10. Claire
10
CLAIRE
B ut there will be no dress ripping at home because the champagne made me forget…
I scheduled a meeting with Daddy’s lawyer today.
The poor, short man is waiting outside the gate when we get back. He’s clutching a briefcase, the hot sun beating down on him and reddening the back of his neck.
I invite him in, and the three of us settle into Daddy’s office.
I wasn’t allowed in here much as a child. It was an off-limits room, unless Daddy was chastising me or training me. The wallpaper is a deep red that makes the whole room look splashed with blood. It’s lined with wooden bookshelves and Daddy’s impressive desk.
Fletcher Waters is calm and professional, but his face betrays him. He tinges pink every time he’s forced to give bad news. And right now, he’s beet red.
“What happened to your arm?” James asks.
Mr. Waters’s arm is tucked into a sling. It makes his work challenging as he attempts to shuffle papers against the glass coffee table with one hand.
“Golfing accident,” he replies. He goes back to badly aligning the papers. “I usually do this after the funeral, but?—”
“We have a plane to catch.”
“Right.”
The grandfather clock behind him ticks.
I always hated that clock.
It’s this hulking, golden monolith that stands in the corner of his office. The pendulum swings back and forth. Each time it swings, it clicks. Each click feels like a finger tapping against my skull.
Yet I can’t stop staring at it.
“Your father was a man of considerable wealth,” Mr. Waters says. “He made quite the legacy with the Preacher Ranch. His finances are…well…”
He’s fumbling through his words. I don’t have time for this .
“I don’t want his money,” I tell him flatly.
“Oh, well, that’s good news.” Waters removes a tissue from his bag to wipe the puddle of sweat on the back of his neck. “He didn’t leave you any.”
I blink. I feel James go stiff beside me. “What?”
More paper shuffling. Stop fucking with the papers . “In his will, he made a clear divide of his finances. Firstly, the farm debts should be paid off in full. Whatever remains will be split in half. Half of it is to be donated to the Belleflower Benefactors Society. The other half is to be donated to the Semper Fi Foundation.”
“That fucking foundation again,” I mutter.
Waters blinks at me. “I’m sorry? ”
My ears are ringing. Waters is speaking, explaining the next steps, but I can’t hear him.
All I can hear is that fucking grandfather clock.
Tick. Tick .
I didn’t want his money. I don’t want it.
But to be cut out of the will entirely?
Money was Daddy’s love language. This message is clear.
You bitch. You selfish, ungrateful bitch. Choke on this.
“The Preacher Ranch, he’s left in the care of Arris Dagney. Your father did leave you something,” Waters continues, and through the fever in my skull, I manage to tune back in. He says, “And…please be aware, I’m quoting directly. These are his words. Not mine.”
“Just spit it out,” I say.
He clears his throat. “ To Claire , my—ah, again, this is a direct quote— to Claire, my thankless bitch of a daughter, I bequeath this paperweight as a reminder of what she was to me. A weight .”
And then he slides a round rock paperweight across the table. It’s a smooth rock with the image of a closed eyeball etched into it.
I could laugh.
There are papers that need my signature. The pen scratches against the page as I scrawl my name over and over. The words blur in my vision. I can’t read it. I just want to get this part over with.
At some point, James realizes I haven’t said a word. His hand falls to my thigh. He squeezes. “We have a long night ahead of us.”
“Yes.” Mr. Waters awkwardly shovels the loose papers back into his briefcase. “The funeral tomorrow.”
James stands. Ever the gentleman. Politely, he gestures to the door. “I’ll walk you out. ”
James leads Waters out of the room. I should rise to say goodbye to him, but I can’t.
I can’t move. I can’t blink. I can’t do anything but stare at that grandfather clock.
Tick-tick .
There’s a knock on the door. I glance up.
James stands in the open doorway. He leans against the frame, his elbow propped up. “Waters is gone. How are you feeling?”
I shrug. “Fine.”
He presses his lips together. He steps through the room and then crouches to put his hands on my knees. Here, he bends down until he’s eye to eye with me—or eye-to-glasses-to-eye, anyway.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hi.”
