Page 58 of My Three Rivals

Atticus stopped and faced me. “I don’t know,” he answered honestly, his hazel eyes pained. “But he was the first one to sell his shares of the vineyard. It didn’t even take negotiations.”

Pain stabbed my heart, my father’s line of the family sickening me.

“That son of a bitch,” I muttered, stomping forward toward the winery.

Atticus grabbed my arm, turning me toward him. “You need to let this go, Little Fire,” he said. “What happened can’t be undone.”

“But at least Nick can be held accountable!” I insisted.

“What’s going on?” Maverick asked, jogging up behind me.

“Nothing,” Atticus and I answered in unison.

There was no sense in explaining the connection to Maverick. He already knew about Nick, and he was apt to side with Atticus, that I had to leave the past where it was.

But how could I when I could hear the ghost of the women all around me?

“Wyatt is probably already in the winery,” Maverick suggested brightly, waving us forward.

Shaking my head at his transparent attempt to diffuse my mood, I couldn’t help but laugh.

“I’ll never understand how the three of you found each other,” I snickered, following with Atticus at my side.

Maverick glanced over his shoulder at me. “I suppose birds of a feather…?” he offered.

I glanced at Atticus. “You were born wealthy, though. You don’t really fit the mold with him and Wyatt.”

Atticus’ jaw tightened. “Mav is going to hate me for saying this, but in some ways, I had it worse than those two.”

Maverick snorted, but I was intrigued. “How so?”

We approached the wooden building that had housed the winery for over seventy-five years, the smell of ethanol and wood reaching my nose as Maverick opened the doors.

Inside, several of the workers had already gotten busy, half consumed with the fermentation.

“Those two were born with survival skills,” Atticus explained. “When my father lost everything, I had no idea which way was up. He left me and my mother to deal with the aftermath of his suicide. It was a small wonder she lost it.”

I nodded, understanding his point but unsure that he’d had the worse end of the stick among them. “You seemed to have bounced back okay,” I teased, joining the workers at the table.

Atticus clammed up, not wanting to discuss his unfortunate family history in front of strangers, but I’d learned enough about him and my other two roommates to know this much: they would never stop fighting, no matter what.

* * *

Wyatt didn’t show up at two like we had discussed, leaving Maverick to go hunt him down in the vineyards where he had lost track of time, replacing the vertical trellises holding up the grapes.

Atticus and I got busy with the production, my mind struggling to recall all the details my grandmother had given me in my youth.

“No, no, you can’t do that,” Mirelle, one of the employees, told me with a laugh. “You’ll spoil the wine if you do.”

Embarrassed, I stepped back and allowed her to show me how my technique was flawed and took careful note.

“Do you think we’ll have a decent production this year?” I asked Mirelle, reclaiming my spot next to Atticus.

“That will depend on your retailers,” she answered timidly. “I don’t believe that Five Penny has many.”

Atticus and I stared at her as Maverick returned with Wyatt.

“What do you mean?” I asked worriedly. “Five Penny has been making and selling wine for three-quarters of a century.”

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