Chapter 29
SEBASTIAN
I wake up to an empty bed, but this time Lennox isn’t in the kitchen making coffee or standing on the porch watching life.
She is fifteen hundred miles away in Montana, surrounded by family who love her unconditionally—people who don’t look at her with suspicion or believe she is sharing secrets to the Marshalls.
A family who is going to judge every word I say, every move I make.
I pour coffee and pull out my phone, rereading her text.
Lennox
My father’s going to interrogate you. My siblings are suspicious. And everyone’s going to be watching to see if you’re treating me right. So basically, it’s going to be hell.
Good. I deserve hell after what I’ve put her through since we got married.
Nathaniel appears in my doorway, looking exhausted. He’s been coordinating security and managing the investigation into the leak since Dad was shot.
“You’re really flying to Montana today?” he asks, pouring his own coffee.
“Yeah. Her father wants to meet me.”
“Smart man. I’d want to meet the guy who married my daughter overnight, too.” Nathaniel leans against the counter. “Are you ready for that conversation? Because ranchers like Warren Briggs don’t fuck around. He’s going to ask hard questions.”
“I know.”
“And you’re going to answer them honestly?”
I look at my brother. “What do you think I should tell him? That I bought his daughter at an auction my family has been running since the 1800s? That she’s legally bound to me for two years? That I threatened her when she tried to have any autonomy?”
“Jesus, Sebastian.” Nathaniel sets down his coffee. “When you put it like that—”
“That’s what it is. No matter how I try to dress it up.
” I move to the window, looking out at the ranch.
“I’m going to Montana to lie to her family.
Tell them we fell in love, that it was a whirlwind romance, that I’m treating her well.
And they’re going to want to believe it because the alternative is too ugly. ”
“Are you treating her well?”
“No, I haven’t been.” I turn back. “How’s Dad?”
“Recovering. Still pissed about Marshall, and still thinks Lennox might be the leak, though Caroline’s been showing him evidence that she’s not.” Nathaniel pauses. “We found something. About the raid.”
My attention sharpens. “What?”
“One of the newer ranch hands—hired him last spring—his phone records show a call to a number registered to Marshall’s operation the night before the raid. Thirty-second call, right after the planning meeting.”
“Adam.” I run through faces, placing him. Early twenties, natural horseman, quiet. “You sure?”
“Caroline pulled the records herself. Called the number from a burner. Someone at Marshall’s ranch answered.” Nathaniel’s jaw is tight. “We’ve got our leak.”
“Where is he now?”
“Barn. Doesn’t know we know. We wanted to wait until you were back before confronting him since you’re the one who’s been dealing with this.”
“I’ll be back in a few days.” I grab my phone. “Right now, I need to prepare to meet my father-in-law and convince him I’m not an asshole.”
“I’d say good luck, but we both know it’s not possible for you not to be.” He slaps me on the shoulder and walks out.
I spend the morning handling ranch business and occupancy reports for the Monterey resort. Staffing issues at the San Diego property. Permit problems with the expansion project. The work that never stops, even when my personal life is imploding.
By noon, I cleared my schedule and packed a bag: nothing fancy: jeans, button-downs, boots. I need Warren Briggs to see me as someone who understands his world, not some rich kid playing at ranching.
Caroline catches me before I leave for the airstrip.
“You’re really doing this?” She leans against my truck. “Flying to Montana to meet the family of the woman you bought at an auction?”
“You’re as bad as Nathaniel.” I shake my head. “Yeah, I’m doing this.”
“Good luck. You’re going to need it.” She leaves, and I climb into the truck, heading for the airstrip where the jet waits.
The flight is three hours of paperwork and phone calls and trying not to think about what awaits me. But by the time we start our descent, my mind is racing through scenarios.
Warren Briggs asking how we met. Me lying through my teeth. Lennox’s siblings watching every interaction, looking for cracks in the story. The moment someone asks a question I can’t answer without revealing the truth.
We land just after five. I text Lennox for the ranch location, and she sends it along with:
Lennox
Fair warning, my dad’s been cleaning his guns all day. Not subtle.
Me
Great.
I rent a truck at the airport—a Ford F-250, practical, not flashy—and plug the address into the GPS. Forty minutes northeast, toward the mountains. This is Lennox’s world. The place that shaped her before California, before the auction, before me.
I need to understand it if I have any chance of understanding her.
