Chapter 9
DAWSON
The ledger sat open on the desk in front of me, its pages yellowed and brittle, ink faded but still legible enough to ruin everything. I'd spread out three months of stock records beside it, cross-referencing bloodlines and ownership transfers, looking for inconsistencies I could explain away.
There weren't any.
The knock on my office door pulled me back. I glanced up to find Torin filling the doorway, his uniform still looking fresh despite it being the end of the day.
"Ruby said you needed to talk," he said.
I gestured to the chair across from me. "This isn't social."
"Figured."
He sat, his gaze dropping to the ledger, the records, the notes I'd scrawled in the margins.
I watched him take it all in…methodical and deliberate, the way he processed crime scenes or accident reports.
Torin had been a deputy long enough to recognize when something small threatened to crack wide open.
"First, there was the marker Slade found," I started. "And now this."
I turned the ledger toward him, tapping the page where Kincaid and Hollister were listed side by side, shares noted in neat, careful script. Torin leaned forward, his jaw tightening as he read.
"Shit."
"Yeah."
He flipped through a few more pages, his silence heavy. When he finally looked up, his eyes were sharp. "Have you shown this to anyone else?"
"Just you, though Ruby knows something’s up."
"Good." He sat back, exhaling slow. "You know what this means."
"Tell me anyway."
"The feud narrative doesn't hold," Torin said.
"If these families shared ownership, shared stock, cooperated on land use—this isn't ancient history, Dawson.
This is foundational. And if the marker backs it up, if there's more documentation buried somewhere, the current property lines might not be as clean as everyone thinks. "
I'd come to that conclusion on my own. But hearing it laid out like evidence instead of suspicion made it real in a way I couldn't ignore.
"The rodeo," I said.
"Would be fucked." Torin didn't soften it. "Stock eligibility, insurance, permits… hell, all of it hinges on clear ownership. You blow this open now, you'll bury the event before it starts."
"And if I don't?"
His gaze didn't waver. "Then you're complicit in maintaining a lie."
The words settled between us, cold and unforgiving.
I scrubbed a hand over my face, the exhaustion creeping in at the edges. "What's the play?"
Torin considered for a long moment, his fingers drumming against the arm of the chair.
"Document everything. Get legal counsel involved.
Someone outside the families, outside the town politics.
Protect the rodeo stock in the short term, but don't pretend this doesn't exist. You build a paper trail now, and you’ll be able to control the fallout later. "
"That's not a resolution."
"No," he agreed. "But it's responsible."
I nodded slowly. It wasn't the answer I wanted, but it was the only one that didn't involve either burying the truth or detonating it prematurely.
Torin stood, his hand resting briefly on the edge of the desk. "You're doing the right thing. Even if it doesn't feel like it."
"Doesn't feel like much of anything yet."
"It will."
He left, the door clicking shut behind him, and I was alone again with the ledger and the weight of what came next.
Ruby stopped by an hour later. I was still staring at the same pages, my coffee gone cold.
She didn't knock. Just walked in carrying a clipboard and a thermos, setting both down with the kind of efficiency that suggested she'd already decided how this conversation would go.
"You look like hell," she said.
"Thanks."
"I’ve got stock updates." She flipped through the clipboard, rattling off names and timelines I only half-absorbed. The rodeo machine was grinding forward whether I was ready or not.
Then, almost as an afterthought, she cleared her throat. "So, how are you handling Lilah leaving in a couple days?"
The words cut me off at the knees. I looked up. "What?"
"She’s running a teaching clinic," Ruby said, her eyes glued to her notes. "Down in Bozeman. I thought maybe you could offer to let her take one of the horses she's been working with. It would be good exposure."
My chest tightened. "She didn't mention it."
Ruby's gaze sharpened. "Are you surprised?"
I didn't have an answer.
She set the clipboard down, her expression softening in that way that meant she was about to say something I wouldn't want to hear. "She's good at what she does, Dawson. People are starting to notice. The town will feel it when she's gone."
The town. Not me.
I swallowed against the tightness in my throat. "How long will she be gone?"
"A week, maybe two. Depends on how it goes." She paused, studying me. "You didn't know."
It wasn't a question.
"No."
Ruby sighed, the sound carrying more weight than I expected. "That girl doesn't ask permission, and she doesn't wait around for someone to tell her she's allowed to leave. If you want her to stay, you're going to have to give her a reason that isn't silence."
She picked up her clipboard and thermos, heading for the door. Before she left, she glanced back.
"Don't let the rodeo be the only thing you fight for."
After she left, I sat there, the ledger forgotten. Lilah was leaving.
Not forever. Not yet. But she was already planning her next step, building her path forward, and I'd been so focused on managing risk and containing damage that I hadn't noticed she'd stopped waiting for me to catch up.
I'd kept her close without claiming her. Let her into my routine without making room for her in my future. Held her at night and then buried myself in paperwork the next morning, convinced that restraint was the same as respect.
It wasn't. I was a fucking coward.
And now she was leaving, because I hadn’t given her a reason to believe staying was an option.
