My Billionaire Husband Neglected My Call for Help While Comforting Another Woman

Chapter 1 The Boots That Started Everything

The Boots That Started Everything

Maren

I've been planning this dinner for a week, ever since Jackson promised me Friday night would be ours.

No auction calls. No feed suppliers. No emergency with the breeding program.

Just us, the porch, and the news I've been holding onto since Tuesday when Margaret Bennett said yes to a six-month catering contract with her restaurant group.

Six months of guaranteed income. My business, finally stable enough that I don't have to chase every anniversary party and graduation buffet in the county.

I want to tell him over wine, with the sunset doing its work behind us, his full attention on my face when I say it. I want him to be proud of me the way I'm proud of him every time he comes home with a deal he fought hard to close.

The lamb is resting. The potatoes are done. My grandmother's opal hangs warm against my throat, the way it always does when something matters.

Jackson's truck pulls up while I'm checking the porch table one last time. He comes through the door smelling like dust and diesel, and before he can say anything I'm crossing the kitchen to meet him. "You're not allowed to check your phone for the next three hours."

"Hello to you too." He catches my waist, pulls me in. "What's the occasion?"

I press a finger against his shirt before he can charm his way out of remembering. "The occasion is Friday. The occasion is you promised."

"I did promise." He kisses me, slow and deliberate, and I let myself sink into it. His hands slide up my back and I'm twenty-three again, standing outside a charity gala while a man in orange boots tries to convince me he's worth my time.

I wasn't easy to convince. I made him work for every inch, because I'd seen what happened to women who fell too fast for men with too much money. But Jackson never made me feel bought. He made me feel chosen. Jackson glances toward the stove. "Lamb?"

I turn in his arms so he can see the platter on the counter. "Your favorite."

Jackson tightens his hold instead of letting me escape to the stove. "You're up to something."

I like having something he wants to hear. For once, he can wait for me. "I have news. Good news. But you have to survive dinner first."

He grins, and something in my chest settles. This is going to be a good night. This is going to be exactly what I wanted.

My name is Maren Wilder. Before Jackson, I was Maren Cole, and I've spent five years of marriage learning how to share a man with four ranches across two states.

He's a billionaire who runs an operation his grandfather started with forty acres and a single bull, and auction week has kept him away more than either of us likes.

Tonight he promised to be here. I intend to hold him to it.

The Wyoming sky is doing its April work through the kitchen windows, pink and gold streaking across more land than most people see in a lifetime. Wilder land. Three generations of it, premium breeding stock dotting the hills in loose clusters, fences running to the horizon and beyond.

Jackson disappears upstairs to change while I plate the lamb. When he comes back in worn jeans and bare feet, his hair still damp, I hand him the wine bottle and a corkscrew.

Jackson leaves the unopened wine on the counter to take another look at me. "You look beautiful."

I glance down at the small splash of sauce on my wrist. So much for elegant. "I look like I've been cooking for two hours."

He catches that wrist and kisses the clean skin above it. "Same thing."

I let him keep my hand longer than I need to. "Flatterer."

He holds out his hand for the platter. "Keep talking. Your lamb is getting cold."

We carry everything to the porch because the evening is warm enough and because I want the sunset behind us when I tell him about the contract.

The main house rises three stories of native stone and timber behind us, wrap-around porches and windows that catch the light like they were positioned for exactly that purpose.

I've lived here five years and I still sometimes stop in the driveway just to look at it.

Jackson pours the wine. I watch him do it, the ease in his hands, the way he tilts the bottle at exactly the right angle. Competent in everything. It used to intimidate me, how good he was at whatever he touched. Now I just appreciate the view.

Jackson loosens his collar and settles beside me, finally off duty. "The Hendersons' heifers went for a fair price today. And Tyler Marsh is getting better with the farrier work. Jake's been drilling him since February."

I picture the apprentice who used to stand behind Jake hoping nobody would ask him anything. "Good. He needed the structure."

