Chapter One
Nate
I swore as I parked my Aston Martin next to a gas pump with a handwritten sign: Pay inside first.
Of course. Why would anyone want to make things simple?
The cold bit through the thin wool of my jacket, and snow crunched beneath my shoes, likely staining the leather. They weren’t built for gas stations. I should have known winter would have a stranglehold on this area, but Boston’s mild November had made me careless.
I could have flown, but I chose the drive up from Boston. The long stretch of mountain highway had sounded like a chance to let the Aston stretch its legs while I cleared my head. Instead, the mountain highways had been a gauntlet of frustration.
Bare sugar maples and yellow birches lined the road like skeletal guards, their leafless branches stark against the gray sky, while dense spruces, heavy with snow, loomed over the narrow road, shedding icy clumps that spattered the Aston’s hood.
The road had twisted and climbed through the White Mountains, offering icy patches and unplowed curves that mocked my car’s summer tires.
Every sharp bend I’d imagined enjoying had forced me to crawl at half the speed I’d planned.
What should have been a distracting escape from what was otherwise going to be a tedious weekend, had me wishing I collected four-wheel-drive versions of classic cars.
Not that I had any intention of returning to this godforsaken area.
The bell over the door jingled when I stepped inside the gas station.
The place smelled like motor oil, penny candy, and the faint bite of woodsmoke carried on a draft.
Behind the counter stood a lanky kid with a patchy mustache and a name tag: Gabe.
He grinned at me like I’d just parked a spaceship outside.
“That yours?” He flicked his chin toward the Aston.
I nodded once and took in how outdated even the cash register looked. “Tell me you take American Express.”
“Sure.” The kid cracked a grin. “You staying local? My dad’s a mechanic. If you have any issues with your car, I could . . . you know, take it around the block. Make sure she runs smooth.”
I blinked then coughed. “That’ll never happen.”
He shrugged. “Around here we watch out for each other. Where you headed?”
My eyes narrowed. “The Keaton place.”
Some of the sparkle left the kid’s expression. “Old man Silas was a good man. He and my dad were friends. In fact we took in his horses when he got sick.”
“That’s nice,” I said, fishing my black card out of my wallet.
The boy looked me over instead of reaching for the card. “You Ethan?”
“No, that’s my father.” I put the card on the counter. “Put sixty on it.”
He shook his head. “Nate, right?”
Sighing with impatience, I said, “Listen, it’s been a long day and an even longer drive. All I want is to fill my tank and check out the condition of the house. Run the card.”
Lips pressed together, the kid gave me another once over and my mood took a downward turn. I snapped, “What is your problem?”
“Silas was like family. Your first fill-up is on us.”
“That’s not necessary.” No way was I taking charity from someone who looked like he was wearing hand-me-downs that had gone through more than one hand-down. We stood in a silent standoff, one I would have won had I not already been tired of the exchange.
As if I weren’t waiting, he took out his phone and made a call. “Dad, Silas’s nephew is here trying to buy gas. I told him that. He’s just standing there staring at me. What should I do?”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” I muttered.
“Told him that too.” The kid glanced down at my card then away again. “My dad wants to know if you want Thunder and Lightning back or if you’ll be visiting them at our place.”
“Thunder and Lightning?”
“Silas’s horses. They’re yours now. Or will be.”
“Do they have to be?” The question came out before I thought about how it’d sound. I sighed. “Of course, I’ll take responsibility for them as well as compensate your family for caring for them in the interim.”
“Do you think you’ll keep them along with the farm?”
“Hell no, but they’re my problem, not yours.”
The boy’s eyebrows rose then his eyes narrowed and he spoke into the phone. “Remember how Silas said his brother was a dick? That trait didn’t skip a generation.”
I rolled back on my heels and found myself fighting a chuckle. This kid was bold as fuck. I wished half the people who worked for me were as unafraid to speak their minds. But what’s his issue? “If your father wants to keep the horses, he can.”
The boy rolled his eyes. “He says Uncle Martin might but said you should meet them before you decide.”
“Whatever.” I looked at the card again then stared the kid down. “Not sure I’ll have time. I’m only here for the weekend.”
The kid frowned. “Oh, Silas was sure . . .”
“That I’d want the place?” I shook my head. “I’m just here to see it one last time.”
After an intense perusal, the kid said, “Then what?”
“Sell it.” What else did he think someone like me would do with a property smack in the middle of nowhere?
He picked up my card and said, “Dad, there’s no way to double charge someone is there?”
I cocked an eyebrow.
Without a bit of humor, he said, “Just kidding,” and ran it through the machine then handed it back to me with disgust. Then mouthed, “Not really.”
I stuffed my card back in my wallet and pocketed it then turned to leave but paused.
It wasn’t this kid’s fault I didn’t want to be there.
It also wasn’t his father’s fault my uncle had died without making contingency plans for his animals.
Over my shoulder, I said, “Tell your father I’ll inquire about the horses before I leave . . . and thank you.”
He made a noise that sounded like a snort.
I strode back out into the cold and made my way to my car, regretting coming at all.
I wouldn’t have, if my Aunt Claire hadn’t talked me into it.
It bothered her that none of us had been informed that Silas was sick until we’d received notice of his death.
His funeral had been small and unannounced.