I found her in the barn, checking cinches and sorting tack with the kind of methodical focus that meant she'd already compartmentalized whatever came next.
She didn't look up when I stopped in the doorway. Just kept working, her hands steady as she coiled a lead rope.
"Ruby told me about the clinic," I said.
Lilah paused, then set the rope aside and turned to face me. There was no surprise in her expression. No guilt either.
"I was going to mention it tonight."
"When did you decide?"
"A couple of days ago." She crossed her arms, not defensive, just waiting. "The opportunity came through fast. I said yes."
I nodded slowly, forcing myself not to fill the silence with excuses or deflection. This wasn't a misunderstanding. This was a consequence of my own damn actions.
"You didn't tell me because you didn't think you needed to," I said.
Her gaze didn't waver. "I didn't tell you because I wasn’t sure you’d care."
The words landed clean and precise, cutting through every rationalization I'd been building. She wasn't angry. Wasn't making a point. She'd made a decision based on the reality I'd shown her, and the steadiness in her voice hit harder than any accusation could have.
I stepped further into the barn, keeping space between us but closing the distance enough that she'd know I wasn't running.
"I brought Torin in," I said. "Officially. Showed him the ledger, the records, everything."
Lilah's brow furrowed slightly. "The one you found?"
"Yeah." I exhaled, the weight of it still pressing against my ribs. "It shows Kincaids and Hollisters shared ownership. The feud everyone's been talking about for decades—it's incomplete. Maybe wrong."
She absorbed that without flinching. "What does that mean for the rodeo?"
"Means the stock might not be as clean as the paperwork says. Means insurance could get complicated. Means if this gets out before I handle it right, the whole event could collapse."
"And you told Torin anyway."
"I told him because keeping it quiet felt like being complicit." I met her eyes. "I'm done managing risk by burying truth."
Lilah studied me for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then she leaned back against the stall door, her arms still crossed but her posture less guarded.
"Why are you telling me this now?"
"Because you deserve to know what you're walking into if you decide to stay," I said. "And because I've been keeping you at a distance while pretending having you in my bed was enough."
Her jaw tightened. "You think I didn't notice?"
"No. I think you noticed, and I think you decided not to wait around for me to figure my shit out." I took another step closer. "I don't blame you."
She didn't respond immediately, and the silence stretched between us. Like she was giving me room to either commit or retreat. I chose commitment.
"I love you, Lilah." The words came out steady and honest. I wasn’t begging her to stay, but she deserved to know how I felt.
Her eyes went wide and surprise flickered across her face before she regained control.
"You're choosing to say that now," she said. "Right before I leave."
"I'm saying it now because it's true. I should've said it sooner. Because you deserve to hear it without conditions attached."
Her arms dropped to her sides, her posture shifting into something less protected but still guarded. "What does that love look like in practice, Dawson?"
She’d tossed that question out as a challenge, and I recognized it for what it was. She wasn't going to let me off with a declaration. She wanted proof.
I could give her that.
"It looks like me making calls to promoters I know," I said. "Putting your name forward. Backing you professionally, not just in private. It looks like me stopping treating what’s going on between us like something temporary I'm managing until you leave."
Her expression softened, but she didn't interrupt.
"It looks like me not asking you to slow down or choose me over yourself," I continued. "I don't want you smaller. I don't want you waiting. I want to choose with you, even if the outcome isn't guaranteed."
"Even if I still go to the clinic."
"Even if you still go," I confirmed. "This isn't me trying to stop you. This is me telling you that when you come back—if you come back—I won't be the same man who kept you at the edge of my life. I want you front and center, Trouble."
She was quiet for a long moment, her gaze searching mine like she was trying to figure out if I meant it.
"You’re sure?" she finally asked.
"Yeah."
Lilah pushed off the stall door and closed the distance between us, stopping just close enough that I could see the flecks of gold in her eyes. She didn't touch me. Didn't lean in. Just stood there, holding my gaze.
"I'm still going to Bozeman," she said.
"I know."
"And I'm not making promises about what happens after."
"I'm not asking you to."
Her lips curved into the smallest smile, something almost sad but not defeated. "You really waited until now to figure this out."
"Yeah," I admitted. "I did."
She shook her head and exhaled a soft laugh. The she reached up, her hand settling against my jaw, her thumb brushing the edge of my cheekbone.
"I love you too," she whispered. "But loving you doesn't mean I’ll stop building my life."
"I don't want it to."
"Good." Her hand dropped, and she stepped back, putting space between us again. "Then we'll figure out what this looks like when I get back."
I nodded, the tightness in my chest easing just enough to let me breathe.
She was still leaving. The ledger still existed. The feud still loomed. The countdown was still on for having to report to the insurance company. But the truth was finally out in the open between us, and whatever happened next would be built on that instead of silence.
I'd crossed a line I couldn't uncross. And for the first time in weeks, that didn't feel like failure.
It felt like a choice. It felt like finally opening my heart wide enough to let someone else inside. It felt damn right.