It almost makes the CPS shit worth it.
Almost.
The ambulance stops and the doors open. Mercy is bouncin’ and talkin’ like she just drank a hundred Red Bulls.
They pull the gurney out and start to wheel me away, but I grab on to a railing on the ambulance door, and do not let go.
The gurney shifts sideways. Their expressions go sideways too.
I sit up, push my legs over the side, look them in the eyes, and say, “Get the fuck out of my way. Thank you for the help, but I got it from here.”
The medic in charge of the transport blows out a breath, figuring he did ninety percent of his job and decides this fight is not worth it. He smiles. “Be my guest.” Then moves out of my way.
I stand, shaky, but determined, and look up.
The Ashby mansion is a fuckin' monument to money.
Two stories of logs thick enough to need a crane to lift. Each one stripped and stained the exact same amber-gold. Not a knot out of place. Not a crack showing. The kind of perfect that only comes from paying people to sand away reality.
The roof peaks into what must be fifteen different angles, all covered in slate the color of gunmetal. Chimneys rise from five different spots, though it's too warm for smoke.
The wraparound porch could fit my entire double-wide with room to spare. Cedar pillars thick as tree trunks hold up the overhang, and I count at least four different seating areas with brightly colored cushions. As if people actually sit on the porch in places like this.
Floor-to-ceiling windows line the front, reflecting the Montana sky back at itself. The glass is spotless, probably cleaned daily by servants to make sure the Ashbys don't have to see a single smudge.
"Need help walkin' up?" Mercy asks
"I got it," I tell Mercy, trying to sound upbeat and positive as I ignore the tug of the IV line still feeding antibiotics into my arm. I might be weak, but I'm not an invalid.
Not far off one, either. Which is why it matters. Poor people don't have the luxury of being… whatever this is. Injured, I guess. Incapacitated.
It's the law of the jungle with people like me.
Only the strong get by.
As I walk up the little path, I study the immaculate landscaping. Flower beds burstin’ with colors that don't belong in this part of Montana, green grass that must drink a thousand gallons of water a day. Stone pathways branch off toward what looks like a guest house to the left and some kind of pool around the back.
The front door is massive. Ten feet tall, carved with scenes of cattle drives and wild horses. Brass hardware that's polished to a mirror shine. No dust dares settle here.
Beyond the main house, I can see part of the stables—another perfect structure with copper weather vanes spinning in the breeze. A paddock where three horses graze on grass that's greener than any field that doesn't come with the Ashby name.
That's what so vile about this place. It's not the house. Though it's big enough to be on the gross side of opulent. It's the acres and acres of Ashby territory, stretching toward mountains in the distance.
From here, you can't even see where it ends. That's the real wealth. And the green grass is more of a flex than a whole pile of fuckin' diamonds could ever be. The water rights this one family owns, is sick. The fact that their land stays green when everything else around it burns brown in the summer sun is enough to make me want to turn away and never look at this place again.
"Ready Mr. Kane?" The medic is getting impatient. "We need to get you settled."
I take a step forward, feeling the gravel crunch under my boots that appeared in a package yesterday, along with the jeans and t-shirt I’m wearin’ right now.
The front doors swing open before we reach them. A woman in a crisp uniform—not quite a maid, something fancier—nods at me with professional distance.
"Welcome to the Ashby Ranch, Mr. Kane. Miss Ashby is waiting for you inside."
I've never been inside before. Never even been this close to the main house. All those years with Savannah, and we always met at the silo, or by the creek, or in some out of the way place that wasn't on a map.
Now I'm walking through the front door like I belong here.
"Legion." Savannah says my name with a breath of relief. She's waiting for me beneath the towering stone portico entrance, framed by the massive oak columns like some kind of homecoming queen. Her hair is pulled back, face clean of makeup, wearin’ a simple sundress that reminds me of the girl she was before college, before Marcus, before everything.
