"With pleasure. This establishment clearly has questionable judgment in its staffing choices." Harold pushed past Erin toward the exit but paused to look back at Emery. "A word of advice? Stop making wild accusations you can't prove. My lawyers will be very interested to hear about your conspiracy theories if you keep spreading them around the valley."
As they reached the door, Vanessa looked back at Emery, her expression tortured. "I'm sorry," she mouthed silently before Harold grabbed her arm and pulled her outside.
After they left, the silence in the tasting room was deafening. Emery realized her hands were shaking, her breath coming in short gasps. She'd completely lost control, said things she shouldn't have said, made accusations she couldn't prove.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I shouldn't have?—"
"Don't apologize," Riley said firmly. "That man is guilty of something."
"But I just made everything worse." Emery sank onto a barstool, tears prickling her eyes. "That interview was supposed to be my chance to control the narrative, and I just gave him ammunition to make me look unstable and vindictive. Now he's threatening to sue me for slander."
Sandy came around the bar, her expression thoughtful. "Actually, that was very interesting."
"Interesting how?" Grant asked.
"The way he reacted. For someone who claims he did nothing wrong, he was awfully defensive. And threatening legal action that quickly?" Sandy pulled out her phone. "That's not the behavior of an innocent man. That's someone trying to shut you up before you dig any deeper."
"You believe me?" Emery looked up, hardly daring to hope.
"I believe something's not right. And I believe Harold Pemberton's reaction was completely disproportionate to your accusations—unless those accusations hit close to home." Sandy tapped a few times on her cell screen before tucking her phone in her back pocket. "And did you see Vanessa's face? That woman knows something. I'm off duty, but I have some friends in fraud investigation who might be interested in hearing about this. Can't promise anything, but if someone did pay Harold off, there'll be a paper trail somewhere."
"I'm texting Bryson and Devon. They should know what just happened,” Grant said.
"Don't," Emery said quickly. "Please. I've already caused enough trouble."
"This isn't trouble," Erin said gently. "This is defending yourself."
Riley pulled Emery into a hug. "You're family now. And family protects each other. Even when—especiallywhen—we lose our tempers with people who deserve it."
Emery felt something break loose in her chest—relief, gratitude, the overwhelming sensation of not being alone anymore. For three months, she'd carried the weight of Harold's betrayal by herself. Now, surrounded by people who believed her, who were willing to fight for her, she finally felt like she might survive this after all.
She just hoped her outburst wouldn't destroy everything the Boones were trying to build.
The Rusted Rail looked different at happy hour than it had three months ago when Devon had found Emery there, drowning her sorrows. Now, the space was packed with after-work locals, the noise level rising with each round of drinks, and the jukebox playing classic rock just loud enough to cover conversations people didn't want overheard.
Devon spotted Gabe in the back corner booth, nursing a bourbon. Bryson slid in across from him while Devon took the seat next to Gabe, leaving room for Mason, who'd texted he was running five minutes late—Mason was always running late. He was either running errands for Sandy or giving his kids one more hug and kiss.
"Thanks for coming," Gabe said, his voice rough around the edges. "I know it's last-minute."
"You sounded like you needed to talk," Bryson said. "What's going on?"
Gabe stared into his empty glass. "The will reading was... intense."
"Grant mentioned you were left…," Devon said carefully. “…your grandfather's gun collection?"
"Fifteen guns. All meticulously maintained, all with paperwork documenting their history." Gabe's laugh was bitter. "David kept them all these years. Said in the will that he didn't know if I'd want them given what my grandfather did, but he thought I should be the one to decide their fate."
The bartender appeared with three more bourbons, and Devon waited until she left before responding. "That's a hell of a thing to inherit."
"I don't want them," Gabe said flatly. "But I'm terrified of what happens if I get rid of them. What if a collector buys them and turns them into a macabre trophy? 'The guns that belonged to Jasper Callaway's enforcer.' What if they end up on the black market? What if selling them profits someone who romanticizes what my grandfather did?"
"You could destroy them," Bryson suggested.
"Could I?" Gabe looked up, his eyes red-rimmed. "These are historical artifacts, whether I like it or not. My grandfather murdered a man, but that doesn't erase the fact that these guns are part of this valley's history. Dark history, but history nonetheless."
Mason arrived, sliding into the booth. "What'd I miss?"
"Gabe's wrestling with some difficult choices," Devon said, then gave Mason a quick summary.
