31. Ransom
31
RANSOM
C laire sleeps like the dead.
That is, if the dead reanimated themselves and had asthma, maybe. That angelic, sweet face snores loud enough to wake the spirits all night.
I’m not sure when I crash out, but I wake up to an empty bed.
The sheets are crumpled beside me. I run my hand over the space. My fingers remember the heat of Claire’s skin underneath them.
The pillow smells like her. Sweet as flowers.
Just the scent of Claire makes my blood rush south.
I gotta get out of this bed now, or I never will.
Claire is sitting up already. She’s got a dress on, and she’s fixing her shoes on her feet.
“Morning,” I tell her.
“Morning.” Short. Clipped.
Even the way she laces up her boots turns me on.
The hell is wrong with me?
“We should talk about last night. ”
Her eyes don’t leave her boots. “What’s there to talk about?”
Oh. That’s like a double-barrel shotgun to the chest.
Last night, she was mine.
This morning, she’s got her armor back on.
That’s when I see it. The glint of her engagement ring fixed back on her finger.
My stomach gets all knotted up when I think of Claire waking up early in the morning, getting on her hands and knees to find it in the carpet.
And ain’t that me and Claire in a nutshell? Her, fully dressed, fixing her boots. Me, butt-ass naked, hanging in the wind for her.
“Nothing, apparently.”
I roll out of bed, take my briefs off the floor, and yank them over my hips.
Her eyes flicker over to me. “Go to your trailer and pick up a few clean clothes. Toothbrush. Whatever you need. You can stick them in Daddy’s room.”
“You sure you want me to stay here?”
“Of course.”
“You could’ve fooled me.”
She starts, “Last night was?—”
“Amazing.”
“—familiar. You and I. We’ve always taken care of each other. That’s what it was. That’s all I have the capacity for right now. If you can’t handle that?—”
“I can handle it.”
“Ransom…”
I take her face in my hand. “I’d rather have a piece of you than none of you at all.”
Her breath trembles against my mouth. I tilt my chin down and brush my lips against hers. But she startles suddenly, like a spooked horse. Her hands fly to my chest, and she gives me a powerful shove back.
“Off. We’ve got things to do.”
“Sure thing, princess.”
She shoots me a look that would turn a better man to stone. I need to learn how to keep my mouth shut. But the pink in her cheeks…hell. That makes riling her up worth it.
Claire shuts the door behind her. Hard. I pull on last night’s clothes, grab my hat, and head downstairs. There’s noise in the kitchen, and when I peek inside, I find Claire and Everett dancing around each other. From what I can gather, he’s trying to make her a cup of coffee, and she’s not having it.
I jab my thumb over my shoulder. “I’m heading to the trailer for a minute.”
“Fine,” they both say in the same clipped, short tone.
Guess mommy and daddy are still fighting.
I get the feeling that if I hang out any longer, I’ll get sent to my room, so I don’t linger.
It ain’t more than ten minutes to walk from the Preacher house to my trailer. But the second I step outside, there’s a bad feeling in the air.
I squint against the blinding sun. Overgrown stalks of grass and cattails stick up like swords from the ground. There’s the normal morning hustle—people walking in and out of the stables, taking care of the horses. People I know.
Or do I?
Hard to tell who’s friend and who’s foe after last night. Fear climbs me like a wayward June bug, little legs tickling the hairs on the back of my neck.
I see my trailer sticking out like an oasis in the distance.
A short jog. That’s all it is.
But my feet don’t wanna leave the house .
My parents died when I was fourteen on account of them being “bad seeds,” as Grandpops put it. Got themselves in a car wreck after getting drunk and driving straight off a bridge. My grandpops and grandmimi raised me. Which meant a lot of superhero comics, replays of The Lone Ranger , and old, dusty movies where the good guys are really good and you can always tell who the bad guys are because they’ve got these twisty handlebar mustaches.
I wanted so badly to be a good guy, a real hero. Except I grew up mostly afraid of my own shadow until one day, Grandpops pulled me aside and said, “Being scared is smart . Just means you know there’s danger ahead, but you’ve got the stones to move forward anyway.”
So I guess I’m feeling really damn smart when I force myself to step down the brick steps and leave the safety net of the Preacher house.
I walk around the circular gravel walkway. Head down, hiding under the brim of my hat, I veer off the path and through the grass toward my trailer.
“Hey, Ransom!”
My nerves smack me in the face when Dodger, our gardener, steps out and blocks my path.
He’s got a grim frown, and all my bones go stiff.
“Yep?”
“Sorry to hear about the old man,” he says. He pulls off his hat politely. “Look, I don’t mean to be insensitive, but I gotta ask—where’s the next paycheck coming from? I’m a day late, and…well.”
“I’ll get it sorted,” I promise. “Don’t worry about it.”
He grins. “Thanks.”
As he walks away, I feel my blood come back into my body.
Is he working for us? Or them ?
I’m paranoid, I know it, but I can’t help the thoughts racing through me.
Maybe I don’t trust this Everett fellow as far as I can throw him, but I sure as hell would feel better with his trigger finger by my side right about now.
I quicken my pace to avoid anyone else. By the time I make it into my trailer, my pits are wet with nervous sweat. I wipe my brow and lock the door behind me.
Alright, Ransom. Focus .
My place is the way it always is: a doggone mess. The bed is unmade. There are clothes and mugs on every surface.
I already feel like a different version of Riley Ransom. Like the Riley Ransom that used to live here doesn’t belong to me anymore.
I pull out a bag and start blindly yanking out clothes and shoving them in. I take down a couple of belts. I open my bandana drawer.
