Prologue
Shadow Falls, North Carolina
Six Months After the Funeral
Rain pressesagainst the office windows in slow, steady streaks, like the mountain itself is trying to remind me of my roots. The past I thought I escaped to build a new life has tugged on the chains, yanking me back to Shadow Falls.
The lawyer’s nameplate readsEdwin Kettering, Esq., though he looks more like a storybook grandfather than a man who’s about to hand me a crumbling vineyard and a lifetime of family baggage. His office smells faintly of oak polish and bourbon—probably from whatever “client meeting” happened before I arrived.
He clears his throat. “Your uncle, Malcolm Voss, left the estate to you in its entirety, Ms. Voss. That includes the house, the vineyards, the equipment, and all water and land rights associated with the property.”
I swallow hard. It’s daunting, but I try to appear brave. Strong. In control.
I stare at the thick folder on his desk.VOSS ESTATEis stamped across the front. It looks heavier than paper should.
I try to imagine what it’ll feel like to walk through those gates again after fifteen years. I left Shadow Falls at nineteen and swore I’d never return.
“Was there no one else?” I ask, half hoping he’ll say there’s been a mistake. “No co-owner? No trust to manage it?”
Mr. Kettering folds his hands, his expression careful. “Your uncle handled everything himself after your parents passed. He didn’t trust the board. Not after what happened with the Blackwells.”
The name lands like a stone between us.
I’ve heard it whispered my whole life—the Voss and Blackwell feud. My father used to joke that we couldn’t drink their whiskey without cursing the next harvest.
“What exactly happened between them?” I ask.
He exhales, leaning back. “Malcolm Voss and Graham Blackwell built their empires side by side—wine and whiskey. Friends once, until a surveyor discovered the Blackwell distillery was tapping into Voss water rights. Graham claimed it was an honest mistake. Malcolm called it theft. They became enemies after that.”
“Sounds petty,” I say, though my chest tightens. I can almost hear my uncle’s voice again.“Some things you protect, Raine. You don’t sell them off to the highest bidder.”
“Perhaps.” Mr. Kettering slides a paper across the desk. “But water is life up here, and the Blackwells don’t take kindly to losing control of it. Especially not the eldest son.”
“Tristan,” I murmur, remembering the name from his father’s obituary photo.
“Yes. He sits on the planning board now. Powerful man.” A pause. “He and his brother, Calder, had a… pragmaticarrangement with your uncle. Shared supply lines, distribution contracts. Kept the peace, so to speak.”
“And now?”
He meets my gaze. “Now, Miss Voss, that peace depends on what you do next.”
Outside, thunder rolls over the valley—low and warning.
I glance at the will again, at the bold signature on the bottom:Malcolm Voss.His handwriting is neat and deliberate, just like I remember. Under it, a single line he must have insisted on adding serves as a reminder of my new duties.
To Raine — because she understands roots. Not everything that grows should be sold.
Something twists in my throat.
“What if I bring it back?” I ask quietly. “The vineyard. Weddings. Tastings. Tours. It used to be beautiful there.”
Mr. Kettering hesitates, then says, “Then you’ll make yourself very popular with everyone who isn’t a Blackwell.”
I almost smile. “And Tristan?”
“Let’s just say,” he replies, smoothing the papers into a neat stack, “he won’t appreciate the competition.”
I stand, grabbing my purse. “Competition develops character.” I smile at Mr. Kettering. “Good day, sir.”
