Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
Lane
“I’m so sorry to hear about your dad.” Claudia, the courthouse clerk, wears a sympathetic smile that Emerson ignores as she fills out the forms next to me.
My brothers are going to hunt me down and gut me when they hear about this marriage. They’ll be pissed it happened in the first place, and likely hurt and upset that they weren’t here.
It’s not a real marriage. If I keep telling myself that, I’ll feel less like a jackass. Cornering a beautiful woman into nuptials she clearly doesn’t want isn’t my style.
“Thanks,” Emerson says woodenly.
“Appreciate it.” Brooks is almost as disinterested. He’s waiting behind us, a hand shoved in a pocket. Hillary’s on a chair, digging through the local tourism flyers. She’s got earbuds in and seems content.
“Is there going to be a funeral service?” Claudia asks.
Emerson freezes and glances at Brooks for guidance. Those two have a close relationship. Brooks doesn’t come off as overbearing or controlling despite his size and roughneck appearance, but Emerson defers to him and he looks out for her.
Hutch did irreparable damage to his relationship with his kids, and he wedged me between them. But I don’t regret it.
“No plans for one,” Brooks answers gruffly. “Hutch wasn’t big on that stuff.”
Claudia’s face falls. “Oh. Yes, you’re right, I suppose. Didn’t like the attention on him. He was a good man.”
Emerson’s face says, You’re kidding, right? But she smothers it before Claudia turns back to her. She pushes her forms across the counter. “Done.”
“Do you have the rings or anything else you’d like before getting to the service?”
“Nope.” Emerson’s smile is straight out of the early aughts rom-com my surrogate mama loves to watch. “I’m just so in love I can’t wait to say ‘I do’ to this guy.”
My snort slips out and everyone looks at me. Oops. “I have that effect on her.”
Claudia beams. “I was always hoping you’d settle down, Lane. This is such a surprise. Isn’t the distillery amazing?” she asks Emerson. “Can you believe the way they resurrected the old Hennessy mine?”
I prop an elbow on the counter and give Emerson an expectant look. “Were you impressed, baby?”
She narrows her eyes on me, and a faint “Jesus” comes from Brooks.
“You always impress me, Lane Foster,” she says sweetly, but if looks could kill, I’d be a smoking pile of ash.
“I bet Cruz is thrilled.” Claudia scans the room and confusion darkens her eyes.
I have no one here. I help run the Foster House Gold site with my brother Cruz and the three Hennessy brothers, yet I’m here with two people who haven’t set foot inside city limits for twenty years.
Emerson chews on the inside of her cheek and looks down. Brooks crosses to Hillary. Are they realizing they’re not the only ones dragged into the mess Hutch created?
Today isn’t about me. It’s about what I want.
My family and my friends, who are basically family, can wait for the real thing.
I won’t lie to them about what’s going on.
The rest of the town can think I found love and dragged her back home.
It’ll help save face with Emerson and Brooks.
“He’s going to be. We’re surprising everyone after the fact.
You know what a big deal these things can turn into. ”
“Ohmigosh, yes. With your crew?” Her laughter chimes through the office. “Aren’t they the best?”
Again, her question’s aimed at Emerson. Claudia needs to get on with the ceremony.
Emerson’s eyes widen.
I don’t like lies, but there’ll be enough speculation. I can give a half-truth. “I met Emerson in Denver. She hasn’t had a chance to do the meet and greets yet. Whirlwind romance and all that.”
Claudia’s smile only grows. “Oh, well. Then we’d better not delay. Come on back.”
The justice of the peace is fast and efficient. Hillary nudges herself right next to Emerson and clutches her hand moments before I take them in mine. Emerson’s skin is warm and soft and her grip slack. This isn’t the woman who strutted into the main distillery a month ago.
Brooks rubs the back of his neck, eyeing us dubiously. He doesn’t like it, but taking care of his daughter overrides the protective older brother inside him.
Her I do is a whisper. I make mine firm. As much as I want to gather her in my arms for the kiss and have a repeat of the night we met, I keep the kiss respectful. When I pull away, her eyes stay closed for a heartbeat longer. Then she meets my gaze and her stare turns to steel.
She can try to keep her distance. She can tell herself that this won’t last. Her mom left. Her dad neglected her. And while she has Brooks, she has no one who will put her above anyone else. But that’s my job now.
Emerson
I’m married.
Married.
And I’m hungry.
Married and hungry. I don’t feel different, but everything’s changed.
I pull into Lane’s driveway behind his equally nice pickup. The only consolation about the quality shit associated with the man is that his pickup’s covered in dust, and bug splatter spots the windshield.
