folds her hands in her lap. “I just wanted to make sure my brother wasn’t trying to reach me.”
She’s not talking about Angelo. No detective work needed to figure that out.
And Matthias? His last known whereabouts are somewhere in the grimy concrete jungle of New York. He doesn’t stay in touch with his sister or anyone else.
She’s expecting to hear from Gabriel. Her twin. The reason why she’s here. That spineless little fucker is currently holed up in San Diego and I have little doubt he’s sniveling in some beachfront bar, drinking his way deeper into the self-pitying hole he’s dug for himself. We’re keeping an eye on him.
As for Mancini, he wasn’t too pleased to have his plans thwarted but he’s not foolish enough to be suicidal. My father took my advice to soften the blow by giving Mancini the green light to terminate a longstanding rival who has been getting a little too bold. He’ll let the matter go. He has no other choice.
I doubt Cecilia has any clue about the original deal her grandfather made to hand her over to Mancini. I hope she never finds out. Now that she’s sitting next to me, I feel substantially more enraged at the prospect she might have ended up in the clutches of that potato-shaped turd in Seattle.
Not fucking happening on my watch.
She perks up when we approach the town of Vigilance. At a glance, the place has its share of old fashioned small town charm, enhanced by the colorful building facades.
A quicker route to the ranch would be to take Old Country Road instead of crawling through the main artery of town but I have my reasons. Fort expresses his displeasure with the detour by honking, passing me and then burning rubber.
Cecilia takes in the sights with obvious interest, as I figured she would. I spent enough time examining her Pinterest boards to know off the top of my head what catches her eye.
She likes coffee shops. Libraries. Pastel paint colors. Organized closets. Label makers. Journals. Fountain pens. Cursive handwriting. The showGilmore Girls.
On the outside, Vigilance probably looks like the kind of town dreamed up to star in a show full of quirky but excessively courteous people who host book clubs and shit and know everyone’s middle name.
Reality is murkier. Vigilance is mostly dull with a heaping of petty drama. But the town probably looks all kinds of quaint to a lonely girl who romanticizes small town life.
I ease off the accelerator to let her get a good look. Getty mutters some choice curses in the backseat. Fort and Tye are long gone.
Cecilia turns her head to stare at the pink and green awning jutting out from Sugar Jean’s Sweets. “We’re close to the ranch?”
“Just seventeen miles,” I say.
She looks my way and flashes a teasing smile. “You say that like it’s practically around the corner.”
This is the first time she’sreallysmiled at me. That forced half-smile of polite greeting on the tarmac doesn’t count. Some rare sensation gets knocked loose deep in my chest.
The feeling, whatever it is, will be squashed for now.
Once I’ve made a plan, I don’t deviate. And I’ve got big plans for her. No getting sidetracked.
“You could always ride here on horseback,” Getty pipes up from the backseat. “We’ve got plenty of horses on the ranch. Just say the word and I’ll help saddle you up and take you for the ride of your life,Cecilia.”
There’s just no stopping him from spoiling the mood and being a dick.
Cecilia doesn’t dignify his offer with a response but her hand automatically flies to her left leg. A shadow drifts over her face and answers a question about whether or not she’s been riding since that accident so many years ago. Clearly not. She doesn’t even want tohearabout horses, let alone climb into a saddle.
To change the topic, I point out the library and Rustler Steakhouse, which has an authentic saloon theme that tourists always go wild for. She nods and absently rubs her leg.
Once we leave Vigilance behind, there are no other vehicles on the two lane road leading to the ranch. There’s also no sign of Fort and Tye. They must be miles ahead.
Cecilia sits up a little straighter at the sight of the ranch entrance. The broad metal gates have been left open. A large ironsign hangs from the entrance arch and depicts the ranch name with a graphic of our cattle brand; the shape of an eye with the letter T inside.
“Was Storm’s Eye always the name of your ranch?” Cecilia asks. “I couldn’t find much information about its history online.”
“No. The place changed hands a couple of times over the course of a century and used to be called Rose Creek Ranch. My grandfather changed the name the day he signed the deed. That was close to forty years ago.”
