Chapter 22BOONE #3
He turns, starts up the wide staircase, boots solid against the wood.
I fall in behind him, Sawyer on my heels.
The upstairs is just as polished as the first floor—everything sleek and curated, but still western at the bones.
There’s a second sitting area at the top of the stairs, a big sectional facing a massive flat-screen mounted on the wall.
Feels more like a lounge than a living room—open space, tall windows, a pool table off to the side that looks custom-made,.
Vaughn leads us down a hallway, passing more family photos, frames lining the wall like a museum of Harts. He stops at a door at the end, pushes it open, and steps inside.
The office is big—damn near the size of two rooms put together.
Heavy wooden desk in the center, dark and carved, stacked with papers but still neat.
A leather chair behind it, and two matching chairs in front.
Floor-to-ceiling shelves line one wall, filled with old western novels, framed photos, what looks like a signed rodeo buckle display.
The windows stretch tall, letting in light that floods the entire room.
“Nice setup,” I say, meaning it.
Vaughn doesn’t look up right away, just walks around the desk with that unhurried gait of his. He grabs a toothpick from a cup on the corner of his desk—full of them, of course—and sticks it between his teeth before finally lifting his eyes to mine.
“Let’s not waste the daylight,” he says, voice low and rough like he’s been chewing gravel since birth. “A Wilding knockin’ on my door means one of two things—you’re here to start somethin’, or you’ve got somethin’ worth hearin’. So which is it?”
Sawyer lowers himself into one of the chairs without a word, legs stretched out in front of him like he’s already settled in for the show. His arms cross over his chest again, eyes still locked on me.
I don’t blink. Don’t shift. I pull out the other chair, the leather creaking under me, and sit like I’ve got all the time in the world. I’m not about to give them the satisfaction of thinking I’m nervous, or worse, scared.
They want to size me up? Let ‘em. I’ve been measured up before—by men with more on the line than a patch of land and a name .
I lean back slightly in the chair, elbows resting on the arms, voice even. “Heard from a little bird you’ve been sniffin’ around the Bluebell. Digging into permits.”
Vaughn doesn’t flinch, just shifts the toothpick to the other side of his mouth, eyes on mine.
He tilts his head. “That so? Who’s this little bird?”
“Doesn’t matter if it’s true,” I reply. “Is it?”
He pauses, fiddles with the toothpick, rolls it slow between his fingers before sticking it back between his teeth. “Partially.”
That’s all he gives me.
I straighten a little, but not by much. “I want to know what you and Wendell Tate are up to. Why the hell you’re trying to take the Bluebell from Lark.”
Vaughn lets out a short, humorless laugh, sharp like gravel scraping metal. “Wendell Tate? What the fuck does Wendell have to do with the Bluebell?”
“Cut the shit,” I say, still calm. “You’re not just looking at permits for the fun of it.”
He stares at me, something shifting behind his eyes—calculation, maybe, or amusement. Hard to tell. He plucks the toothpick from his mouth, spins it between his fingers.
“I stopped doin’ business with Tate years back.”
I lift a brow. “Right. And I’m just supposed to take your word on that?”
Vaughn shrugs. “Believe what you want.”
I wait, silent.
He sighs, shakes his head once. “Wendell and I ran in the same circles for a long time. Both of us got ties in Bozeman, friends on the county boards, state committees, police officers. If you got land and you want to keep it, then you grease the right wheels.”
He leans forward slightly. “But Tate’s greedy. Always wanted more than his share—more power, more leverage. Got sloppy with it. Pushed for things that were gonna bring too many eyes, too much noise. I walked away before his shit dragged me down with it. ”
His gaze sharpens. “I protect what’s mine. I don’t throw my name in with someone who’s gonna blow up his own deals for a little extra control, a little extra money. I’ve got plenty of both. And I got it all by working smart .”
I take that in and nod. Still doesn’t answer why he’s got his nose in Lark’s business.
“Then why are you looking into permits for the Bluebell? What are you hoping to find?”
His jaw works for a beat, thoughtful. No defensiveness, just calculation.
“I ain’t trying to take the damn place from her, if that’s what you’re gettin’ at,” he says finally, voice even. “It’s not personal. Not against her, not against you.”
I don’t move. Just wait.
Vaughn sighs like he doesn’t have the patience for games.
