Chapter Eleven
Victor Wilkes reined his horse to a stop at the crest of the ridge, the Collins Ranch stretching wide beneath him.
He sat easy in the saddle, one gloved hand resting lightly on the horn, his gaze fixed on the movement below. Even at a distance, he could make out the figures of men—Henry Collins among them—crossing the yard, the steady rhythm of their work continuing like nothing had changed.
Victor’s mouth curved downward as a flicker of irritation burned in his gut.
He exhaled slowly, his eyes drifting toward the barns, where the real story lay: the poisoned horses—hopefully, all dead by now.
He was not foolish enough to tamper with feed or water directly, which would quickly invite questions. He’d been careful not to draw immediate suspicion by wiping out the entire herd in one blow. He’d taken his time acquiring what he needed and made sure not to source the plants locally.
A trader had passed through from further west, a man who asked few questions so long as coin was good. Dried samples first, enough for Victor to recognize the plant in its living form. After that, it had only been a matter of finding it growing wild in the right places and taking what he needed.
He’d ridden out himself to gather them. Hands in the dirt, careful not to damage the stems. Selecting only the healthiest growth, plants that would take quickly once replanted.
He knew the land well enough. Knew where Collins’s men didn’t walk often. Where the grazing stretched thinner. Where something new might go unnoticed for a time.
Victor had worked at dusk, pressing each plant into the soil among the natural growth, spacing them just enough to spread, but not so thick as to draw the eye. To anyone passing by, it would look like nothing more than another patch of wild prairie.
The plants had done their job, and the seeds of doubt had been sewn. Buyers would lose trust in Collins’s stock once word spread. Investors would hesitate. Neighboring ranchers would begin to circle, sensing weakness.
That was how you dismantled a man like Henry Collins. Not all at once, but piece by piece.
Victor’s fingers tightened on the reins. He watched a moment longer, then clicked his tongue, turning his horse away.
The ride into town was quiet, late afternoon light stretching across the road as Cottonwood Falls came into view. Victor guided his horse to the saloon that stood near the town’s center, its wooden fa?ade worn but sturdy.
The swinging doors creaked as he stepped inside, and warm air hit him, thick with the scent of whiskey, sweat, and cigar smoke. An off-key piano played in the corner, a woman tapping out a tune that had been heard too many times by too many men.
Voices filled the space. Low, easy conversation, laughter that came quicker with drink.
Victor removed his gloves slowly, his gaze sweeping the room. He moved to the bar, setting a coin down without looking at the man behind it. “Whiskey.”
The glass came quickly, and Victor took a slow sip. Taking a seat at the bar, he listened.
Two men at the far end spoke of cattle prices. Another pair argued over a card game. At a table near the door, a group of cowhands talked of weather and the late rain.
Not a word about Collins or his ranch. No mention of sick horses, no rumors being passed.
It’s too soon, he assured himself. That’s all.
Still, he preferred certainty, and he’d hoped the rumors were already spreading.
Just then, a woman slid onto the stool beside him, her perfume cutting through the heavier smells of the room. Bright fabric, practiced smile.
“Howdy, stranger,” she chirped, leaning in close enough to nearly drown him in her cloying perfume. “You look like a man who could use company.”
Victor’s attention remained on the room, his thoughts on the conversations that were notably absent. After a moment, he glanced her way, and her smile widened under his gaze.
“I’m already occupied,” he said calmly.
She laughed. “I don’t see anyone else.”
Victor took another slow sip of his drink.
She leaned back, her smile thinning. “Suit yourself.”
Victor didn’t respond, his mind already returning to Henry Collins.
She moved on soon enough, as they always did.
Victor’s jaw tightened. Henry Collins had always been stubborn, principled. It was as annoying as hellfire, but it made him easy to read and easy to provoke.
Victor’s fingers tapped against the glass, the rhythm slow, deliberate. His gaze drifted, not to the saloon, not to the men around him, but somewhere further.
Another time and another place.
He hadn’t come to the West out of desperation, like so many others, driven by hunger, chance, or blind ambition; he’d come with purpose—and money.
Back East, the Wilkes name carried weight. His father had made certain of that. He’d built a reputation carefully and protected it fiercely. A man who believed respect was not simply earned, but shaped, maintained, and enforced.
Victor had grown up in that shadow. Expected to be impressive and to be noticed. To succeed in a way that ensured no one would think to look elsewhere.
And he had … or, at least, he’d intended to. Eventually, however, his father’s shadow had grown too cold.
And so, one day, Victor had decided to step into the light, choosing a different path than the one laid out by his father, and forge his own destiny. To that end, he’d left the East and moved out West to the land of tumbleweeds, cowboys, and Indians.
It had seemed simple at first. Land to be bought, opportunities to be taken. Men who could be outmaneuvered with the right combination of charm and coin.
Victor had learned quickly—invested wisely, expanded steadily—and only months after his arrival, his name had begun to circulate as a man to watch, a man rising.
It should have been enough, but it hadn’t lasted; somewhere along the way, another name had surfaced—not in the papers or in business circles, but in conversation.
Victor remembered the first time he’d truly noticed a casual mention, spoken with the kind of respect that wasn’t given lightly.
