Chapter 17
Shylo gave up on sleep somewhere between three and four.
It hadn’t been one of those jolting wake-up moments, no nightmare dragging her out of it, just a slow unraveling.
With the sheets twisted around her legs, she flipped from side to side twice, then again.
No matter how many times she rolled over, she couldn't get comfortable enough to fall back asleep. Every time she closed her eyes, Seth’s voice slipped back in, carrying that brief hesitation before he’d pushed through and asked her out.
She scrubbed both hands over her face and stared at the faint crack running across the ceiling. She’d told herself to keep it simple. No expectations. Nothing that could turn into a problem. Except she’d gone and said yes to Seth, and that didn’t feel uncomplicated at all.
By the time gray morning light pushed through the thin curtains, she was done trying to sleep.
The AC droned steadily, cool air washing over skin that still felt too warm.
She shoved the covers back and sat up, dragging a hand over her face before pushing to her feet.
The carpet muted her steps as she crossed to the bathroom, then flipped on the light and braced her hands on the edge of the sink.
Cold water helped, at least a little, as she rinsed her face and brushed her teeth, forcing the redundant thoughts from her brain.
She twisted her hair into a loose knot and put on some deodorant, then headed back into the room and got dressed.
She needed caffeine, food, and a change of scenery.
Anything but lying there replaying last night.
The Front Porch Café smelled of fresh coffee, butter, and something sweet just pulled from the oven.
It was already half-full—farmers in worn caps, some older men at the counter, a few women and couples at the tables, and a low hum of conversation that felt comfortable instead of loud.
Shylo slid into a booth near the window, and before she even reached for the menu, the waitress appeared with a coffeepot and a small pitcher of milk.
“Morning, hon,” she said with a quick smile, tipping the pot to fill the mug already waiting on the table.
“Thanks, Darlene.” Shylo waited until the woman moved on, then reached for the sugar caddy, adding two packets before pouring in a splash of milk. She stirred it slowly, then lifted the mug and took a sip.
Outside, Hazard Falls looked quiet and harmless—the kind of place people raised families and didn’t lock their doors.
That thought pulled everything else back into focus.
She'd come to this town expecting a battle. Not right away, of course. She wasn't stupid enough to walk up to a stranger and announce that she was his sister. First, she wanted to know who Shane Wilson was and how hard he'd fight to keep what she believed was rightfully hers.
At first, that had seemed easy enough. She'd convinced herself she already knew the answer. Then she'd met him.
She didn’t know him well yet. Not enough to predict how he'd react when the truth came out. But enough to realize he'd become a lot harder to dismiss than she'd expected.
And it wasn't just Shane.
The Wilsons reminded her of everything she'd wished her own family could have been growing up.
Her mother had done the best she could, but it had always been just the three of them—and most of the time, it felt like only two.
There were no big backyard barbecues, holiday gatherings, or noisy family dinners filled with cousins, aunts, uncles, and grandparents, or close friends.
She almost snorted into her coffee. Troy would've viewed spending time with family as a personal inconvenience.
Now, she'd had a glimpse of what it could be like. The problem was, none of it belonged to her—not the family, the friendships she'd started making, or Seth.
Especially not Seth.
She'd walked into Hazard Falls carrying secrets, and eventually, those secrets were going to come out. And she didn’t know how anyone would react to them.
She set the mug down and leaned back slightly. Before she confronted Shane, she needed more than assumptions and resentment. She needed facts. And somewhere in this town, the answers were waiting.
The town office sat a few blocks from the cafe and across the street from the town square.
It was a tired-looking, two-story building with peeling paint and a flag that had seen better days.
Shylo parked, grabbed her bag, and headed inside.
The air smelled faintly of paper and industrial cleaner.
A woman with gray-streaked hair sat behind the counter, glasses low on her nose, as she sorted through a stack of folders.
Shylo stepped up to the counter. “Good morning.”
The woman glanced up, gave her a quick once-over, and then smiled. “Good morning. What can I help you with?”
