Chapter 4
The sun hangs low against the backdrop of the barn, the golden hour at hand. I stand at my bedroom window, bathing in the dying light.
This bedroom has been mine since the day I was born.
Second floor, east wing. From my vantage point, the Ashby mansion looms over our expansive property.
Three stories of reclaimed wood and glass, every beam hand-selected by my great-grandfather, every window positioned to frame the mountains like they belong to us.
Which they kinda do. Everything here belongs to us.
Forty-seven thousand acres of Montana that answers only to my last name.
The pastures stretch toward the horizon, dotted with Black Angus cattle that have better nutrition than ninety-nine percent of the humans on this planet.
The dark brown fences cut shadows through green fields and the barn stands in a magnificent contrast of red paint weathered to rusty-rose.
The doors alone tell a story. Tall and wide, with more windows than most homes, you can drive a wagon right in to the fifteen thousand square feet our horses call home.
My first pony lived in the third stall. A dappled gray named Moonstone. My cart with the yellow wheels is still hanging from the rafters.
The whole fuckin’ place feels like a museum with me, and my life, as the centerpiece. Choreographed moments, carefully curated for public display.
There are twenty-seven cameras in the barn. Every moment.
Even to this day, the cameras still function, though Mama has been gone seven years already.
I've been photographed in this barn close to seventy-thousand times.
Even so, the barn was the beginning of my freedom.
The moment I was allowed to ride Moonstone alone, I left the Ashby mansion.
The backs of my ponies and horses through the years were just as public as any playhouse or stall—but ya see, to a child on a ranch, having a pony is much like having a car.
You can go anywhere.
All by yourself.
And I did.
Running away into the hills was the only way I got through my childhood under the lens of notoriety. Precious hours spent being myself. No perfect smiles. Just dirt under my nails and hay in my hair.
It was the only way I survived.
So I love the barn. But that’s not what I’m lookin’ at right now.
It’s the white tent just to the right of the barn that has captured my attention.
This tent swallows up everything else. Not really the size of it—though there are three hundred chairs perfectly positioned around tables draped in linen.
It’s the… gravitas of the whole thing. There are crystal chandeliers hanging from canvas peaks and the dozens of waitstaff move like ants between the kitchen and the lawn in their black and white uniforms.
My engagement party.
A real Ashby production sponsored by “Marry Respectable”.
The kind of event that gets a twelve-page spread in Vogue.
The kind of party where people fly in on private jets just to say they were there.
In the glass, I check my outfit. Smoothing my hands down my cream pencil skirt as the fluttery blouse with its tangerine floral pattern catches the last light.
Lucchese boots—off-white with hand-stitched detail—peek out beneath the hem of my skirt.
I’m not sure everyone would agree that cowboy boots and pencil skirts go together, but these boots were made to last, unlike most things in my life.
Turning from the window, I face the wall of photographs. My whole life, documented frame by frame. Baby Savannah in a sunbeam. Toddler Savannah with cake-smeared cheeks. Teenage Savannah on horseback, long blonde hair streaming out behind her like a banner.
All of them perfect.
None of them real.
Mama's work. Eleanor Ashby's greatest creation.
Me.
It’s funny, because I miss her with an ache that feels like hunger, but I hate her with a clarity that rings like crystal. In the same moment, I miss her again because grief isn't linear and neither is love.
"There you are." Colt leans in the doorway, dressed in a tailored suit that makes his shoulders look broad and strong. My brother. Only a year older. The only one who knows what it was like to grow up as Eleanor's second-favorite project.
"You look beautiful," he says, stepping into the room. His eyes—a dark and deep Ashby blue, just like mine, sweep over me with approval. "But people are starting to ask questions, Savannah. Marcus is looking for you."
Of course he is. Marcus is always lookin’ for me when I'm not where he expects me to be.
"I know Legion is out," I say, instead of answering. The words taste dangerous on my tongue. Like saying his name might summon him. If only. "I went by the trailer. It's empty."
Even Mercy is gone. That skinny little ghost of a girl with her too-old eyes and her too-young face. Gone with her brother, I suppose.
"So he came back and got her," Colt says, not asking. "Took her where?"
