Page 42 of Brighton

TWELVE

A PREDATORY OCTOPUS

ELIAS

“Was that the good news or the bad news?” Kimp’s face is serious.

The two of us sit at his dining room table, coffee mugs empty to the dregs. I just laid out what’s happening with the Veramendi Conservancy and the work I’ve been doing since I learned about it.

“Well,” I hedge. “That depends on how you feel about the next thing I say.”

His face is already hard, but it takes a harsher glint. “This week I’ve learned my son got a girl pregnant. Then I met Colt.” His hands imitate scales dipping in contrast to each other. “I’ve become a Pop-Pop, and now someone wants to take him from me. My land and livelihood and that of my son and, apparently my grandson, are threatened. Need something to tip the balance in my favor, Elias.”

“I’m dating Brighton. And I want your blessing.” I toss out the words like a grenade and steel myself for the blast, at least inwardly. I respect this man. I always have.

His eyes hold mine for several moments.

I hold my ground, not looking away from his gaze.

I said it plainly—we’re together. I’m not asking permission. But I sure would like his support.

The sharpness of his expression melts with his smile. “Took you long enough, son. I’ve been waiting for this for years. The way you look at her. The way she studies you. It was inevitable.” His gaze flicks to the barn before coming back into the room. “I love my daughter. She’s the best of her mother—brilliant, funny, sharp-witted. She’s strong and demanding. But she’s a ball buster with walls thick enough for a war-time bunker. Few guys are man enough for Brighton Ranger. And no one is better suited for her than you.”

Kimp stands and extends a hand. When I take it, he pulls me in for a hug. “Love her well, Eli.”

He begins to wander off, before turning back to me. “Not telling you not to tell Brax about either thing. But on the conservancy challenge, I’m respectfully asking you to dig a little deeper and have a plan prior to bringing it up. The timing is shit. Drought is upon us. Braxton isn’t sleeping, and he’s in way over his head with Colt. One more thing right now could be one too many. And since we can’t control it and we’ll need that plan to fight it, it’s worth sparing him that one more thing if we can. I wouldn’t feel that way if I were running the ranch, but I’m looking out for my boy…

“That’s an ask, not an order, Eli. The other—” He shakes his head and smiles to himself. “Well, that’s on you.” He wanders off, I’m left in the kitchen, hands on hips, wondering what my next steps look like.

Grabbing my phone, I shoot a quick text to Brighton.

Me: Your place or mine tonight?

Brighton: Mine.

Me: What would you like for dinner?

Brighton: Leftover Giovanni’s.

Me: Finishing up work and I’ll be there.

Brighton: It’s Saturday.

Me: You’re one to talk.

Brighton: Touché. See you in a bit.

I head to the ranch office. Braxton is wrapped in what looks like a giant ace bandage with Colt tucked under the folds. If I weren’t just a little jealous, I’d laugh at his get-up.

I laugh anyway. I can’t not.

Braxton may be my client, but he’s also my oldest friend. Of course, I’m in his corner and on his team. None of that is disputable. He should know if he’s being an ass or making stupid decisions, I’ll call him on it.

I did it yesterday when he took out his aggression on a wall.

We’ve texted off and on today. The shit swirling around Colt’s custody is ugly, and it sucks for everyone involved, most especially Colt.

That baby deserves none of this, and if I do nothing else with this case—aside from win, of course—it’ll be to make sure that Colt feels as little blowback as possible.

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