“Which one?”
I give him a look that should end the conversation. It doesn’t.
He grins. “You mean the one that just happens to run past the Voss property?”
“I said I checked the road.”
“Right,” he says easily, pushing off the desk. “Because potholes are such a turn-on.”
I don’t rise to it. Not out loud. But something in my face must give me away, because his grin fades.
“You’re playing with fire, Tristan.”
“Don’t start.”
“I’m serious. Whatever game this is—scaring her, watching her, whatever the hell you think you’re doing—don’t.”
“I’m not playing games.”
He arches a brow. “No? Then why do you look like a man who just lost one?”
I glare at him until he raises his hands in surrender and leaves.
When the door shuts, I drop into my chair, staring at the open ledger on the desk without seeing a word. The faint hum of the distillery fills the silence, steady and mindless.
But in my head, I still see her—kneeling on the porch, sunlight in her hair, talking to someone who isn’t me.
The valley has always been mine. The ridge, the water, the land.
Now she’s here, filling the quiet I’ve spent years perfecting.
And no matter how much I tell myself it’s about control, I know the truth.
It’s not the land I can’t stand losing.
It’s her.
A woman I barely know who haunts me.
CHAPTER 9
Raine
Owen Kettering turnsout to be younger than I expected.
Early thirties, neat hair, collared shirt buttoned to the throat. The kind of man who looks like he irons his jeans. His handshake is firm but careful, the kind people in small towns use when they’re not sure which side you’re on yet.
“The place has good bones,” he says, crouching near the porch steps. “Needs structural reinforcement, maybe a new railing. Nothing too major.”
“That’s good news,” I say, jotting notes in my planner.
“Depends how you look at it,” he replies, glancing toward the ridge. “Upkeep like this takes manpower. And not everyone’s gonna line up to work the Voss property these days.”
I set my pen down. “Because of the feud?”
“Because of the Blackwells,” he corrects gently, brushing dirt from his hands. “They’ve got most of the contracts up here—distribution, equipment, even building permits. The board signs off on everything, and, well… the board’s mostly their people.”
A prickle crawls up my spine. “I don’t need their permission to fix a railing.”