“I’ve had my eye on that corner lot next to the Bluebell for a while now.
Good spot, high traffic. Thought about expanding, putting in a feed store or tack shop.
Something useful for folks around here. I do like givin’ back to the community, believe it or not. ”
He leans back in his chair, eyes never leaving mine.
“Problem is, the zoning’s a mess. Always has been.
That whole block’s tied up in permits from twenty years ago, stuff that should’ve expired but never did.
I started digging to see what’s what, see if it’d hold up a sale.
Bluebell came up in the paperwork—it’s tied into the same damn zoning mess. ”
My brow pulls together slightly. It’s possible. Hell, it’s Summit Springs. Paperwork’s a nightmare and there’s a good chance nobody’s cleaned it up in decades.
“I’m not tryin’ to fuck her over,” Vaughn says again, slow, deliberate. “I’m tryin’ to figure out if that lot’s worth the hassle.”
It’s believable, I’ll give him that. Still feels off, but not impossible. I keep my expression blank, trying to read the parts he’s not saying.
Next to me, Sawyer clears his throat, like he can feel me questioning it.
“It’s true,” he says, arms still crossed but his tone less guarded now. “I’ve been helping him sort it out. Been trying to untangle what’s still valid and what’s a mess of old paperwork. Half of it’s barely legible.”
I glance at him, just once. His eyes stay steady on mine, like he wants me to believe him. Oddly enough, I do.
Vaughn shifts in his chair, pulling the toothpick from his mouth and setting it on the desk. “Alright. Now you tell me—what’s Tate got to do with the Bluebell? Why’s he so goddamn interested?”
I exhale through my nose, slow. No use dancing around it now.
“There’s oil under it.”
Vaughn’s brow lifts, sharp and immediate. “Oil?”
I nod once. “Yeah. A lot of it.”
He leans forward, resting his forearms on the desk, fingers laced together. “How much money we talkin’?”
I let out a sigh. “Millions.”
For a second, the room is still. Sawyer’s eyes widen as he looks over to Vaughn.
Vaughn runs a hand over his jaw, rough and slow, like he’s thinking through every angle. “And Tate wants it. Wants her to hand over the diner so he can knock it down and get at the oil. Probably would’ve made himself a hell of a chunk sellin’ it to her in the first place.”
He looks at me now, eyes sharp. “Sound about right?”
I nod once, jaw tight.
Vaughn’s eyes narrow slightly, toothpick rolling between his fingers. “Why’d they shut the place down anyway? Bluebell’s been open for decades, ain’t it? Never heard of any issues when Alice was runnin’ the joint.”
“Because there weren’t any. There never has been.”
He waits, silent.
I lean forward just enough to hold his gaze.
“Health department ran an inspection. Passed clean. I’ve got the report to prove it.
Stamped, signed, the whole deal. But a week later?
Another inspector shows up, shuts it down.
Cites violations that weren’t there before.
Turns out Tate’s got someone in his pocket.
Paid to bury the first report and push the second. ”
Sawyer lets out a low breath beside me, but it’s Vaughn I’m watching. He nods, slow and measured .
“You’re sure about this?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “Like I said, I’ve got pictures of the original paperwork myself.”
Vaughn leans back in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight. His fingers tap once against the desk. “That oil reservoir,” he says, more to himself than anyone else, “might stretch under the lot I’m lookin’ to buy.”
He watches me, gauging, then nods again like he’s made up his mind. “Alright. Here’s what I’m gonna do. I’ll help you—but it’s gonna come with a couple conditions.”
I blink, not sure I heard him right. “You’ll help me?”
He cracks a grin. Not warm, not cold, just practical. “I’m not in the business of givin’ shit away for free, Wilding. But I ain’t lookin’ to screw Lark over either. I liked Harvey. He was a respectable man. I think we can play this in our favor, make it work. For all of us.”
I shift slightly, wary but listening. “Alright. What conditions?”
He leans forward, tapping a finger on the desk.
“You’ve got the evidence. I’ve got the contacts.
Folks on the health board, zoning committee, all in Bozeman.
I call in a favor, push the clean report through the right channels—that diner opens back up within the week, no more delays, no more bullshit. ”
I raise an eyebrow, cautious. “And in return?”
He gestures toward the window behind him, out toward the town that lies just beyond the hills.
“I want access to whatever’s under that land.
