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"Eleanor bought the debt on everything out there," he said. "She did it slow and piecemeal. Over decades. You see, if you don't own your equipment, you're safe from being sued, yes. But your risk isn't absent. It's just rerouted to the note. Because a bank can sell your loan contract to anyone it wants, and nobody has to tell the man who signed it. He goes to bed owing the bank and wakes up owing a stranger. The debt doesn't change. The rig, the trucks, the well, all of it still gets taken if he misses. The only thing that changes is who gets to take it."

"Fuckin' Eleanor." I say it now, walkin' across her ranch towards Cash's office. She was the smartest lady who ever walked this earth, I think. She saw it all comin'.

She took her kill shot cold bore and twenty years out.

Because right here, right now, and thanks to her, Cash Ashby is the proud note holder of every rig, casing, pump jack, tank, and water truck out on the Bakken formation.

Because when you're the United States government running a black ops site to launder oil, you don't put your name on the contract.

This is Cash's endgame to play for Eleanor.

And it kills two birds. Not sure if Eleanor knew how bad Marcus was, or just assumed the apple don't fall far from the tree. But this whole plan is gonna take out the White family like a sinkhole under a mansion.

Which is the part that's got me all pissed off.

I had no idea what all that meant last week. I had no idea what Cash was really settin' in motion when he took me to Miles City to clean me up so he could set me loose.

But Cash did.

You should take Savannah away for a weekend.

She just needs to not be here.

Little sign-on bonus.

Welcome to the family.

He knew exactly what he was doin'.

I'm about a dozen yards from the office door when my phone buzzes. "What now," I mutter, takin' it out of my pocket.

As soon as I see the name, I grunt, disgusted. Mike. Motherfucker, I don't have time for you right now. I leave him on read, reach for the door, and pull it open.

Cash Ashby is striding towards me, hands pressin' the air, mouth runnin'—

I swing.

My fist connects with his jaw before the door's even swung back.

Cash stumbles sideways into the desk, papers scatterin', lamp hittin' the floor. I'm already movin', grabbin' him by the front of that crisp white shirt, haulin' him up.

"You knew." My voice don't rise. It does somethin' worse. "You sent me to Jackson knowin' he was gonna make a move on Mercy."

"Legion—"

I swing again. Catch his cheekbone this time, the knuckle split of it travels up my arm like an answer. Cash goes down to one knee. Blood on his lip already, which does nothin' to slow the thing risin' in my chest.

"She's nine years old." The words come out quiet and separate. "Nine. Years. Old."

"I didn't know he'd take her⁠—"

"You sent me away." I kick the overturned chair out of my path. "You cleaned me up, put me on your fuckin' jet, got me three hundred miles away, and Marcus walked into that school and took my sister."

Cash wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, lookin' up at me. "I didn't know he'd go after Mercy. That's the truth."

"Your truth don't mean shit to me right now."

I reach for him again and that's when Cash stops tryin' to explain.