Don’t everyone got a bandana drawer? I guess not. It’s a drawer in the kitchen that’s supposed to be for utensils, I guess, or something like that. Instead, I’ve got my bandanas all tightly rolled up and ready to go. I like picking them out at the start of my day. Blue is my happy, “thank God it’s the weekend” bandana. Yellow is my good-luck bandana. Red is for when I’m feeling bold and frisky.
The color am I today? Orange, for the panicking way my heart is rabbit kicking in my chest.
When I touch the bandana, however, I see the dark stain on my sleeve. I twist my forearm and touch it, examining.
Dark. Red. Blood. Not mine.
My gag reflex jolts in my throat. I flip on the sink, pop the buttons off my shirt, and toss it in. The shirt gets dark as it soaks. I squeeze soap on it and rub the shirt hard, but the stain doesn’t budge.
I’m cleaning up a crime scene, and I ain’t even sure what the hell crime was committed. Still, I can’t shake the feeling?—
I’ve done something wrong.
The gun pressed to the side of Claire’s head.
The surprise in that man’s eyes when Everett put a bullet in his brain.
The way Claire’s fingers laced with mine as her cunt gripped me.
The way she moaned in my ear as her engagement ring gleamed from its spot on the rug.
I rip the shirt out of the sink and throw it in the trash. Hell with this.
I pull off my belt, drop my pants, my underwear, and my socks, and shove those in as well.
I wrap up the bag, drop it by the door, and jump in the shower. It’s a quick rinse, but it feels good to get yesterday off of me. I towel off, yank on a fresh pair of underwear and jeans, and pull on a dark button-up.
Already, I’m feeling better.
My fingers linger over my bandana choice. No. Not orange.
Blue.
Blue like a clear day. Like a bird’s back. Strong, reliable blue.
I twist the ends, wrap it around my throat, and tuck it neatly under my shirt.
We ain’t giving in to the fear today.
I toss my bag over my shoulder and head out. Before heading back to the house, I make a quick loop around the property .
Arris Dagney’s office is a small, narrow building behind the Preacher house. As our bloodstock agent, in charge of buying and selling breeding horses, he’s only ever here a couple times a week, tops. Most days, he’s busy with the Equestrian Club and Benefactor’s Society. So it’s 50/50 when I knock on his door, but I hear from inside: “Come in.”
I enter and I’m hit with a blast of AC. He’s behind his desk, but he glances up at me when I step in. Even in this ice box, he’s got a fan going, and his papers flutter in the manufactured wind.
I take off my hat and hold it. “Mr. Dagney. You got a minute?”
His gaze falls back to his papers. “Ransom. What can I do for you?”
“Some of the men had some questions about their paychecks. Said they were running late.”
He scratches his jaw. The scruff makes a rough sound. “I’ll get it sorted. Thank you. Remind them that we’re shut down for the rest of the week.”
“How’s that?”
He glances up at me. “The Belleflower Festival.”
Right . Keep forgetting about that damn festival.
Everything shuts down for the festival.
Between Mr. Preacher’s death and Claire coming back to town and the shitstorm that was last night, I haven’t exactly had time to think about a parade.
As if he can read my mind, Arris closes his ledger book. He looks me in the eyes when he says, “Losing Preacher was hard on all of us. Get some rest. When we start back up again, we should talk about your place on the ranch.”
I shift my weight from one foot to the other. “Am I getting fired?”
A low chuckle. “You’re getting promoted. You really…put yo ur back into your work here. That kind of loyalty should be rewarded, don’t you think?”
The way he’s looking at me has me wondering…what isn’t he saying?
Does he know something? About Jade? About Mr. Preacher?
I can’t tell, but there’s a jagged edge to his stare that leaves me uncomfortable.
I play it off. “Well. I’ll let you be.”
Before I can leave, I hear him ask: “How’s Claire?”
I stop, hand on the doorknob. “Surviving.”
“She’s a fighter, that one. Perhaps she should stop.”
“Stop what?”
“Fighting so hard.”
The papers shudder and flap.
I exit, leaving him to his work. The Kentucky sun hits me in the face. Something doesn’t feel right, but everything’s off kilter. Too much to wrap my head around. I head back to the main house.
It smells good when I step inside. Like eggs and coffee. I go into the kitchen. Claire’s sitting at the table, brow furrowed at her laptop, fingers tapping over the keyboard. Everett has a plate of breakfast in hand and he nudges it across the table to her.
“Claire,” he says lowly, “you have to eat.”
“I don’t have to do anything.”
Everett glares at me when I enter the room. Like this is somehow my fault.
“Picked up a couple things,” I announce, adjusting the bag on my shoulder. “Where do you want me to put them?”
“Ransom.” Claire jumps out of her seat. “Thank God you’re here.”
Her hand grips my wrist .
Even if it is wrong, even if I am going to hell, it’s worth it for that look in her eyes. The relief when she sees me. Like I’m her hero come to rescue a kitten out of a tree.
That’s worth a trip to hell, I reckon.
She pulls at my arm. “Come.” Like a dog, I follow her. But not after snagging a piece of bacon off her plate—can’t let it go to waste, right?
Even if Everett frowns at me for it.
Claire pulls me up the stairs and into her father’s old study. Everett, the tall shadow, lurks a step behind us.
“I’ve been thinking,” Claire says. “Daddy kept records of everything. Everything . He was meticulous. If he owed someone money or he’d gone into debt or… whatever the case …it’ll be here. Somewhere.”
“Somewhere,” I echo.
The study is thick with books. Journals. Record logbooks. Stuffed into shelves, cluttering the desk, piled in corners.
I drop my bag. “Let’s get to work, then.”