Chapter 22 Lucas
lucas
I called Miller while Lettie was getting ready, running him through last night's incident. He quickly combed through the footage of the front gate, and it was like nothing had happened. The gate showed it stayed closed all night, not a soul in sight.
I would have asked Lettie if maybe she had a very lucid dream, but as he droned on about nothing being amiss, I noticed the barn door leaning to one side. It wasn’t like that when I left a couple of days ago. “Miller, did you ever change the bolts on the barn door?”
He’s quiet for a beat, his chair creaking as he stands up. “Couple of days ago, why?”
“Because it’s leaning to the side.”
It’s silent for a second, heavy and loaded with concern.
“Be right there,” he clips before the call disconnects.
I run a hand through my hair, sighing as I lean against the kitchen counter.
I’ve had more good days than bad recently, and if I’m being honest, this feels like the tip of the iceberg of what’s to come.
I’ve been here for nine years, and we’ve never had random people on the property.
We’ve never had security footage not pick something up.
But I know what it’s like to worry, and it’s never done me a lick of good.
It’s just amplified situations I couldn’t change.
In turn, making me miserable and depressed.
After Scarlett and Ms. Anna found me standing on the bottom of the intercoastal bridge with not a single positive thought at the age of eleven, I told myself I’d never let myself go back to that tornado of anxiety.
But right now, it’s not me I’m worried about.
It’s Scarlett, it’s the ranch, it’s the animals in the stables, and the rehab center.
I’ve been known to go a bit overboard when I feel people I love are hurting or in trouble.
Lily is a prime example. I found out some kids were bullying her at school, and Samuels and I went and had lunch with her class every day for a week, flanking either side of her as we sat like gargoyles, only smiling at her.
Did we intimidate the shit out of a bunch of second graders?
Yes. Do I regret it? Not in the slightest. They left her alone after that.
“You okay?” Her arms snake around my waist as she lays her head on my back. I relax a bit, turning in her hold until my arms are wrapped around her back. I press a quick kiss to the top of her head, then pull away.
I slide my hand in hers, walking side by side out the door. When she sees where we're headed, her hand tightens around mine for a fraction of a second before she’s running toward it. “Hey! Lettie wait!”
She doesn’t stop, though. Luckily, my legs are longer, and, not to toot my own horn, but I’m faster. “Lettie,” I warn as my arms wrap around her waist. “Give us a second to make sure it’s not going to fall over on you if you try to pull it open.”
She doesn’t fight, seeming to realize that not one of us could hold that door up by ourselves. Truthfully, I’m concerned a gust of wind is going to send it flying. She relaxes, nodding against my shoulder as I put her back on the ground.
Miller meets me on the other side, tools already in the pocket of his jeans, as I hold one side while he twists the bottom so we can get it upright.
Lettie’s low whistle has me looking at her out of the corner of my eye, “I’m going to need you to do manual labor more often. ” She says, wiggling her eyebrows.
Miller and I both laugh. He works to undo the bottom bolt so the door drops to the ground, leaning before I step in front of it and push it back up against the building with his help.
This door has a gravity latch, meaning that whenever the door shuts, gravity automatically engages the lock.
But there’s also a deadbolt that we usually wrap around the handles of the front, and that, along with the chain it hangs on, are not here.
“Can I check inside?” She asks hesitantly. I step to the side, letting her pass as Miller and I walk shoulder to shoulder behind her. He’s been here this entire time, too. Over the years, we’ve formed a bond that I’d risk my life for. He’s got my back, I have his, and now, we both have Lettie’s.
We’re halfway through the stables when she stops in her tracks, inhaling so quickly it makes me tense. “What?” I follow her line of sight to a muddy boot print on the ground. “Lettie, it’s just a boot?”
Her head shakes slowly, “Yeah, but I mopped this floor before I went to bed last night. Stella and I had a chat. The floor was spotless.” She looks up at me, something flickering in her eyes that matches the unease in me.
“Can we get out of here?” she asks, wiping her hands against the front of her pants.
I nod when she looks up at me. A sense of dread overwhelms me as we walk back to my house. Her hand doesn’t leave mine until we get to the front door.
“Let me unlock it,” I say, pulling my keys out of my pocket. But to my surprise, the second her hand lands on the handle, it pops open.
My keys fall from my hand as I stare at the now cracked door. “I know I locked that,” I mumble, quickly deciding the keys aren’t worth it, but Lettie is, and she’s already pushing the door open further. There could be a serial killer inside for all she knows.
“Lettie, wait. Let me make sure it’s safe.”
Her eyes pin me in place. The fiery businesswoman who showed up here a few months ago is now front and center. All business and willing to cut down anyone who gets in her way.
My hands fly up. "Please, just let me check. At least let me go in first. I know you can handle it, but I can’t.”
There’s not a lot in life I’m afraid of, but seeing someone I love die or get hurt while I could have prevented it is at the top of that list. Call it trauma from my parents' deaths.
She nods, and I walk in, taking inventory of the house.
Nothing seems out of place, and I feel my shoulders relax.
Taking a deep breath, I extend my hand to her.
She doesn’t take it. Instead, she makes a beeline for my couch. Plopping down and immediately burying her face in her hands. Her shoulders shake with the force of her labored breaths. I look over at Miller, who hesitantly walks into the room.
He stands in the corner, taking his boots off like the gentleman he is, while I toe off my tennis shoes before sitting on my coffee table.
My legs bracket Lettie’s, my hands run up the outside of her thighs, back and forth until she lets her hands fall.
Her eyes are blazing, she’s not sad, she’s pissed.
“What's going through your head?” I ask, as I brush a piece of hair from her face.