“I'm trying to get a feel for the area. Someone mentioned property records were public.”
“They are.”
“I've been thinking about relocating.” She shrugged. “Figured it couldn't hurt to do a little homework.”
“Smart woman.” The clerk pointed down the hall. “The records room is through that door. We finally got the newer files digitized—the past fifteen years—so those are on the computer back there. The older records are still in the filing cabinets. Haven't gotten around to scanning everything yet.”
“Sounds like a fun project.”
The woman laughed. “That's one word for it. Anyway, if you need copies of anything, let me know.”
“Thanks.”
A few minutes later, Shylo was seated at one of the battered tables in the records room with a Wilson property file open in front of her—property records, deeds, surveys, and tax assessments.
What surprised her was the sheer size of Red River Ranch.
Twenty-seven hundred acres. It was one thing to hear people talk about the ranch.
It was another to see the acreage spread across page after page of surveys and parcel maps.
She flipped to the assessment records for the ranch and stared at the figures longer than she'd intended. The property was worth more than she'd imagined. More than she'd ever dreamed of. For a few seconds, she simply sat there, absorbing what she was seeing.
Eventually, she returned the file to the drawer and continued sorting through the cabinets. Tax records. Property documents. Insurance paperwork. Most of it blurred together after a while.
Then a familiar name caught her eye. Kline.
She paused, remembering it from conversations she'd overheard around town and from dinner the other night. Curious, she pulled the folder free and opened it.
Commercial buildings. Storefronts. Investment properties. Residential holdings. The deeper she dug, the more obvious it became that the Klines had money—and plenty of it. Different money than the Wilsons. Ranching meant land and cattle. The Klines seemed to own pieces of the actual town.
Considering how often the Kline name appeared in the records, Shylo was starting to understand the rumors about Bridget and how she considered Hazard Falls her personal kingdom.
Shylo pushed the thought aside and returned her attention to the Wilson records.
She already knew the basics. The private investigator she'd hired had provided names, dates, and enough information to convince her she was chasing the right man.
After that, she'd found the obituaries online.
Helen Wilson had died of a stroke several years ago.
Seven months later, Peter Wilson had died of a heart attack.
What she didn't know was what happened afterward. That was the information she needed next.
Since the deaths had occurred a little over eight years ago, she switched to the computer.
A label with a user name and password printed on it was affixed to the top of the monitor.
After logging in, she noticed the computer lacked internet access.
Probably to keep anyone from accessing the records through the internet.
She entered Peter Wilson into the search box and hit Enter. Multiple records appeared in the results, and she scrolled through them until finding one marked as an estate file.
Bingo.
Opening it, she skimmed several legal pages before reaching the assets and recipients part of the will, dated years before his death.
She read it once, then again more carefully.
Everything would be passed to Helen. If Helen predeceased him, everything went to Shane.
There was no mention of another child, no amendment, and no updated version.
She returned to the first page of the document and read through the entire thing, just to be certain she hadn’t missed anything. Most of it was in legal language that made her eyes glaze over, but the conclusion remained the same.
According to the probate records, Peter Wilson had only one child and heir—Shane.
Shylo leaned back and stared at the computer screen. She shouldn't be surprised. Peter had known she existed—he'd sent money every month until the day he died—but nowhere in the official records was there any indication he'd ever acknowledged her. Not anywhere she could find.
A hollow ache spread through her chest.
She wasn't sure what she'd expected. Proof he'd cared? A provision tucked away in the will? Some sign he'd thought about her beyond a monthly deposit into her mother's bank account?
There was nothing except a legal record of a son.
Apparently, a man could support a child for years and still keep her separate from the rest of his life. Peter Wilson had managed it.
She closed the file and sat for a moment, staring at the darkened computer screen. The records had answered one question. Peter had never acknowledged her in any way that mattered legally.
Sooner or later, she was going to have to tell Shane the truth. Somehow, she had to ask to speak to him in private and explain everything. She’d hand him copies of the bank statements and the private investigator's report and hope he believed her.