Even crouched, he’s still taller than me.
“I sent Harding out with a grocery list,” he says. “We’ll have everything we need to make an all-American burger.”
“Oh?”
“When we were in London, I asked you what you missed most about America. You said hamburgers. With American cheese.”
A small smile touches my lips. “I did say that. But I don’t think I can eat.”
“Not even a burger?”
I shake my head. The edge of his mouth pinches downward, but he nods.
“Come downstairs if you change your mind.”
He rises to his full height. His large fingers sift through my hair as he cups the back of my head, and his lips touch my forehead. Then he pulls away, steps out, and closes the door behind him .
I’m alone, but I don’t feel alone.
My father’s office space was always the scariest room in the house. The only time I was invited in was to have a “frank conversation” about my grades or my posture or my competition rank. The velvety red walls are lined with bookshelves—all rare books, many first editions. He has a standing bar in the corner of the room. A coffee table for casual conversations.
And then there’s the desk. Flanked by the gruesome grandfather clock, his desk is pure mahogany and exquisitely hand carved. An onyx, horse-shaped paperweight marches on top of a stack of in-progress papers. The desktop is impeccable—my father was nothing if not orderly—with his ledger in the center and a fountain pen lying neatly beside it.
The chair is practically a throne, with carved animal feet and a soft padding that matches the wall color. Even empty, there’s a heaviness there.
I swear, I can see him sitting in it now.
A creeping feeling crawls up the back of my neck. I get up and go to the bar. I fix Daddy’s drink—two fingers of scotch, neat—and take the drink to his desk. Maybe to clear the dust or shake out the negative energy, I sit in his chair.
It’s harder than I imagined. I lean into it, trying to make myself comfortable. I sip the scotch. It burns, and I wait for the unpleasantness to subside before I take another swallow.
If you’d told me a couple of days ago that someone had planned to burn the Preacher Ranch down, I would’ve provided the gasoline.
But now, faced with the very real prospect of losing the ranch, I surprise myself with a strange pinch of nostalgia.
The booby traps, the strange donations to strange foundations, the way he let the house go to rot…
Is it all my fault? Did I push him to it? Depression, drinking, paranoia?
Did he lose it all when he lost me?
I twist in the chair and tilt the glass to my lips, finishing it off.
Through the arched windows, I see a sky streaked with reds, oranges, and pinks. From this chair, Daddy had a perfect view of his kingdom. The various houses on the property, as well as the large, open training rings and the well-groomed, expansive garden.
A light catches my eye when it flickers in the stables.
Everyone should be home by now. The horses should be resting.
So who’s pulling the all-nighter?
I have my suspicions, but curiosity gets the better of me. I put my glass down, pick up the rest of the bottle, and leave the office.
I walk down the hall, passing my bedroom. The door is cracked open. I can hear James’s voice inside.
“Yes,” he says. “I know what indefinitely means. I just don’t know what it means in this context.”
He goes quiet. I glance in the crack of the door. His tall body paces the length of the bedroom. He has his earbuds in, and he’s talking to someone on the other end. He stops pacing to run his fingers over a stuffed horse that sits in the window shelf.
“Yes, sir. I understand.”
His voice is low, and there’s an intense edge to it I’m not familiar with. I get the strange feeling I’m witnessing something I shouldn’t.
I take a step backward. The floorboard creaks under my weight .
I sidestep quickly and round the corner, toward the stairway.
“One moment,” James says. I hear him walk to the bedroom door. There’s a silence, and I can only imagine he’s checking the hallway. Then the door clicks shut, and whatever he says next is too muffled to make out.
I keep moving. I sneak out the front door and, quietly, shut it behind me.
The sky is still in ribbons, but the colors are turning pale as the sun sets lower in the sky. The night has turned sharp with the mid-autumn chill, and I regret not taking a jacket with me.
Too late to turn back. Besides. I still have my whiskey.
I shouldn’t be sneaking around. But here I am, tiptoeing like a criminal in Daddy’s shadow.
I step over the stone walkway until my feet hit dirt. The grass tickles my bare ankles as I walk up the sloped hill toward the stables.
