“Until the court hearing, nothing moves.”
“I bought the ranch after she left. How can she do this?”
Mr. Taylor nods, understanding. “Since you acquired it while still married, it’s still considered her marital asset as well.”
I watch Beckett lean back in his chair and run a hand down his face.
“That’s not all,” Mr. Taylor says before clearing his throat. “She’s filed for spousal support . . . .and petitioned for visitation with Lennon.”
My spine stiffens at that, and I’m not able to just listen idly anymore. “Be honest. What does she actually want?” I ask, steeled. He doesn’t sugarcoat his answer or try to tiptoe around it.
“She’s in a lot of debt, Beckett,” he replies, looking back at Beckett. “Like . . . bankruptcy levels.” I laugh, the shock bubbling out of me.
“There we have it,” I comment. “She wants money and leverage, and her leverage is Lennon.”
“She hasn’t done anything in six years to be part of Lennon’s life!” Beckett explodes. “She’s a fucking stranger!”
Mr. Taylor nods his head. “I know, Beck. I get it. We all know it around here. My job will be to prove that. Just have patience. It’s going to all come out in the wash.”
“I sure fucking hope so,” Beckett responds, standing up.
“Good to see y’all together again, despite the occasion,” Mr. Taylor tells us. Beckett’s mostly out of the door, so I turn around and give him a polite smile.
“Please fix this,” I whisper.
“I’ll do my best,” he responds as I shut the door.
* * *
It’s been three days since the meeting with the lawyer, and things are tense. Lennon notices the change and asks why her dad is mad, but we explain that it’s just grown-up stuff, and it’s okay to be mad every now and then as long as you remember to be happy, too.
She handles things so well. I really meant it when I said he’s done a great job with her. She’s not one of the kids who had to grow up too fast; she still has a wild imagination, loves playing with her dolls, and she’s super artsy. Beckett has already scheduled her first appointment with a pediatric therapist, and they’re going today. He isn’t taking any chances with the damage this could cause for Lennon. I wish Hannah would consider the consequences of rushing back into her life, too.
Beckett drops me off at the store to pick up the ingredients for cowboy cookies, which Lennon has requested. Her first appointment is only a thirty-minute session, so we should finish at the same time. I’m standing in the baking aisle, double-checking my shopping list and comparing it to the items in my basket, when an unfamiliar voice speaks up behind me.
“So, I finally get to meet the woman tagging behind him like a lost little lamb.”
I turn around so I can get out of their way; clearly, they’re speaking to someone else. I’m face to boobs with a tall platinum blonde with legs for days, bright pink rhinestone cowgirl boots, and shorts that hit just below her ass. She’s wearing a bedazzled band shirt featuring someone from the 70s, but it’s not vintage, just made to look like it is.
I look around me, but it’s only the two of us in the aisle. “I’m sorry?” I can’t quite place where I know her from.
“Darlin’, don’t you know how to listen when people talk to you? Why have you been followin’ my husband around?”
Who the fuck . . .
“You must have me mistaken for someone else, sorry,” I respond, smiling politely and moving out of the way. Before I can, though, her perfectly manicured claws wrap themselves around my forearm and tug me to her somewhat forcefully.
A cruel, quiet laugh comes from her. “Oh no, Sweetpea. I know exactly who you are,” she seethes through her teeth.“You’re the whore who’s been tryin’ like hell to wiggle her way into my husband’s perfectly fitted pants and playin’ mommy to my little one.”
Fucking. Hannah.
Do I want to slap the shit out of her? Yes. Am I going to? Hopefully one day, but this isn’t the day. There’s no way in hell she’s going to rile me up and cause a scene that will hurt Lennon or Beckett. Her fake ass accent is going to drive me up a wall, though. We all grew up here, and while we all might speak banjo, our banjos aren’t that twangy.
“I’m staying at the ranch, yeah,” I say, smiling as I peel her hand off of me. “As for getting in your husband’s pants—if you’re still calling him your husband, that’s probably your first problem . . . out of many, clearly.”
Hannah’s waxed brow raises. “You don’t know anything about me, little lamb.”
I reach around her and grab the chopped pecans. “I know you didn’t show up until your bank account dried up.” I turn on my heels and head towards the checkout.