The drive takes me through the town of Sweetwater.
It looks like every other town that is hanging on for its life.
Some shops are boarded up; some still have open signs in the windows, but clearly they haven’t been open for some time.
A diner called Rosie’s that I’m sure Lennox mentioned the day I took her to town.
Then I’m out into open rangeland, operations that range from modest to substantial.
Montana ranching is different from Texas—more brutal winters, different terrain, hardier herds.
But the fundamentals are the same. Land, cattle, legacy.
The things that matter.
The GPS directs me off the highway onto a county road, then onto a gravel drive marked with a sign: Broken Summit Ranch. Est. 1902.
Fifth generation, like mine. Different state, different challenges, but the same commitment to building something that lasts.
The ranch stretches out before me as I drive: pastures, barns, corrals, cattle grazing in organized sections. Well-maintained, efficiently run, the kind of operation that requires constant work and attention.
No wonder Lennox fit in so naturally at my ranch. This is in her blood.
I park near the house and kill the engine, suddenly more nervous than I’ve been in years. I’ve negotiated multimillion-dollar deals. Built an empire. Faced down competitors and critics. But the idea of facing Lennox’s father makes my palms sweat.
Because he’ll see through the lies. Men like Warren Briggs always do.
The front door opens before I reach the porch, and a man appears, early sixties, with gray hair and a weathered face, blue eyes sharp as they land on me.
He wears jeans and a flannel shirt, leaning heavily on a carved wooden cane, his left side showing the subtle weakness.
His left hand rests in his pocket, the arm held closer to his body than the right.
But the disability does nothing to diminish the threat in his stance. If anything, it makes him more intimidating, a man who faces down mortality and refuses to yield.
Warren Briggs. My father-in-law.
But I barely register him after that because behind him, stepping onto the porch, is my Lennox.
She is in jeans, a simple sweater, with her blonde hair loose around her shoulders, no makeup, no expensive clothes. Just Lennox, in her natural habitat, looking more beautiful than I’ve ever seen her.
And I realize in this moment I don’t just miss her, I ache for her. This woman who defies me, challenges me, forces me to be better than my worst instincts.
I don’t think. I just move past Warren up the porch steps, straight to her.
“Sebastian,” she starts, surprise in her voice. I cup her face and kiss her, like I need to confirm she is real, that she is here.
She stiffens for a second, probably in shock that I’d kiss her in front of her father, but then she melts into me and kisses me back. Her hands come up to my chest, and for a moment, everything falls away, and it is just us.
When I pull back, I keep my forehead against hers. “Hi,” I say quietly.
“Hi.” Her voice is breathless. “You’re here.”
“You thought I wouldn’t come?”
“I wasn’t sure.” Her hands are still on my chest, and I can feel her trembling slightly. “My family.”
“I know. I’m ready.” I step back but keep one arm around her waist, turning to face the firing squad.
Warren stands on the porch, leaning on his cane, his expression unreadable. Behind him, framed in the doorway, are more people, Lennox’s siblings, I assume, all staring at me with varying degrees of suspicion and curiosity.
“Mr. Briggs.” I offer my hand, keeping Lennox tucked against my side. “I’m Sebastian Drake.”
Warren shifts his cane to his left hand, the movement careful, practiced, and extends his right. His grip is still strong despite the stroke, testing the calluses of a man who still works his own ranch as much as his body allows.
“You married my daughter without asking permission first,” he says.
“Yes, sir. And I apologize for that. Things moved fast, and I realize now how disrespectful that is to you.”
“Is that some kind of excuse?”
“No, sir. Just an explanation.” I meet his eyes steadily. “I should have called you before we got married. Should have done things the right way. But I didn’t want to risk losing her.”
Something flickers in Warren’s expression, grudging respect, maybe, for the not quite honest answer.
“Come inside,” he finally says, turning with the careful balance of someone who’s had to relearn movement. “The family eavesdropping in the doorway is anxious to meet you properly.”
He nods and moves inside, the tap of his cane marking each step. Lennox looks up at me, her eyes wide.
We walk inside together, and I immediately feel the weight of multiple stares.
The living room is packed, three men who have to be Lennox’s brothers, three women around her age who must be her sisters and sister-in-law.
And in the corner, looking like she wants to disappear, is a small dark-haired woman I recognize from the auction paperwork.
Janie Turner. The woman Lennox saved by taking her place.