That's what I wanna know. Where did he go? Did he leave Drybone? Did he find someone while he was inside? Some woman who writes letters and waits for men who've done terrible things?
Maybe.
It costs me a lot to admit that.
A piece of my heart actually cracks open.
But it's just to prepare myself for my inevitable future and has little to do with Legion ever actually… replacing me.
We're… kind of a thing.
"The clubhouse," I say, certain as sunrise. "He's at the clubhouse and he took Mercy with him."
Which is no place for a nine-year-old girl. But then, neither was that falling-down trailer with its empty cupboards and broken locks. Neither was being left alone while everyone who should have protected her, disappeared one by one.
I sigh, my shoulders dropping an inch. "I'm coming."
Colt, the only Ashby brother who always takes my side, nods and steps away to let me pass.
He never judges, though he probably should.
He never lectures, though I could probably use one now and then.
He only sees and hears me. The real me. The sad me.
My heels click against the hardwood as I walk toward the stairs. Each step takes me closer to the future I'm supposed to want.
Colt doesn't follow. Will probably show up later, but he hates the jail cell this mansion has become just as much as I do.
That's why I can talk about Legion with him.
He gets me in a way that neither Wyatt nor Cash ever will.
Outside, the night air wraps around me like silk. Warm enough for bare shoulders, cool enough that goosebumps rise on my skin. The fairy lights strung between trees cast everything in gold. The white tent glows from within, making shadows dance across the outside.
Three hundred people waiting to celebrate the union of two families.
Two fortunes.
Two futures.
And there he is—Marcus White Jr., golden boy of Montana politics. Georgetown Law. Son of Montana State Senator White. Future congressman, if his father has anything to say about it.
He sees me and smiles that campaign-poster smile. Perfect teeth. Perfect hair. Perfect life waiting to fold me into it.
His lips find my neck as I reach him. Warm and soft and nothing like I want.
I close my eyes and see ink instead of skin. Black lines etched across muscle. Angels and demons locked in eternal battle. A map of scars and stories I used to trace with my fingertips in the dark.
Legion’s tattoos.
Legion’s body.
Legion’s ghost, haunting me even here, even now, with another man’s ring on my finger and the only future I ever wanted quickly slippin’ away like the inheritance money the Estate will never get if I don’t ‘marry proper’.
Inside the massive party tent on the Ashby Ranch lawn, I hold a flute of champagne that I haven't sipped. Marcus introduces me to another circle of nodding faces—his father's business associates, a state judge, his wife, and two lawyers whose names I hear, but don’t remember.
They all wear the same expression: calculation wrapped in politeness.
"My future wife," Marcus says, his hand possessive at my waist. “Savannah Ashby.”
I smile the smile Mama taught me. Lips curved just enough, teeth barely showing. The smile that says I'm listening when I'm not.
These people don't see me. They see followers. Engagement metrics. The Ashby water rights. The land that stretches farther than their imported cars can drive in a day.
"Savannah's platform reaches over four million people," Marcus explains, like I'm a television network instead of a person. "Her influence in the rural demographic is unparalleled."
The judge's wife nods, her diamond earrings catching the light. "Such a blessing for your campaign."
My gaze drifts past them to the long gravel driveway curving between the cottonwoods. I imagine headlights cutting through darkness. Not the soft purr of German engineering, but the growl of a motorcycle engine that sounds like a threat.
I imagine Legion walking across the perfect lawn toward this perfect tent. Leather-clad and dangerous. Knuckles still bruised from prison yard fights. Tattoos climbing up his throat like prayers that got twisted into curses.
These polished people would scatter like frightened birds. Their champagne flutes abandoned. Their fake smiles frozen.
"Savannah?"
Marcus's voice pulls me back. His eyes narrow slightly. He's noticed my attention wandering.
"Would you excuse me?" I say, placing my untouched champagne on a passing waiter's tray. "Just need to freshen up."
I feel Marcus watching as I walk away. He always watches. Tracks my movements like I'm an investment that might depreciate if left unattended.
Inside the carriage house, the powder room is a sanctuary of cream marble and subtle lighting. I lock the door behind me and lean against it, eyes closed, letting the quiet wrap around me.
And then I'm not here anymore.
