Chapter Twenty-Three
Victor was halfway through his second whiskey when the suite door opened softly behind him, followed by the rustle of skirts and the faint click of the lock sliding back into place.
He remained seated near the window for a moment longer, watching dusk settle over Cottonwood’s main street below. Lamps flickered to life, one storefront at a time, while townsfolk drifted homeward beneath the deepening blue of evening.
He glanced toward the door.
Beatrice stood just over the threshold in a pale traveling dress, the brim of her hat casting soft shadows across her face. She’d removed her gloves already.
Victor knew her well enough by now to recognize the tension beneath her elegant appearance.
Something had unsettled her.
“Well?” he asked calmly.
She strode across the room and slapped her gloves atop the side table. “She’s younger than I expected.”
Victor leaned back in his chair.
“And prettier.”
Victor took another sip of whiskey. “You sound jealous.”
Beatrice shot him a sharp look. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
But Victor could already see it. Not mere resentment or wounded pride, but something deeper—and far more dangerous.
“Did you speak with Henry?” he asked.
Beatrice fell silent.
Victor set down his glass, studying her carefully. “Well?”
Her jaw tightened, but still, she said nothing.
For years after Henry had thrown her out, Beatrice had clung stubbornly to the belief that no woman could ever truly replace her.
Henry had become cold afterward, withdrawn, burying himself in work instead of courting another wife.
From a distance, it had looked almost romantic, in its own tragic way, as though some wounded part of him would always belong to her.
Victor leaned back slowly in his chair, the glass cool against his fingers as old memories resurfaced with unpleasant clarity.
Years ago, when he’d first turned his attention toward Henry Collins, their rivalry had seemed almost amusing.
In every town he entered, every businessman eventually mentioned the same name: Henry Collins, the hardworking rancher with the best horses in Kansas.
The honest young widower’s son who’d built success from nothing.
People admired that sort of thing out West. They admired persistence through struggle. Simplicity. Men who built a life with their own two hands instead of inheriting their fortunes.
Victor had despised him immediately.
And then, quite by chance, he had met Beatrice.
Poor Beatrice, with her careful manners and secondhand dresses, trying desperately to imitate wealth she did not possess. She’d been clever enough to recognize opportunity when she saw it and beautiful enough to be useful.
Victor smiled at the memory.
He’d shaped her carefully, paying for finer dresses, introducing her to the right company. He’d taught her how wealthy men preferred a woman to speak, laugh, move. Then, once she’d been polished enough, he’d quietly ensured she crossed paths with Henry Collins.
The rest had happened almost effortlessly. Henry had fallen in love, exactly as Victor expected he would. The hardworking rancher with no experience around refined women had looked at Beatrice like something rare and delicate.
Victor had watched it happen with detached amusement at first: the flowers, the courting, the engagement.
All the while, Beatrice had fed Victor information from inside Henry’s ranch.
Business papers. Contracts. Buyer agreements.
Financial details Henry had been foolish enough to leave within reach of a woman he trusted.
Victor had used every bit of it. He’d undercut deals, intercepted buyers, and sabotaged negotiations before Henry had even realized he was competing. It had been almost too easy.
Then, something inconvenient happened: Beatrice fell in love with Henry.
Victor had recognized it before she did. The hesitation whenever he asked for information. The defensiveness creeping into her voice whenever Victor mocked the rancher. The way she spoke Henry’s name, almost tenderly, when she thought no one noticed.
The stupid woman had forgotten their arrangement and abandoned her ambition, not realizing that a man like Henry Collins would never choose someone like her over his precious honor and pride.
And then, he’d discovered Beatrice’s betrayal. Victor still remembered the look on her face when she arrived afterward, sobbing and humiliated, wailing about how Henry had thrown her out without even giving her a chance to explain.
She’d expected understanding, and that had been her mistake.
Victor had corrected her quickly enough. He’d convinced her that Henry would never forgive betrayal. Told her the rancher’s pride would always matter more than love. Encouraged her to leave town before she embarrassed herself further trying to crawl back to him.
Eventually, she’d gone, and Victor had assumed the matter finished.
But when he’d learned that Henry Collins had married again, he found he had use for Beatrice once more. So, he’d written to her, and just as he’d suspected, she was only too willing to return to Cottonwood Falls.
Victor glanced toward her. Even after all these years, he could tell that Beatrice still carried a torch for Henry, and Victor could use that. If anyone could break Henry’s new marriage apart, it would be the woman who already understood him, who knew his weaknesses.
And, if Henry lost the wife he’d finally allowed himself to love, Victor suspected it would destroy him far more effectively than financial ruin ever could.
Beatrice turned from the window at last. “She’s frightened of losing him,” she said.
Victor arched a brow.
“She tries to hide it.” A smile touched Beatrice’s lips. “But not very well.”
Victor took another sip of whiskey as she turned back to the window.
“Do you know what makes it worse?”
“What’s that?”
“She isn’t even suited for his world.” Her laugh was sharp and humorless. “Plain dresses. Garden dirt beneath her nails. I doubt she even knows how to ride properly.”
Victor watched her carefully. “And yet, he chose her.” He crossed toward the sideboard to pour another drink. “I warned you that he wouldn’t forgive betrayal.”
“He still loves me,” she said.
“How can you be so sure?” Victor asked.
“I just know.” The answer came too quickly. “You didn’t see the way he looked at me.”
Victor nearly laughed at that. He’d seen Henry’s reaction to Beatrice at the auction, and what he’d seen was not longing. It was anger. History. Regret for old wounds. Not love.
But Beatrice needed to believe otherwise, perhaps because the alternative—that Henry Collins had truly moved on—was unbearable to her pride.
She turned fully toward him now, her eyes bright with determination that bordered dangerously on obsession. “I want him back, Victor.”
Victor leaned one hip against the sideboard, studying her carefully over the rim of his glass. “You had him once,” he pointed out, “and you lost him.”
A flicker of anger crossed her face. “Because you convinced me he’d be too blind to see what was happening under his nose!”
Victor smiled faintly. “No, Beatrice. You lost him because you misjudged the kind of man he is.”
Her jaw tightened.
“You assumed that love would matter more to him than trust,” Victor continued smoothly. “You were wrong.”
“Things are different now,” Beatrice said.
Victor swirled the whiskey slowly in his glass. “Are they?”
“Yes.” She stepped closer, lowering her voice. “That woman doesn’t belong in his world.”
“And Henry?” he asked. “I assume he does not agree with your perception of his new wife.”
Beatrice hesitated. “He’s protective of her.”
That was dangerous. Victor already knew men in love could be reckless, but protective men were worse. They dug in. Fought harder. Became stubborn beyond reason.
Still, every relationship had weaknesses, and newly formed love often had the most fragile foundations of all.
Especially one built on secrets.
Victor moved back toward the window slowly, his mind already several steps ahead. Henry Collins had always prided himself on honesty, respectability, and hard work … but his new marriage rested on unstable ground.
Beatrice tapped her foot impatiently. “What are you thinking?”
Victor smiled slowly.
“I think,” he began, “I may have just the thing to bring their happy little marriage crashing down.”
Beatrice’s eyes widened slightly. “What?”
But Victor only lifted his glass, the smile never leaving his face.
And outside, beyond the darkened windows of the house, thunder rolled low across the Kansas plains.