Chapter Twenty-Seven
Victor paced slowly before the fire, one hand on the small of his back while the other swirled a glass of whiskey in lazy circles.
The study smelled faintly of cigar smoke and polished wood, the warm glow of lamplight reflecting against dark shelves lined with ledgers, legal papers, and property maps. Outside, wind pressed softly against the windows, carrying the distant sound of cattle somewhere beyond the house.
Usually, the room soothed him, but tonight, impatience scraped steadily beneath his skin.
He glanced toward the clock on the mantel. Beatrice was late, and he was not a man who liked waiting.
Victor exhaled slowly through his nose.
The entire plan depended upon Ruth leaving willingly and quietly. The last thing they needed was a dramatic confrontation that might drive Henry and the girl closer instead of apart.
No, it will be far better for Henry to wake up and find her gone. That sort of wound lingers the longest.
Victor smiled at the thought and crossed toward his desk at last, setting down his glass beside a neat stack of papers, purchase agreements, deeds, and boundary maps. His gaze drifted over them with quiet satisfaction.
Over the past year, Victor had been quietly buying up the land surrounding Henry Collins’s ranch.
Small properties at first—landowners struggling after droughts, widowers needing cash quickly, ranchers foolish enough to gamble away their holdings—piece by piece, carefully enough not to attract attention.
Now, only a handful of strategic parcels remained between Victor and complete control of the territory surrounding Henry’s land.
Today had been particularly satisfying; Henry’s expression as he stormed out of the solicitor’s office alone had made the entire scheme worthwhile.
Victor rested one hand lightly against the papers.
Soon enough, Henry Collins would find himself boxed in from every direction. Limited grazing. Restricted expansion. Fewer buyers willing to cross Victor Wilkes for business. And once Henry became desperate enough, Victor would offer to buy the ranch itself.
Not because he needed it, but because taking it from Henry would be enormously satisfying.
His mouth tightened slightly as old irritation resurfaced. Years ago, he’d nearly succeeded. He’d orchestrated it carefully then, too, and Beatrice had been central to the plan from the start. Ambitious girls were useful, and Beatrice had proven exceptionally so … until she hadn’t.
Victor would never forgive either of them for that failure—Henry for surviving it, and Beatrice for ruining it—which was precisely why this time had to succeed.
Just then, the study door opened.
Victor looked up as Beatrice entered without hesitation, removing her gloves as she crossed the room.
“Well?” Victor asked immediately.
Beatrice smiled slowly. “She’s leaving.”
Satisfaction unfurled quietly through him. “Tonight?”
“She agreed to take the child and go before he wakes up.”
Victor let out a soft breath through his nose, pleased. “Excellent,” he said.
Beatrice moved toward the fire, clearly pleased with herself. “She was easier to frighten than I expected.”
Victor arched a brow. “Women with secrets usually are.”
“She practically begged me not to tell him the truth.” Beatrice’s lips curled faintly. “Pathetic, really.” There was triumph in her expression now, along with relief, as though removing Ruth from Henry’s life had restored some natural order in her mind.
“And what exactly do you plan to do with her?” she asked casually.
Victor leaned back against the desk and let his gaze drift toward the fire before answering. “She’s a pretty little thing.”
Beatrice’s expression cooled.
“And frightened women can be persuaded into all sorts of useful arrangements,” he added mildly.
Beatrice folded her arms. “I told her that you promised she would work in the kitchen.”
Victor smiled faintly and pushed off the desk. “Did I?” He turned away leisurely, pouring himself another drink before continuing. “A woman with Ruth’s particular… background,” he said carefully, “could be a valuable asset in the right hands.”
“Well, I don’t care what you do with her,” she said sharply. “Just keep her away from Henry.”
Victor approached her slowly, lowering his voice. “You’re forgetting the larger picture.”
Beatrice looked away.
“We came very close once before,” he reminded her. “Henry nearly lost everything.”
“But he didn’t.”
“No.” Victor’s expression darkened, “because you ruined our plan by falling in love with him—but this time is different.”
Beatrice’s gaze flickered back toward him.
“He has finally allowed himself to love someone,” Victor said, “and now, he’s about to lose her.” He raised his glass. “That kind of hurt changes a man.”
Beatrice’s expression softened faintly.
“And when the ranch begins failing,” Victor continued, “when the pressure mounts and he realizes he cannot hold everything together alone …” He stepped closer. “Who do you think he’ll turn to for comfort?”
Understanding dawned slowly across Beatrice’s face, and Victor smiled.
She exhaled softly. “And the ranch?”
Victor’s gaze drifted toward the papers spread neatly across the desk. His smile deepened. “When Henry Collins is broken enough,” he said quietly, “he’ll hand it over himself.”
Beatrice’s eyes narrowed as she looked toward the documents spread across the polished wood. “So that’s it, then?” she asked carefully. “You take his ranch, his land, his business—and what, exactly, remains afterward?”
There was tension beneath the question now. Not sentimentality, but rather practicality. Beatrice had spent too many years scraping at survival not to think of such things.
Before Henry, before the dresses and polished manners, Beatrice had known real poverty. Boarding houses with thin walls and watered soup. Men looking too long at pretty girls with no family protection. The kind of desperation that made comfort feel like salvation.
“If Henry loses everything,” she said more quietly, “what exactly will I have left?”
Victor studied her for a moment, then set down his glass and crossed toward her slowly. “You’re thinking too small.”
Beatrice’s brow furrowed.
“The ranch was never the point for you,” Victor continued smoothly. “Not truly.”
“Yes, it was,” she argued automatically. “It represented stability.”
“No.” His voice softened. “Henry represented stability.”
That silenced her.
Victor pressed the advantage immediately. “You didn’t fall in love with his land,” he said, “or his horses. You fell in love with the man himself.”
When Beatrice looked away, Victor knew he’d struck true. For all her ambition, all her vanity and calculation, Beatrice’s fatal weakness had always been emotional attachment. Specifically, her attachment to Henry Collins.
“And what do you think will happen after she leaves?” he asked. “After he realizes the sweet little wife he trusted disappeared in the middle of the night without explanation?”
Beatrice said nothing, but Victor could already picture it. Henry drinking later into the evenings. Neglecting business. Losing focus. Making mistakes.
“He’ll be devastated,” he continued. “Confused. Humiliated.” His tone lowered further. “And alone.”
Men always became vulnerable when grief hollowed them out.
“He may hate you now, but heartbreak changes people,” Victor said, moving closer still, his voice softening almost intimately. “When Ruth abandons him, when he’s hurting,” he continued carefully, “he’ll remember who loved him first.”
“You truly think he could forgive me?”
Victor smiled. “Oh, Beatrice,” he said softly. “Men forgive beautiful women for far worse things than betrayal.”
Her shoulders loosened as Victor turned back toward the desk, hiding the cold amusement flickering briefly across his face. Whether Henry forgave her or not hardly mattered to him. By the time this was over, Henry Collins would be ruined either way.
And that—that was all Victor had ever truly wanted.