Total pages in book: 43
Estimated words: 40966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 205(@200wpm)___ 164(@250wpm)___ 137(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 40966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 205(@200wpm)___ 164(@250wpm)___ 137(@300wpm)
"This is between me and my fiancée," Marcus protests, but his voice lacks conviction. He takes a step toward me, hand extended to help me up, but Colt moves between us, taller, with shoulders squared like he's bracing for impact.
"Not anymore," Colt says. He doesn't raise his voice, doesn't make a scene, but something in his eyes makes Marcus back up a step. "Cash is waiting to drive you back to the resort. Your father's already in the car."
The dismissal is absolute, leaving no room for argument. No negotiation. No saving face. Just the kind of swift, brutal efficiency the Ashbys are known for when someone crosses a line.
Marcus looks past Colt to where I'm still on the floor, my hair falling from its careful arrangement. "This isn't over," he says.
But we all know it is.
He turns and walks out, his expensive shoes clicking against the hardwood, the sound fading as he moves down the hallway toward the front door.
Colt helps me to my feet, his touch gentle where Marcus's was demanding. "You okay, sis?" he asks, studying my face with genuine concern. When I nod, a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth—not the polished Ashby smile for cameras, but the real one, the one we share when no one's watching.
"He's waiting for you," Colt says simply. He doesn't need to specify who. "At the silo. I saw him in Terry the other day.”
My eyes crinkle up in confusion. “What do you mean you saw him in Terry? That’s forty miles from here. You don’t see anyone casually in Terry, Montana. Especially Legion Kane.”
“Yeah, well…” Colt runs his fingers through his hair. “Another story for another time. Anyway. He told me he was gonna do this and I said I’d help. He told me to make sure you knew that he’d be waitin’ for you at the silo. Even if you couldn’t get away, he wanted me to tell you that.”
At my surprised look, Colt shrugs, a gesture so casual it almost hides the weight of what he's saying. "What? You think you're the only one with secrets around here?" He winks, the gesture loaded with meaning and permission.
Go. Run. Live.
I hug him fiercely, breathing in the familiar scent of my brother—hay, and expensive cologne, and the faint trace of cigarettes he thinks no one knows about. "Thank you," I whisper against his shoulder.
He squeezes me once, then steps back, gesturing toward the hidden pocket doors of the library that lead to the kitchen, and a back staircase that will take me upstairs. "Better hurry," Colt says. "A man has doubts after three years inside without a word."
I blow out a breath. But just shake my head and leave.
I wanted to visit. I wanted to write. He told me absolutely not. If I came to visit, he would not accept it. If I wrote him letters, he'd sell them to other prisoners for commissary money. Which I know for a fact he would absolutely not do, but the threat was enough.
He didn’t want me to visit. He didn’t want me to write.
I had to respect that.
Upstairs in my bedroom, I move with quiet urgency. I strip off the designer outfit—the cream pencil skirt, the tangerine blouse hand-sewn by some woman in Paris who probably hates me, the white Lucchese boots that have never seen actual ranch work.
I shed my engagement party skin like a snake outgrowing its constraints.
From the back of my closet, behind the camera-ready clothes, I pull out a simple summer dress—pale blue cotton with a pattern of tiny white flowers, somethin’ left over from more carefree years.
I wash the makeup from my face, scrubbing until my skin feels raw and real. The diamond ring catches on my washcloth, a reminder to take it off.
I place it on the vanity, where it glitters accusingly in the lamplight. Three carats. Flawless. Cold as ice against my skin, even after two weeks of wearing it.
My reflection stares back at me in the mirror—no longer the polished Ashby heiress, but someone younger, freer, with flushed cheeks and bright eyes. I look like the girl who used to climb through grain silo doors to feel alive.
I look like myself.
Then, I leave. Down the back stairs, out the back door, slidin’ into shadows as the few people still here get too loud to notice a woman sneaking away in the middle of the night.
Inside the barn I relish the smell of alfalfa hay, oiled leather, and memories.
At the end stall, Cassia—my massive warmblood mare—raises her head in greeting, ears pricking forward with interest. It’s late, what are you doin’ here, those ears ask.
She nickers at me. A rumble that is so warm and real, it calms my racin’ heartbeat and forces me to let out a breath. I place my hand on the side of her face, smiling. “No time for a saddle,” I tell her, reaching for the bridle hanging on a hook next to her stall. Then I enter, slip the bit in her mouth and the crown over her ears. Then I lead her down the walkway, her hooves clip-clopping in the silent night.