I won’t lie. It feels good to have grass between my toes.
As I get closer to the stable, I hear sounds of some sports program blaring on the television. It’s so loud he doesn’t even notice me step inside.
“Boom!” Ransom shouts. He throws up his fist high. “In your face, Cagney!”
He’s built his own personal tailgate. He’s pulled out a couple of box cartons to make a bench. He’s also pulled out the arm of the television from Chaucer’s stall so he can see it clearly. Chaucer, meanwhile, is roaming around free. There’s a coin-operated horse—an old, rusty thing that’s been around since I used to live here—and Chaucer stands beside it, chewing lazily on its rope hair.
Ransom has a cooler beside him, and he yanks out a beer, cracking it open in his palm .
“Nice setup you’ve got here,” I say.
Ransom jumps in his seat. His beer sprays him. “Jesus—all that is holy, woman, don’t sneak up on a guy like that.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re not exactly being stealthy.”
He looks me over. “You want a beer?”
“Sure.”
I pull my dress tight around my legs so it doesn’t hike up and sit down on the carton beside him.
I can feel his eyes on me. “Nice dress.”
“The Promise Sisters got me.”
He lets out a huh of a laugh. “Yep. Sounds about right.”
The ripped sleeve makes my dress drop just slightly, exposing the top of my breast. I can feel Ransom’s eyes on the bare skin.
A terrible, awful part of me doesn’t bother adjusting the sleeve.
“Watch this,” he says, then turns to the horse. “Chaucer. Beer me.”
Chaucer ambles over toward the cooler…and picks up a brush between his teeth. He drops it at Ransom’s feet.
“No—goddammit. Chaucer. Beer me.”
Chaucer brings over a shovel and drops that in front of us too.
I snort a laugh. “Impressive.”
He lifts a finger. “One day, he’s actually going to get a beer.”
Ransom does it the hard way. He leans over and plucks out a beer himself, opens it up, and then hands it over to me.
We click necks and both take a swallow. It’s cheap beer, but it’s cold and somehow comforting.
We both stare at the TV without watching.
A shiver comes over me before I can stop it.
“Cold?” he asks .
“I’m fine.”
“You’re stubborn. Here.”
He takes off his jacket and throws it over my shoulders. It’s a canvas jacket with soft lining on the inside. I slip my arms through it, tug the collar close to me, and inhale.
There’s that scent. Smoke, ash, and dirt.
When I open my eyes, Ransom is watching me sniff his jacket.
Oh, God. I look insane.
I quickly pretend to scratch my nose instead. I motion toward Chaucer and the coin-operated horse, drawing attention away from me. “I can’t believe Daddy kept that old thing.”
“What? Miss Penny? Sure did. He’d have to pry it out of my cold, dead hands. Chaucer loves that girl.”
“It’s old .”
“What’s wrong with that? Some of us never forget our first love.”
His eyes follow me. I shrug his gaze off. “Someone should throw that thing out.”
“Claire Preacher. You touch a hair on that penny-horse, and I swear to God, I’ll never forgive you.”
I can’t help the smile that crawls over my mouth. “I forgot that.”
“What?”
“What a hopeless romantic you are. You wear your heart on your sleeve.”
He shrugs. “I love hard. I don’t know how to do it any other way.”
I pull a slow, cold drink from my beer.
I can feel Ransom watching me. He asks, “Does James?”
“Does James what ?”
“Does he…love you? Hard enough? ”
I rub my thumb over the neck of the beer. The low ache in my cunt says yes . James loves me very hard. On the other hand…he’s been pulling away. Ever since we arrived in Belleflower. There’s a coldness to him that I love, but this coldness…
It’s new. Unnerving. Troublesome.
I want to choose my words carefully, but it’s hard to hold myself back with Ransom. When I’m with him, everything comes flooding out. “Sometimes…I’m afraid James doesn’t want me the same way that I want him. He’s so stoic. A tin man. I think that’s what attracted me to him in the first place. He was a challenge. I wanted so badly to crack him open. But what if there’s nothing inside?”
“He might’ve been a tin man when he met you, but no man can stay heartless around you for long. That’s your…Claire power.”
