Chapter 27
Twenty-Seven
WE HAVE TO USE WHAT WE HAVE TO MAINTAIN THE UPPER HAND.
KINSLEY
I pull into the feed store parking lot and stop so fast I leave tire marks in the gravel. I got Brook's text and drove over here with a prayer that I wouldn't get pulled over for speeding hot on my lips.
A white city vehicle sits beside Brook's truck, official seals and government plates that spell trouble. A man in a polo shirt holding a clipboard is shaking his head at Brook. I glare. They are not shutting us down today.
The partially completed event space rises behind her like a skeleton—reclaimed timber framing, concrete floors that will accommodate plenty of boot scootin' and cowboy romancin', and pipes jutting out of the concrete.
If this inspector shuts us down now, we could lose everything.
The dinner, the coalition, the last chance to save twenty thousand head of cattle and five generations of Halloway blood.
We lose Wyatt's inheritance, his future, maybe even him if the weight of watching his family's legacy crumble becomes too much to bear.
He wants his family to think he doesn't care, but you don't recruit fifteen people to a cause you don't believe in.
I'm about to get out of the car when my phone chimes.
Jessica's name flashes across the screen with a link to Instagram. I tap it and my stomach drops.
Brittany and Wyatt. Standing close behind the chutes, she’s leaning against him, his expression unreadable. The caption underneath makes my vision blur at the edges: Just can't get enough of him!
My fingers go numb around the phone.
Another text. This one from Jessica: Don't freak out. Talk to him first!
The phone dings again immediately. Jessica: If you're freaking out after talking to him, CALL MMMEEEE!!
I lock my phone and shove it in my pocket. I can't do this right now. Can't think about Wyatt and Brittany and what that photo means or doesn't mean. Can't let myself spiral into all the ways I might be getting played while pretending I'm in control.
One fire at a time.
Right now, the fire in front of me is the man with the clipboard who's about to shut down our last chance at saving this ranch. Everything else—including the image of another woman's arm around Wyatt's waist—will have to wait.
I force air into my lungs and climb out of the car.
"Mr. Henderson," Brook says as I approach, her voice steady but her eyes blazing, "I've explained this three times already. This isn't residential construction."
Dave Henderson, a middle-aged man with a pot belly, gives Brook a look that says he doesn’t believe her.
I stand beside Brook and touch her arm to let her know I’m here for her.
The construction crew hovers nearby waiting for orders.
"Ma'am, I don't care what you call it," Henderson says with smug satisfaction, "Anonymous tip says you're building illegal residential units above commercial space. Zoning violation clear as day."
"Anonymous tips don't constitute grounds for a shutdown," I say, keeping my voice level. "You need documented evidence of a zoning violation, not just someone's word. What specifically are we violating?"
Henderson points at the framing with his clipboard. "Right there—second floor layout. That's clearly residential square footage over commercial space. I can see bathroom rough-in and bedroom partitions. You can call it whatever you want, but the framing doesn't lie."
Brook unfurls the architectural plans across the tailgate of her truck. "It’s not a bedroom. This is a bridal preparation suite. No kitchen. No fire escape. No closet space. No residential features."
She glances over her shoulder at him to make sure he’s looking at the blueprint—he is not.
I jump in, touching his arm and physically turning his body toward the papers.
"Brides need somewhere private to get ready before their event,” I explain in my polite voice.
“Somewhere they can change clothes, fix their hair, have a moment of quiet before walking down the aisle.
It's a changing room, not an apartment."
Henderson barely glances at the plans. "Looks like apartment construction to me. Walls, ceiling, electrical, plumbing."
“Brides' rooms need all those things too,” I point out.
The legal weak points in his case glare like neon signs—no specific code violations cited, no actual inspection of the plans, relying on anonymous tips rather than professional assessment.
This is harassment with a government stamp, and it makes my blood boil.
The tremor in my hands started with that picture of Brittany and Wyatt, but now it's all focused rage.
Brook’s control is also starting to fracture, her voice going up a notch. "I've filed every permit correctly and followed every regulation to the letter. You can't just—"
“Even anonymous complaints require investigation.” Henderson interrupts, pulling out a form that looks suspiciously like a stop-work order.
An approaching vehicle pulls in and heads our way. We all turn toward the road with the instinctive wariness.