If that oil field stretches onto my lot, I want first rights to lease the drilling—legally, clean.
No shady backroom deals. You keep your diner, Tate loses, I get what’s mine without stepping on Lark’s neck. ”
It’s smart. Too…nice. I sit with it for a beat, turning it over.
Vaughn adds, “You keep your hands clean, she keeps the Bluebell. I get my land—and if there’s oil, we all win.”
I run a hand over my jaw, eyes locked on Vaughn’s. “I need to talk to Lark first. The Bluebell’s hers. I’m not making any decisions without her.”
The corner of his mouth tugs up like he expected that. “Fair enough. ”
“But,” I add, voice low, “you’ve got to give me your word this doesn’t end up going to shit and fucking us over down the line.”
Vaughn’s eyes narrow. “What’s a cowboy got but his word?” He tips his head toward Sawyer. “Hell, I’ve got a witness.”
Sawyer glances over, unbothered. “I heard it.”
Then Sawyer shifts, pulling his phone from his pocket. “I’ve got some contacts, might be able to dig into Tate’s financials. See if he’s payin’ anyone to keep the diner shut. It’d have to be a hefty amount if he’s pulling strings like that.”
He’s already typing something out, thumbs moving fast.
I raise an eyebrow. “You’re not just gonna find shit like that on a bank statement.”
Sawyer gives me a look, flat and unimpressed. “Exactly. Hence my contacts.” He claps a hand on my shoulder, firm. “Don’t worry about it.”
I probably don’t want to know what his contacts are capable of. But if it helps Lark keep the diner in her hands, so be it.
Vaughn stands, then reaches across the desk and shakes my hand again. “Get back to me in the next couple days. Offer won’t last long.”
“I will.”
He nods once, then walks to the door. Just before he opens it, he glances back. “Shame about Lane.”
My chest tightens, but I nod.
Vaughn’s voice lowers. “We didn’t always see eye to eye, but your old man was a tough bastard. And a good man. Don’t make ‘em like that anymore.”
“Thank you.”
He hesitates for a beat. “Molly’s always been good to my Estelle. Despite…well, everything between our families. I’ve always appreciated that.”
Then he straightens his hat, opens the door. “I gotta get back out to the ranch, but we’ll be in touch.”
Sawyer lingers as Vaughn disappears down the hall, phone still in hand, then leans a little closer .
“He’s not as bad as you probably think,” he says, stuffing his phone in his pocket. “Little rough around the edges, sure. But deep down? He’s a good man. Looks out for his family, his community. Always been that way.”
I glance at him, studying his face. He’s hard to read, but there’s no edge in his voice, no sales pitch. Just a man telling the truth the way he sees it.
“Guess we’ll see,” I say.
Sawyer shrugs. “I’ll get back to you about the financials. Might take a minute, but I’ll find something.”
I nod. “Appreciate it.”
He lifts his chin, and we start walking downstairs, boots thudding softly against the hardwood. In the kitchen, Estelle’s at the sink, sleeves rolled up, washing dishes while sunlight pours in through the big window behind her.
She turns when she hears us, drying her hands on a dish towel. “You takin’ off, Boone?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Before I can say anything else, she crosses the room and pulls me into a hug—not just a polite pat on the back, but a real hug.
I freeze for half a second, not sure what to do with it, then half-hug her back, awkward as hell.
She pulls away, smiling. “Y’all be safe now, you hear?”
I nod, the weight of it sticking with me as I step outside.
Their house—for all its size, all its shine—feels warm in a way I didn’t expect. Comfortable. Full of love. I don’t know what to expect, but it wasn’t this.
I climb into Lucille, turn the key, and back down the long gravel drive. As I pass the front pasture, I catch sight of Emily on horseback, riding alongside a couple of the ranch hands.
I take it all in—the rolling hills, the wide Montana sky stretching endlessly overhead—and grip the wheel tighter.
Vaughn’s offer is still circling in my head. It’s solid. Logical. Doesn’t screw Lark over, doesn’t ask more than what’s fair. But it’s not just my call, and I know that. She’s the one who built her life around that diner.
I don’t trust people easily until they’ve shown me that I can. But there’s something in this that feels…possible. Like maybe for once, we’re not fighting with our backs against the wall. Maybe we’ve got a shot to come out on top.
Maybe, for once, we’ve got help.