Outside, the vineyard stretched under the morning sun, rows of vines heavy with the last of the harvest's fruit. Birds sang their morning songs. The world kept turning.
And inside the guesthouse bedroom, Devon held the woman he was falling in love with and let himself believe that maybe, just maybe, they could have this. Could build something real and lasting despite everything working against them.
He just hoped whoever was targeting her would give them the chance to find out.
Nine
The morning sun beat down on the vineyard rows, already warming the October air to an uncomfortable degree. Devon walked between the vines with Bryson on his left and Gabe on his right, the dry earth crunching beneath their boots as they moved deeper into the property where conversation wouldn't carry back to the main house—or the guesthouse.
Gabe had been reluctant to leave the production facility when they'd shown up asking him to go for a walk. Now, he moved with the kind of tension that suggested he knew exactly what this conversation was about.
From the moment Gabe had been hired, he’d been a quiet, reflective man. Reserved. He kept his head down and worked hard. He asked questions when he didn’t understand something or needed clarification. He gave his opinion, though often reluctantly, and through the gentle nudging of Sean Callahan.
God, Devon missed that man.
For the first two years Gabe worked at Stone Bridge Winery, he’d carried the weight of his family’s history like it was a brick tied to his ankle. As if the past was a snake hidden under the tall grass, just waiting for a stray foot to land close enough to strike without too much effort.
The secrets and folk tales that had built Stone Bridge did come out on occasion, but faded into the background quickly, like the fog burned off with the rising of the morning sun. And soon enough, Gabe learned that the shadows lurking in dark corners couldn’t hurt him. He wasn’t his grandfather, and that didn’t have to be his legacy.
Gabe stuffed his hands in his pockets as he listened and nodded in response to Bryson.
“Winston cornered you at the funeral," Devon said finally, cutting through the small talk about soil moisture levels and irrigation schedules. "We saw it. Looked heated and looked damned uncomfortable.”
Gabe's jaw tightened, his gaze fixed on the horizon. "It was nothing."
"Didn't look like nothing," Bryson said. "You looked ready to throw a punch at a cemetery.” He shifted his weight, angling his body toward Gabe’s in unwavering support. “We were ready to jump into action if necessary.”
"Winston has that effect on people,” Gabe said.
Devon stopped walking, forcing the other two to halt as well. "We're not trying to pry. We're worried about you. Whatever Winston said, it clearly upset you."
For a long moment, Gabe said nothing. He stared out at the vineyard, his expression carefully blank, a look he’d perfected over the years, but Devon could see the war playing out behind his eyes. Finally, his shoulders sagged slightly. "Someone sent Winston a photo," Gabe said quietly. "Of my mother and David. Together, when they were young. Not the same one I have but similar. Showed them hanging out, looking close. Arms draped around each other. They appeared intimate.”
Devon exchanged a glance with Bryson. "Who sent it?"
"Anonymous. Came with a note saying the sender knows who the third heir is." Gabe's voice was tight. "Winston thought I sentit. Thought I was making some kind of play for the Callaway inheritance."
"Jesus," Bryson breathed.
"He accused me of playing games. Said there was no way I could be David's son, that I was delusional if I thought I had any claim to the Callaway legacy." Gabe's hands curled into fists. "Told me that on the off chance we were actually related, he'd do whatever was necessary to make sure I got nothing." The bitterness in his voice cut through the morning air like a blade.
Devon understood where the bitterness had been born from. The story was long and complicated. But it had nothing to do with Gabe and everything to do with Winston holding a grudge on behalf of men who’d been dead for decades.
But Winston—much to his father’s dismay—had idolized his grandfather. They exchanged letters while his granddad was in prison prior to his death. His grandpa had painted a glorified picture of what happened all those years ago when his muscle—Cote Maxwell—murdered his brother in cold blood.
However, there was more to that story. EJ Callaway, who cooked the books for his brother Jasper, was also in a relationship with Cote’s sister, Annabelle. But Annabelle went missing. Her body was found three weeks later. She’d been beaten and raped. Cote went crazy, knowing in his heart that EJ had killed his sister. So, Cote turned a gun on EJ, shooting him twice in chest at point blank range. Sources say, Cote didn’t bat an eye. That he had no remorse. Just set his gun down, walked into a bar, and ordered a drink as if nothing happened.
For more than a decade, no one could prove that EJ had been the one to murder Annabelle until new forensic and DNA evidence had been introduced, proving EJ had committed the crime.
It didn’t exonerate Cote. He’d still spent the rest of his life behind bars. However, it certainly changed the way some people viewed what he did.
"But that's not all," Gabe continued. "He wanted the guns back. Said the collection belonged to the Callaways, that David shouldn't have left them to me. Offered to pay for them—a substantial amount."
“How substantial?” Bryson asked.
“Millions.” Gabe ran a hand over his mouth.
“That feels like a payoff,” Devon said.