Lane parks outside his two-car garage. Only two stalls? He has the space for five, but then there’s the giant shop on the other side of the drive. He really does have everything.
The cattle are encased in the same newer, neat fencing that lines the pastures on the way here. Those cattle are his. The man ranches too. As if he needs help getting hotter. If Lane Foster puts on a cowboy hat, I might spontaneously impregnate.
I park next to him since this is my home for an undetermined amount of time. Hopefully weeks, not months. Brooks plants his truck right behind Lane, like he wants to make sure I’m not blocked in.
Too late.
My brother doesn’t want to leave my side, and I don’t want him to go. I get out and panting is the first thing I hear, along with a steady thwump against my car. When I turn, my heels grinding into the concrete pad, the Australian shepherd I saw earlier waits for me, tongue lolling out.
“Hello, gorgeous.” Her fur is soft and a small giggle leaves me. I miss having pets. All my apartments have been pet-free, and I haven’t made enough to buy a decent house in Denver. No backyard chickens for me.
“That’s Lady.” The fondness in Lane’s voice matches his expression. Of course he adores dogs.
A guy can seem perfect and turn out to be a . . . dog.
Feeling better, I straighten. Lady hears my niece scramble out and dashes for her. Giggles fill the air.
“Do you have a suitcase to bring in?” he asks.
Yes. “I’ll get it later.” This is too much as it is.
He nods. “I’ll show you inside.”
I exchange a get a load of this place look with my brother, but we follow Lane. His house holds the same faint woodsy and caramel scents as him. Like I’m right there in a whiskey barrel with him.
His home is nothing but clean lines and shades of gray.
A stormy day. A place that encourages a person to sit inside and enjoy the sound of the rain.
The floor plan is open, giving me a full view of the kitchen, dining room, and living area.
There are no other personal touches, except for a wall full of colorful pictures.
“Whoa.” Hillary pulls down her headphones as she wanders in. “This is your house? Is it, like, new?”
It’s definitely not old. I’m impressed and struggling not to show it. This massive log cabin, with its big shop, neat fences, curious horses, happy dog, and shiny new home, puts Hutch’s place next door to shame.
Internally, I wince. That type of thinking is why my mom left, and I’m not like her. I won’t be.
“I built it when I moved here,” Lane says. “About seven years ago.”
Where’d he live before that? Sifting through all the details, I land on Bourbon Canyon.
The Baileys. The family that owns and runs Copper Summit Bourbon, where Myles learned the trade of distilling.
I read an interview with Myles. I hadn’t paid attention to the pictures or the Foster House Gold website.
All the Foster brothers resemble each other with dark hair and blue eyes.
He’s not as severe as his oldest brother.
Lane seems less guarded. Is it deception? There’s not much out there about him.
I study the collage of kids’ artwork taking up an entire wall in various rustic frames that manage to make papers filled with obnoxiously bright colors blend seamlessly into the outback style of the interior. Other than this wall, there’s very little of him in this house.
Hillary looks up at her dad. “Is Grandpa Hutch’s house this nice?”
Brooks blanches, and the churn in my stomach echoes what he must be feeling.
“Probably not.” He musses her hair, and she scowls.
What are we going to do? Hutch’s house can’t be inhabitable. Can he and Hillary stay here? Are we just going to keep being dependent on Lane and his goodwill?
“I had it cleaned,” Lane says.
I pop my head up. “You did?”
He nods and my stomach takes another trip to my feet.
We’re even more indebted than it appears, and I have nothing to pay him back with—other than a divorce.
Lane
The vulnerability and fear in Emerson’s expression leave me wondering if I did the right thing, hiring cleaners for Hutch’s place.
“It was no problem,” I assure her. I risked any wrath to make the house livable for Emerson. She didn’t need to walk into the filth her dad had lived in. “I instructed the cleaners not to throw away anything, but they did box a lot of his belongings and stack them in the garage.”
“How bad?” Brooks asks.
“It could’ve been worse.” I glance at Hillary to let them know it’s better not to detail it all around her. “He got new furniture a couple of years ago when cattle prices were good. As far as I know, the guest bed hasn’t been used, and he slept a lot in his recliner. Bad back.”
Brooks’s brows lift slightly, like his dad’s back is news to him.
“Why did you have it cleaned?” Emerson asks. Can’t she believe I’d do it out of the goodness of my heart? I used to live in that world. One where I didn’t trust anyone to do something out of the goodness of their heart. I was being nice but also a little selfish.