Not that my father would have told me about it anyway.
As far as I knew, it had been over a decade since they’d spoken.
Whatever had gone down between Silas and my father, it had caused a rift that even she couldn’t mend.
Why Aunt Claire cared so much about Silas when she’d also fallen out of touch with him was beyond me, but she’d called every other day for the last month, worried that I’d let his property go to auction without visiting it.
Promise me, Nate, she’d said in that voice that could coax even me off a ledge. Silas loved that ranch. He left it to you because you loved it too.
I spent one summer with him there when I was ten. I barely remember it. Just like I barely remember him.
You might have forgotten how different you were when you returned, but I haven’t, she’d said gently. Tan, filthy, and happy in a way I don’t think you’ve found since.
The words hit hard, even as a memory. I don’t want the farm, and I don’t need to see it again to be certain of that.
Promise me one weekend, she’d said. If you still want to let it go to auction by Monday, I won’t say another word.
There’s nothing there for me.
You won’t know that if you don’t let yourself go there one last time . . .
After filling the tank, and hopping back into my car, I pulled out with more speed than I should have and nearly ended up in a ditch. Perfect.
Thankfully the farm wasn’t more than a few miles from the gas station.
I pulled up the rutted, snow-packed dirt road that was flanked by enormous empty horse paddocks beneath a pristine blanket of snow.
Someone had plowed the driveway. An empty barn.
A guest house that sagged like a tired old man.
An outbuilding big enough to store machinery in.
I made my way past all of that, haunted by memories circling just out of reach.
The main house stood tall and proud, well maintained but humble, with a porch that wrapped all the way around it like an invitation.
I parked in front of it and killed the engine then noted a light was on in one of the garages.
Music drifted from it—tinny, distorted. The lawyer hadn’t mentioned someone staying there to watch the place, but I also hadn’t asked.
It made sense that someone would have been sent to meet me.
As I walked into the garage, I stopped short and took in the view of the delightfully rounded, denim-covered ass of a woman who was bent over the engine of an old sedan.
I took in her scuffed boots and bright blue flannel that shifted higher when she moved, revealing a sliver of skin above her waistband.
Her dark ponytail was slipping loose, and a dragon tattoo curled down her exposed forearm.
She hadn’t heard me come in and I didn’t feel the need to rush to remedy that.
Could her face possibly live up to the standard of the rest of her? Long legs. Sass in the flick of her ponytail that was accompanied by a swear. Nothing like the women I was accustomed to.
Tempting as hell.
Maybe the trip here wasn’t such a bad idea after all.
Wielding a wrench, she spun at the crunch of my shoes on the snow as I stepped closer. “This is private property.”
“Is it?” I asked, because wit deserted me when I got a full look at her. Mid-twenties. Eyes like a storm. God, she was even better looking than I’d hoped. She radiated strength and didn’t bother to hide her dislike.
“The owner doesn’t like surprise company.”
My eyes widened at that. “He’s here?”
“Yes. Stepped inside for a moment, but he’ll be right back and won’t be happy to find someone here.”
I folded my arms across my chest. “I’ll take my chances.”
Her eyes flashed, then she muttered, “You’d be better to leave your name. I’ll tell him you were here.”
“And he’ll call me back?”
“Yes.” She swallowed visibly. “What’s your name?”
“What’s yours?”
Her jaw flexed. “Listen, I don’t want to hurt you, but you need to leave.”
“Do I?” I stepped closer.
She put down the wrench.
I continued to approach. “Or do you?”
She went from absolute stillness to launching herself at me. When I reached out to catch her, she elbowed me off balance, then as I stumbled, hooked my ankle and nearly sent me to the ground. When I righted myself, she had a 9mm Beretta steady at my chest.
“I don’t want to shoot you,” she said evenly. “But I will.”
Her stance was perfect. Not a bluff. My pulse kicked, and not from fear. “Easy,” I said, palms raised. “Do I look like someone you need to run off with a gun?”
She simply stared at me.
Obviously we’d gotten off to a poor start. “I’m Nate Keaton.” The corner of my mouth crooked as I added, “Technically the owner, so . . . no one should have an issue with me showing up here.”
She frowned, gun steady. “Silas’s nephew?”
“Yes.”
The gun lowered an inch. “I was convinced you wouldn’t come.”
“So was I, but here I am.”
Color drained from her face. “For how long?”
“I haven’t decided.” I don’t know why I lied.
She swallowed. “I was told this place would sit empty for a few months.”
“Who told you that?”
“Frank. He’s the caretaker of the grounds.”
“Is he here?”
She seemed to debate whether or not to answer honestly. “No, he had a family emergency and asked me to watch the place.”
I took out my phone. “What’s Frank’s last name?”
“Muller.”
I sent the name to a member of my security team with a request to check if a Frank Muller was indeed the caretaker of my uncle’s farm. A heartbeat later it was confirmed that he was along with a phone number to reach him. “Should I call him? Check your story?”
“Do it.” Fierce, sharp.
She’s desperate but not scared. “I might, or you could prove you’re not an issue by handing me the gun.”
After a long hesitation, she clicked the safety, dropped the magazine into her pocket, racked the slide to eject the chambered round, and passed the gun over. I pocketed the Beretta then met her eyes. “Now, your name.”