“I understand,” I said. “I’ll get the ranch no matter what.”
He nodded, dismissing me with a wave of his hand. I left the study, the folder feeling heavier than it should under my arm.
Outside, the night air was thick with humidity. I sat in my car for a moment, engine idling, and opened the folder again. Nicholas Wesley stared up at me from the photograph, frozen in that moment of happiness beside his horse.
By this time tomorrow, I’d be sitting across from his family, discussing the terms of our arrangement. My marriage to his sister. A business transaction dressed up in white lace and wedding vows.
I wondered if she’d cry. Most women would, in her position. Forced to marry a stranger to save her family’s ranch. But something about Nicholas made me think he’d put up a fight. He had fire in his eyes. I liked that.
Maybe… Maybe he was my ticket to getting the ranch. After all, what kind of loyal son wouldn’t stand up for his sister? Maybe even take her place?
My father wouldn’t like that. But he said I needed to get the ranch at any cost, even if I had to be… What was it again? Oh yeah,creative.
I stared down at Nicholas Wesley, my plans solidifying into place. A smile crept over my face.
I was going to getverycreative with him.
Chapter 3
Nick
Istood on the front porch, waiting for the thug to arrive, the one that would ruin our lives in one way or another. My father stood at my side, waiting for the consequences of his actions to finally catch up with him. I wanted to hate him for what he’d done, I really did. But now that I’d had a little time to think on it, I sort of understood. I just wish it wasn’t my little sister that had to pay the price.
“You didn’t have to come out here,” Dad said quietly, not looking at me. “I could handle this myself.”
“Like you handled the loan?” The words came out sharper than I’d intended, but I didn’t take them back.
He flinched but didn’t argue. What could he say? We both knew I was right.
The sound of tires on gravel made us both turn. A black SUV came up the drive, dust trailing behind it like a funeral procession. It was too clean, too expensive. It was the kind of vehicle that had no business on a working ranch. The Montana plates were a rental, probably picked up at the airport in Billings.
My gut clenched as the SUV rolled to a stop in front of the house.
The driver’s door opened and out stepped a man who looked like he’d walked straight out of a magazine. Tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a dark suit jacket over a white dress shirt, but with no tie, almost like he was making some token effort to dress down for the country. His shoes alone probably cost more than my truck payment. Dark hair, olive skin, and even from this distance I could see he had the kind of handsome face that would make any woman in Hell Creek take a second look.
This was Dante Valenti. The man who might become my sister’s husband.
I hated him on sight.
He moved with an easy confidence as he approached, like he owned the place already. Maybe in his mind, he did. His dark eyes swept over the ranch. He took in the barn, the fences, the house, cataloging each item with a businessman’s assessment. When his gaze finally landed on us, something flickered across his face. Interest, maybe. Or calculation.
“Mr. Wesley,” he said, climbing the porch steps with his hand extended toward my father. His voice was smooth, educated, with just a trace of East Coast accent. “Dante Valenti. Thank you for meeting with me.”
Dad shook his hand, his rancher’s grip firm despite everything. “Mr. Valenti. This is my son, Nick.”
Those dark predatory eyes turned to me, and I felt the weight of his attention like a physical thing. Up close, he was even more striking—sharp jawline, full lips, the kind of looks that made me feel self-conscious about myself. I shoved the feeling down hard and took his offered hand.
His grip was strong, his palm warm against mine. We held eye contact maybe a second too long, something unreadable passing between us. Then he smiled. It was polite, professional, and gave nothing away.
“Nick,” he said, like he was testing the name. “Good to meet you.”
I didn’t trust myself to speak, so I just nodded and pulled my hand back.
“Please, come in,” Dad said, gesturing toward the door. “My wife has coffee ready.”
Dante followed us inside, and I couldn’t help but notice how out of place he looked in our worn kitchen with its old linoleum and hand-me-down furniture. He was all sharp lines and expensive fabric in a room that smelled like burnt coffee and decades of family dinners.
Mom was waiting at the table, her hands clasped tight in front of her. Heather sat beside her, pale but composed. When she saw Dante, something flickered in her expression. Fear, resignation, I couldn’t tell. But she stood up, smoothing down her dress, and extended her hand.