“A Collins horse … Best stock in the territory.”
Not Wilkes. Not the man with the land, the resources, the backing, but Collins—a man who’d built everything with his own hands and, apparently, didn’t need to announce himself to be known.
That had been the beginning. A mere irritation at first, easy enough to dismiss.
Until it wasn’t.
That name didn’t fade in the backdrop like so many others. Instead, it grew like weed, unrivaled and unchecked. Again and again, Victor heard the man’s name spoken with quiet certainty, with something dangerously close to admiration.
No matter how much Victor expanded, how much he acquired, Henry Collins remained the standard others measured against.
Victor’s grip tightened around the glass.
It wasn’t just the man’s success; it was the way of it. Henry hadn’t earned his reputation in any way Victor had understood. There had been no careful positioning, no cultivated influence, no deliberate shaping of perception.
The hardworking, honest, salt of the earth man seemed to simply make his own luck, and people responded to that, respected it. Trusted it.
Victor’s thoughts sharpened, settling on the day things had changed, when Victor had taken something Henry had trusted—and how sweet the feeling had been. It had filled him with unparalleled pleasure to see the wholesome Henry Collins fracture.
Victor exhaled slowly, the tension easing from his grip as he set the glass down. It was that memory, that knowledge, that proved what Victor had always believed: even the strongest man could be undone; you simply had to find the right place to apply pressure.
Now, Henry Collins had more to lose than ever. A ranch, a name, and a carefully built life, yes … but now, he’d taken a wife.
History did have a way of repeating itself, after all, and this time, Victor would make sure that, he didn’t just fracture Henry Collins—no, he would shatter the man into a million pieces and leave him in the dust.
Victor picked up his glass and finished his drink in one slow gulp before he rose, pulling his gloves on. As he stepped toward the door, the noise of the saloon fell behind him, the laughter, music, and careless conversation fading as he pushed through the doors.
Outside, the air had cooled, the sun slipping low in the west, the last daylight fading into a dusky blue.
A few lanterns had been lit along the street, their glow soft against the gathering dark.
Boots echoed along the wooden boardwalk as townsfolk moved at an unhurried pace, shop doors closing, quiet conversation drifting between passing figures.
Victor adjusted his coat as he stepped down onto the dirt road.
And then, he saw her: the woman from the train station.
She was alone, a small parcel tucked in her hands, her gaze lowered as she walked, her thoughts seemingly elsewhere.
Well, how about that, Victor thought, a faint smile touching his lips as he changed direction, angling toward her. How convenient.
“Mrs. Collins?”
She looked up, and recognition came quickly—and with it, hesitation. Victor read her wary attention in the slight stiffening of her shoulders, the way her grip tightened on the parcel.
She remembered him.
“Mr. Wilkes,” she said, her tone politely guarded.
Victor tipped his hat, all easy politeness. “I wasn’t certain you’d recall me.” He stepped closer, not enough to alarm, just enough to hold her attention. “I had hoped we might speak again under more … agreeable circumstances.”
When Ruth didn’t respond, Victor let the silence stretch a bit before speaking again.
“It’s a shame for a friend of your husband’s to be met with such distance.”
Her eyes glittered as one eyebrow twitched upward. “I wasn’t aware you were friends.”
Victor smiled. “Perhaps not in the way you understand,” he said, “but we’ve known each other for a long time.”
That much, at least, was true.
Ruth hesitated, then inclined her head. “What is it you wanted?”
Victor folded his hands loosely behind his back. “I’ve been hearing talk of trouble on your ranch,” he began casually. “Something about horses falling ill?”
Ruth stilled abruptly.
“I thought it only right to inquire,” Victor continued, hiding a smirk at her reaction, “given my interest in the well-being of my neighbors.”
Her eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. “I don’t know where you heard that, but they’re recovering.”
Victor’s smile didn’t falter. “Are they?”
“Yes,” she replied steadily, “and we know what caused it. Henry found some poison hemlock in one of the pastures. He had them cleared, of course.”
Victor’s fingers tightened behind his back.
Impossible.
He’d chosen that location himself. Yet, somehow, Henry had found them.
Victor forced his smile to remain in place. “That’s fortunate,” he said. “Very fortunate indeed.”
Ruth lifted her chin. “My husband takes good care of what belongs to him.”
“Clearly.”
A brief pause.
“My offer still stands, of course.”
Ruth frowned. “What offer?”
“A position at my ranch,” he said smoothly. “Should you ever find yourself dissatisfied with your current arrangement.”
Her expression hardened. “I’m a married woman, sir.”
Victor took a step closer. “Surely a city girl like you might wish to broaden your horizons,” he said, his tone softening into something indulgent. “A wife to a rancher? Seems that life might, at times, be rather… dull.”
Ruth held his gaze. “I’m no stranger to hard work.”
“I don’t doubt that,” Victor replied, moving closer still. “But it’s such a shame for a woman as beautiful as you to—”
“That’s enough,” said a gruff voice, cutting him off.
Victor turned to find Henry standing a few paces away, his posture rigid and his gaze locked on Victor with unmistakable hostility.