“My Claire power ?”
“It’s like being a superhero, but more of a pain in the ass.”
I bite back on a grin. I rub my thumb over the smooth neck of the glass bottle.
I can’t help but watch Ransom’s hands out of the periphery of my vision. Big hands. Calloused hands. He’s picking at the label of his beer, distractedly peeling it from the glass.
He can’t seem to keep his hands still either.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“Watching TV. My trailer doesn’t have one.”
“Your…trailer?”
A sideways grin cuts across his face. “What, you didn’t see my castle on the way in? I don’t blame you. It’s pretty well hidden. Mr. Preacher let me park it on the property, so long as I keep it behind the trees and out of sight. ”
“Oh.”
Ransom stops picking at his bottle. He stares at me. “Don’t do that.”
“What?”
“That pity sneer. It might not be a yacht in the Hamptons, but dammit, I like my life.”
I lift my eyebrows. “And you have no regrets?”
He shakes his head. “You know better than to ask me that.”
The air between us is thick. Heavy.
Chaucer lets out a small, sweet huff and nuzzles his love.
“What about you, Miss High Horse?” Ransom says.
“Excuse me?”
He shrugs. “I might not have a fancy TV, but at least I’m not Rodeo Barbie.”
My jaw goes tight. “Fuck you.”
Those brown eyes meet mine. “Go on. Tell me I’m wrong.”
I strangle my beer. “I came out here because I was suffocating inside, and now, somehow, you and your idiot mouth made me feel ten times worse. So. Congratulations.”
I start to rise, but I’m halted when he grabs my wrist. “I’m sorry,” he gets out. “Stay. I’ll keep my idiot mouth shut.”
I waver. But those chestnut browns are soft now.
He means it . Ransom apologizes with his whole chest.
I sit back down, but this time, I let my ass hit the floor at Ransom’s feet. I settle down between his legs, and he knows what to do. He sets his beer down beside me. His hands collect the blonde hair at the nape of my neck. I feel the gentle tugs as he starts to braid my hair back in a thick rope.
When Ransom and I couldn’t talk with words, we spoke with touches. This feels right.
“Tell me about you,” he says after a long stretch of easy silence.
“What about me?”
“About your life since you left. I wanna hear about…tea and crumpets.”
I tilt my head back to look at him. “I got in a plane, not a time machine, you know that, right?”
He chuckles.
I settle back in. “Yes. There was tea. And crumpets. I went to school. Learned a lot. Worked hard. Got a degree in business. Then another in psychology. Modeled to make ends meet—you’d be surprised by how similar it is to show riding. Chin up! Back straight!”
“Sounds like a perfect fit,” Ransom says.
“Doesn’t it? But in reality, it was just…one stroke of bad luck after the other. Money was hard. I bounced around places for a long time. I had no friends. My French was rusty. Oh, and to top it all off, my apartment burned down.”
“What?”
I wave it off. “It’s fine. I wasn’t in it.” My tongue goes heavy. I go quiet, debating, and then finally admit, “The worst part of it all was…I kept thinking that all of it would’ve been bearable if you were there.”
His hands still in my hair.
“Why didn’t you get on that plane?”
“Bear…”
“Don’t Claire-Bear me. I deserve an explanation. Now.”
He lets out a deep sigh. “You got a hair tie?”
“No.”
“Check my pockets.”
I dig into his jacket. In the big pockets, I find a lighter, a bottle cap, a utility tool, his wallet, and…a hair tie. A woman’s hair tie.
I’m shocked by the hot jealousy that roars through my veins.
Does Ransom have a girlfriend?
Is he having sex with other people?
Is he braiding another woman’s hair?
Of course. He’s no priest.
It’s been five years. He’s allowed to move on.
I’ve moved on. I have a fiancé.
So why is my only thought Fuck you, he’s mine?
“No,” I lie.
“Ah, well. Nice while it lasted,” he says. He gives my braid a little tug before releasing it. He drains his beer and tosses the empty in a pile of hay.
“Chaucer,” he says, “Beer me.”
The horse picks up a mitten and drops it at his feet. Ransom begins his story.