I'm fifteen again, climbing the rusted ladder inside the abandoned grain silo. The metal cold against my palms. My heart hammering with anticipation, not dread.
Legion waiting at the top, a shadow against shadows until I got close enough to see his eyes. It was a hot summer night, but it was dark like winter. He reached for my hand, pulled me onto the platform where we'd been meeting for three years.
But that night was different.
That night, he spread his leather jacket on the wooden planks. That night, his hands shook when they touched my face.
"You sure?" he asked, his voice rough at the edges.
I answered by taking his hand and placing it over my heart. Over the lace of my bra. My skin burning everywhere he touched.
He eased me down on his jacket, the leather still warm from his body. His calloused hands moved over me like I was something sacred. Something he'd been starving for.
His lips traced a path from my throat to my breasts until I couldn't breathe right.
Couldn't think right.
Could only feel right.
"I've been dyin’ for you," he whispered against my inner thigh, his breath hot and desperate. Then his mouth claimed me, tasting places no one had ever touched, and I practically sobbed his name into the darkness as I begged him to never stop.
When he finally pushed inside me, he went slow and careful despite the trembling in his arms. His eyes never left mine as he angled deeper, filling an emptiness I'd never acknowledged until that moment.
He moved inside me like a man both worshipping and drowning. Like he'd found religion in the arch of my back. Like salvation lived in the space between my legs.
I lean forward, gripping the marble countertop, my engagement ring catching the light as I try to steady my breathing.
The memory is too vivid. Too close. I can almost feel the splinters from the wooden platform digging into my shoulders, the weight of him pressing me down, the way my body stretched to accommodate him.
The knock on the door startles me back to the present.
"Savannah? Are you all right in there?" Senator White's voice, my future father-in-law, concerned but practiced. The kind of concern that's performative, meant to be overheard and noted.
"Just a minute," I call back, running cold water over my wrists.
I check my reflection. Flushed cheeks. Bright eyes. A woman remembering things she shouldn't.
I open the door to find Marcus's father waiting, his political smile firmly in place. "The Daleworths were asking after you. They're considering a substantial donation to Marcus's exploratory committee."
Of course they are. That's what this party is really about. Not my engagement. Not love. Campaign contributions and strategic alliances.
"I'll be right there," I say, smoothing my skirt.
His eyes sparkle, as if to say, Of course, you will. Then they flick to my hand. "Beautiful ring. My wife had one similar. Though I believe yours has better clarity."
He offers his arm like we're at a cotillion, even though I gave a subtle hint that I’d follow along after he left. I place my hand on his arm because that's what Eleanor Ashby's daughter does. She performs. She pleases. She plays the game.
I rejoin the party with my spine straight and my smile fixed as Marcus slides his arm around my waist, pulling me close. "There you are," he murmurs, his lips brushing my ear. "I was beginning to think you'd escaped on a pony."
He means it as a joke, but it lands like a warning.
"The champagne," I explain, letting him think alcohol has brought the color to my cheeks. Not memories of Legion's hands. Not the phantom feel of his mouth on my pussy.
Marcus laughs, satisfied with my answer. His hand settles against the small of my back, fingers splayed possessively across silk.
If only different hands were there. Larger. Rougher. Hands with tattoos across the knuckles. Hands that have broken bones, and built fires, and traced every inch of my body in the dark.
The string quartet plays something classical and forgettable in the corner. The notes float above conversation, above laughter, above the clink of crystal against crystal.
I catch my reflection in a gilded mirror across the tent. Who is she? Would Legion even recognize me now?
Or would he only see the ghost of the girl who once climbed an old ladder in the dark just to feel alive in his arms?
The girl who kissed him with dirt on her knees and grass in her hair. The girl who sang for him when no one else was listening.
Suddenly, the crystal glasses begin to tremble on the tables, the string quartet falters, violin bows hovering mid-stroke as the musicians exchange wide-eyed glances of uncertainty.
And, as if God himself was listening to my earlier thoughts, the unmistakable thunder of motorcycles breaks the night air.
Every head turns toward the long, winding driveway, whispering…
Then the whisper swells into a primal roar that vibrates in my chest.
Familiar and terrifying all at once.
A heartbeat I thought I'd forgotten.
He’s here.
He came.