22. Claire
22
CLAIRE
E arlier.
There’s a deadly silence between us.
James and I don’t speak the entire way from Maeby’s Tavern to the Preacher Ranch. Harding seems to sense the tension—he doesn’t ask questions, and he doesn’t try to make small talk. We leave the bumpy roads, cross the tracks, and sail across smooth pavement until we get to the ranch.
It’s not until we’re inside, door closed, alone, that James finally tries to break the quiet.
“Claire—”
“I’m going to bed,” I announce. I shrug out of my shoes and quickly climb the stairs before he can get in a word edgewise.
It’s the day of my father’s funeral. I’m allowed to be a bitch .
I’m angry at James. I’m angry at Ransom. But most of all, I’m angry at him .
The one person I can never rage at. Ever again.
I cross the hall, enter the bedroom, and slip into the bathroom. I flip on the light and stare at myself in the mirror. I’ve fallen apart. I take myself down the rest of the way, plucking bobby pins from my head and arranging them on the sink.
The bedroom door creaks. I can hear James shuffling about. Even his presence annoys me.
I wash my face. I take my birth control. I remove cotton balls from my kit and start removing my makeup.
Be gone, Claire Preacher.
“You’re overreacting,” James says. He lingers in the bedroom—in case I turn into a dragon and start spitting fire, I suppose.
I scrub my face so hard it leaves little red marks. “You couldn’t have picked two worse words to piss me off.”
“Three.”
I shoot him a glare through the open door. He doesn’t express nearly enough remorse.
“I let you win one game of pool,” he continues. “One. On the day of your father’s funeral. Most people would consider that a mercy.”
I start fishing through my travel bag. “I don’t. I consider it a lie.”
“Claire—”
“Where’s my sleep mask?”
“Did you pack it?”
“Of course I fucking packed it. It was right here.”
Our suitcases are half-unpacked, lined up neatly beside the dresser. I tear apart my suitcase, hunting it. Then I grab James’s leather satchel that he used for a carry-on and rip into that.
“Let me,” he says. He grabs the strap and yanks it.
But something’s caught my attention.
I hold my grip on the bag. I pull out a small, purple, floral journal.
I look at James. His face is a mask.
“What’s this?” I ask.
“I found it,” he replies.
It’s a diary. My diary. I recognize the beaten, worn cover. Except the pages are littered with thin strips of multicolored Post-it notes. I flip the book open. My words. My teenager ramblings. Highlighted. Sections circled. With James’s compact, neat handwriting in the margins.
My heart launches itself into my throat. I nearly choke.
Even through the rushing surge of adrenaline, I force myself to keep my voice neutral.
“You found it,” I repeat slowly. “With your handwriting in it.”
I turn the page. I read James’s note scribbled in the margins.
“Obsessed with Colin Firth’s rendition of Pride & Prejudice. Must watch to understand the hold it has on her.” I snap the book shut. “What the fuck is this?”
His lips thin. He goes quiet.
“Answer me, James.”
When he speaks, his voice is dark and cold. A stone dropped down a well. “I can’t.”
The way he says it—it chills me to the bone.
This is a fear that wraps its fingers around my throat and squeezes.
“Is this a game to you?” I ask. “Reading my diary? Learning all the right things to say so—what? So you can get my inheritance? Well, the laugh is on you because he left me jack shit. No—you know what? Take the paperweight. All yours.”
I spin around. My head feels light on my shoulders. I can’t catch my breath.
You’re in a nightmare. A terrible, insane nightmare.
Wake up.
Wake. Up.
As I rush down the stairs, I text Ransom.
Need you. Now .
“Claire.”
I ignore James’s plea. I grab my jacket.
When my hand touches the doorknob, he grabs my arm. His grip is so tight it reminds me of his strength. What he’s capable of.
What is he capable of?
Have I ever known him, really? The man in my bed.
“You’re in danger,” he says. His voice is low, intense.
I meet his gaze. Those blue eyes.
I want to pluck out those blue eyes.
“Yes,” I say plainly. “I’m in danger of breaking your nose. Get your hand off of me.”
My father couldn’t lock me up.
I’ll be damned if I let my fiancé try.
There’s a beat of silence between us. Then James relaxes his fingers.
I rip away from him and exit the house. The stone steps are cold under my bare feet.
Ransom is there. Thank God . Sitting on top of Chaucer like a knight.
He failed to run away with me once. But he’s here now.
My heart cracks open and spills warm, honeyed relief through my body. My body seems to register that I’m safe now, and my knees go weak and nearly buckle.
It takes every last bit of strength to reach him.
“You came,” I say.
Ransom looks down at me. “You asked me to. You alright?”
I shake my head. “Get me out of here.”
He reaches down. I clasp his strong forearm.
He hoists me up. I climb into the saddle behind him and wrap my arms around his strong middle. He clicks his tongue, and my legs squeeze the leather of the saddle as Chaucer takes off, his hooves clicking on the walkway.
I glance over my shoulder only once. James stands on the porch, his form getting smaller and smaller in the distance.
And then, the strangest thing. When we exit the mouth of the estate, breaking free from the iron gates, I notice a black car waiting on the side of the road. For a second, the headlights flicker on and off again.