She scoffs, throwing herself back into the couch, arms crossed over her chest, as her feet drum anxiously against the floor while she holds my gaze.
“Was Nana into anything that could have put a target on her back?” Her eyes move to Miller. He’d be the only one with the answer to that question.
He swallows roughly as his brows pinch together. “Not that I know of. I mean, she had a temper, but she usually just rectified that with a hard day's work.”
Her tongue runs across her top lip, a humorless laugh breaking free from her chest. “I can almost guarantee this was my dad, or one of his little henchmen.”
She stares at my fireplace for a second before her eyes meet mine again. “I need to figure out what he wants.”
“Whoa, hey. Let’s not jump to that conclusion just yet.” My fingers tighten around her calves.
She blows out a breath as she lets her head fall, rolling back and forth across the back of the couch. “How can I not, Lucas?” She asks, staring at the ceiling. “I can’t let him hurt the ranch. The animals… you.”
“I’m a big boy, Lettie. You said together, don’t try to be a hero, and do this by yourself. Let us help.” I nod at Miller, who walks around the front of the couch and sits next to me on the table.
“There might be a perfectly rational explanation for this,” I say, even though I know there isn’t. The increase in odd circumstances tells us that much.
I look over at Miller, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen this man look so nervous. “Is there something you’re not telling us?” I ask. His eyes widen at what I’m sure came out like an accusation, which is not how I meant it. But it's too late.
He looks between the two of us, lips rolled together, before he speaks. “I’m not hiding anything, I just…” His head falls forward, staring at the floor before looking back up.
“I don’t know that I believe Anna died the way they say she did.” He blows out a heavy breath, “We all left one night and came back the next day, and she was gone. A lawyer told us she died of a heart attack, but no one ever saw her. Who found her? No one who worked here at the time had.”
Lettie hiccups, and a lone tear trails down her cheek. I pick her up and slide behind her so she’s on my lap. My hand runs the length of her spine in long, slow strokes. I squeeze tighter around her as my eyes meet his over her head.
“This is all my fault.” The broken lilt to her voice would send me to my knees if I wasn’t already sitting.
She doesn’t need consoling. She doesn’t need apologies.
She needs to be reminded of how strong she is.
That this place is where she was always meant to be.
Not only at the ranch, but with me. Together.
Miller stands, scooting the table back across the floor a bit. “We’ll figure this out. Lock up behind me,” he throws over his shoulder, one boot already on before he’s out the door.
I do, placing Lettie to the side, I lock the door before heading to the kitchen to make us omelets.
Extra cheesy, just like she used to make when we were teens.
Neither of us says anything as she moves to the island, watching as I silently crack the eggs.
“I’m not going to entertain those thoughts of yours,” I say as I fold in the cheese.
“We don’t know anything yet. Don’t make up scenarios.
Let’s attack this with facts and level heads. ”
Her back curves in the middle, sagging against the island. “But I feel like this wouldn't have happened if I didn’t come back.”
Her chin rests on her folded arms, eyes weighed down with worry as she looks at me.
“I don’t want anything to happen to you because of me.
That’s really what it boils down to.” Her eyes lower to the countertop, as if she’s ashamed of the very thought.
“If this is tied to my dad, which I don’t know who else it’d be tied to, I know how ruthless he can be.
And you don’t deserve to be pulled into a battle that’s mine to fight. ”
There’s something in the way she’s fidgeting with the hem of her shirt, actively avoiding my gaze, that makes me think she’s not telling me everything.
Like, there’s something else happening, or something that she’s kept to herself.
And I have to tamp down every instinct telling me to either drag it out of her or run before I get left behind.
I place the spatula in the sink, pull out two forks, and slide her plate in front of her. I don’t move from my spot, standing opposite her as I lean my elbows on the wooden surface, cutting into my omelet. “This is not a battle you’ll fight alone.”
I watch as she slides the fork out of her mouth, the tines leaving white lines along her lips, begging me to kiss them.
“I’m here, and I already told you I don’t break my promises, not even ones I made seventeen years ago.
Whether you consider us your family or not, you have Miller, me, and half a hockey team behind you.
I’m more worried about what you’ll do,” I point my fork at her, “while you try to minimize the perceived threat. One we don’t even know the extent of yet. There may not even be one.”
She snorts, eyes widening at the sound before she breaks into a laughing fit.
“The last time I did that, my mom hit me with a wooden spoon.” Her laugh gets louder until she can’t help but snort again.
“Damn,” she says as she tries to catch her breath, tears now falling from the corner of her eyes.
“It feels good to actually laugh without having to make sure it’s ‘ladylike’. ”
“I’ve always loved your laugh.” I used to dream about it, or maybe it haunted me. Guess it depended on the day.
“Thanks,” she mutters as she moves her eggs around on her plate. “You know, with Thanksgiving literally being in four days, it might actually not be my dad. They usually go to Mexico.”
“And you don’t?”
She shakes her head, looking down at her plate with a sense of longing, one I’ve decided to make my personal mission to get rid of.
“I haven’t spent Thanksgiving with anyone in years.
I usually stayed home, a week-long vacation where I’d be told all the things I wasn’t doing or wasn’t doing well enough started to lose its appeal after I turned eighteen. ”
“I usually get a honey baked ham and make mac n cheese, drop some off at my mom's, then spend it with my teammates who aren’t married.” I bring my glass of water to my lips, letting it wash down the ball of grief as I realize this is the first year I won’t be bringing my mom anything. “Be my date this year?”
A slow smile spreads across her face, “I’d be honored.”
Success, I’ll be pulling out the book of homemade recipes I found in Ms. Anna’s house when I was redoing them. It’s time to show my girl who her family is these days.