Something raw and achingly vulnerable flickers across his face before the steel mask slams back down. "Don't hold your breath on that one, Miss Reid."
He climbs into his truck and roars away, leaving me standing alone in the parking lot with a chest full of questions and no answers.
When I turn back toward the clinic, Colt is framed in the windows, watching me with an expression caught between confusion and something that might be jealousy.
Probably wondering what the hell I'm doing hugging his worst enemy in the parking lot.
Excellent question. I'm wondering the exact same thing, and coming up with absolutely nothing that makes sense.
But as I walk back inside, past the reception desk I organized yesterday and toward the recovery room where Dusty waits, I realize something fundamental has shifted inside me.
For the first time in over almost two years, I feel like I might be exactly where I'm supposed to be.
Even if I'm flying completely blind.
Even if getting attached to this place, and to these devastatingly complicated men, might be the most dangerous thing I've ever done.
More dangerous than uncle Richard.
More dangerous than running.
More dangerous than anything I've survived so far.
5
Beau
The whiskey scorches going down, but it cannot burn away the memory of Lucy Reid's arms circling me in that clinic parking lot.
I pour another measure of Macallan into the cut crystal tumbler that belonged to my great-grandfather, and settle deeper into the leather chair that has anchored this study for three generations.
The fire snaps in the stone hearth, casting restless shadows across walls lined with leather-bound ledgers and family portraits of Blackwell generations.
Outside, Montana dusk bleeds crimson and gold across the snowcapped peaks, beautiful and unforgiving as everything else in this harsh country. My phone vibrates against the mahogany desk. An intrusion I'm not inclined to welcome.
The screen displays a message from my ranch foreman.
Lost three head to the creek break near section twelve. Fence is down. Want me to call Morrison about repairs?
I type back without hesitation.
Hire Sullivan's crew from Whitefish.They cost twice Morrison's rate, but their work endures twenty years rather than two.
Morrison has been angling for Blackwell Ranch contracts for two years, ever since his cut-rate prices began undercutting established contractors by thirty percent. But he uses inferior materials and his crew lacks knowledge of this land.
I would rather pay premium prices for work that endures. My grandfather built this ranch to last centuries, not decades.
Everything here was constructed for permanence. The stone foundation, the hand-hewn beams, the traditions forged in blood and perseverance.
Legacy. Endurance. Principles that matter more than temporary convenience.
I have endeavored to live by the same code.
Control over chaos.
Stability over sentiment.
Duty before desire.