“Whitmores,” Brook hisses under her breath.
I narrow my eyes. The black Mercedes SUV that pulls into the gravel lot has timing that's too perfect for it to be a coincidence.
Eleanor Whitmore emerges first, every silver hair perfectly styled, and her linen suit pressed.
She surveys the scene with calculating blue eyes that seem out of place in her otherwise grandmotherly appearance.
This is what evil looks like when it learns to wear pearls.
Ford gets out of the driver's seat. I thought this day couldn't get worse—Brittany's photo, Henderson's threats, the weight of everything riding on this event—but somehow Ford manages to prove me wrong just by showing up.
Seeing him again sends a cocktail of old wounds and fresh anger through my system.
Could he be the one sending those texts? I study his expression as he approaches, looking for some sign. There’s nothing but I can’t stop wondering if he moved from ignoring me to harassing me.
He's wearing elephant leather boots and a pressed shirt that’s starched all the way to Sunday.
Twenty-seven years of wondering what was wrong with me that my own father could walk away, and here he stands—successful, confident, and not one spec of the shame he should wear.
It’s a cruel twist of fate that he hasn’t morphed into an ogre by now.
"Dave, what's all the commotion?" Eleanor uses the inspector's first name with casual familiarity that speaks volumes about her influence in this town. It’s a power move, meant to show us that she’s in charge.
I huff and turn away from Ford. I can’t look at him anymore.
Henderson straightens. "Mrs. Whitmore. Just conducting an inspection based on an anonymous complaint."
"How thorough of you." Eleanor's smile could send a wolf into a panic attack. She steps closer to examine our architectural plans with interest. Brook steps between her and the tailgate, blocking her view.
"How ambitious," Eleanor murmurs. "Was that an apartment I saw?"
My fingers curl into fists at my sides. I could smack this woman.
"It's a bridal room," Brook explains with professional precision. "Completely within commercial zoning regulations."
Ford makes a noise that sounds like he doesn’t believe her. Henderson glances at him out of the corner of his eye and takes a careful step away from him.
Eleanor's eyes sharpen. "Of course. Of course. … Although …”
She is so obvious I almost want to laugh.
“I imagine it must be quite convenient, having somewhere for overnight guests now that Kinsley's settled into the cottage so... permanently." Her eyes cut to me.
My stomach clenches with unease. I do not like the idea of anyone in the Whitmore clan knowing where I sleep at night. The idea makes my skin crawl.
The violation of my privacy hits me in waves. I gulp and turn to Ford. “Are you stalking me? Are you trying to scare me off? Because your threats won’t work on me, old man.”
Ford's expression doesn't change. "Small towns talk, Kinsley. People notice things."
"People don't notice where someone sleeps at night unless they're specifically looking for that information." My hands are trembling now, and I shove them into my pockets to hide the shaking. "What kind of man spies on the daughter he's spent twenty-seven years ignoring?"
Brook makes a surprised noise, and I cringe. She didn’t know Ford is my father. I can’t believe no one told her. I mean, the only person I told was Wyatt and it seems like Wyatt kept my confidence. That says something about him, but I can’t unpack it right now.
I continue to glare at Ford. For the first time since he arrived, he looks uncomfortable. But not ashamed. Never ashamed.
Brook manages to pick her jaw up off the ground. I owe her an apology, and she’ll get it as soon as we take care of the inspector.
Eleanor lifts a shoulder. "Well, I'm sure Dave will do his job thoroughly," she says with gracious satisfaction. "These regulations exist for good reason, after all and his enforcement of them is how he keeps his job." She turns on her heel and heads toward her SUV.
Ford’s gaze slides over me, assessing me.
Weird. I almost feel like he’s making sure I don’t have any bruises or physical damage.
It’s almost like he cares. Which is ridiculous.
The man cares more about his horse than he does for me.
I'm not sure what to make of that look. Is it a warning?
I have no idea, and I feel like I'm crossing a river on wobbly stones.
Henderson, emboldened by Eleanor's threat to get him fired, straightens his clipboard with renewed authority. "Stop-work order stands pending further investigation," he announces, tearing off an official form and thrusting it at Brook.
I want to hate him for it—but the only thing I can hold against him is that he’s a coward.
The construction crew begins dispersing. Brook takes the stop-work order by the very tip of the corner.