"He needed someone who wouldn't let him quit when it got hard." Jackson cuts into his lamb and makes the sound he makes when I've gotten something right. "This is incredible."

I accept the compliment without pretending I didn't earn it. "I know."

Jackson tries to hide his smile behind his glass and fails. "Humble too."

I lift my glass to him, shameless about wanting his attention. "I have many virtues."

He laughs, and for a moment we're exactly where I wanted us to be. The sunset painting the sky in colors that would look fake in a photograph. My husband across from me, present and focused, not looking at his phone or thinking about the morning's obligations.

"So." He sets down his fork. "This news you're holding hostage."

I take a breath. This matters. I want to say it right. "Margaret Bennett offered me a catering contract. Six months. Twenty private events for her restaurant group, guaranteed, with a rate I set. I can still take my own clients."

Jackson goes still. Then he grins so widely that I start grinning too.

Jackson abandons his fork and reaches across the table. "Maren. That's huge."

I squeeze his fingers, unable to stop smiling. "I know."

He leans forward, suddenly as excited as I am. "That's exactly what you've been working toward. Your own terms, your own schedule, real money."

"I know." I'm grinning now, couldn't stop if I wanted to. "I signed Tuesday. I've been waiting all week to tell you, but you've been in and out and I wanted..."

His phone buzzes.

He glances at it. Just a glance, automatic, the same way he's glanced at a thousand notifications during a thousand dinners. But something in his expression shifts.

Jackson lifts the phone from beside his plate. "Sorry. One second."

I leave my hand where he was holding it, waiting for him to notice. "Jackson."

"One second, I promise." He's reading now, scrolling, his brow furrowing in a way that has nothing to do with me or lamb or six-month contracts. "It's Shay."

The name lands without context. "Who?"

He supplies the name without looking away from the screen. "Shay Denton. I've mentioned her. We grew up together, before her family moved away."

I remember fragments. Childhood friend, some story about a barn and a tractor. Nothing that explains why this message needs his attention right now, while the wine is still breathing and my news is still half-spoken between us.

"She's in trouble." He's still looking at the phone. "She's been out of work eight months. She's running out of options."

I try to catch his eye before he gets absorbed in her message. "That's terrible. Can we talk about it after..."

Jackson tilts the phone toward himself, still reading. "She sounds desperate, Maren. I haven't heard from her in years and she's reaching out to me, which means she's already tried everything else."

I set down my wine glass. "I understand that. I do. But I've been waiting all week to have this conversation with you, and I have about two more sentences of good news that I'd like to finish sharing before we move on to someone else's crisis."

He looks up. For a moment I think he's actually heard me, actually registered that I'm asking for something and he's not giving it.

Then his phone rings.

He answers before I can say anything. "Shay. Hey. I got your message."

I sit on the porch of my own home, watching my husband turn his chair slightly away from me, watching the lamb cool on both our plates, watching the sunset I'd been planning around wash out into ordinary dusk.

The conversation goes on. I catch pieces of it. Of course. No, it's no trouble. Tell me what happened.

His voice is warm. Warmer than it's been all week, warmer than the distracted murmurs I've gotten over breakfast while he scrolled through cattle reports. He's leaning forward now, elbows on his knees, giving this woman on the phone the undivided attention I asked for and didn't get.

I pick up my wine and drink it faster than I should. Jackson is still talking to Shay. "We might have something, actually. Let me talk to Maren, see what we can work out."

At least he remembers I exist. Jackson shifts the phone to his other ear. "Thursday could work. I'll call you tomorrow with details, okay? Hang in there."

He hangs up. Turns back to me with an expression that's already apologizing.

He puts the phone down between us, screen up. "I'm sorry. I know that was bad timing."

I don't soften it for him. He knows what I asked for tonight. "It was."

Jackson's gaze flicks toward the phone as if her circumstances are still arriving on it. "She's really struggling. Eight months without work, Maren. She's staying with a cousin in Cheyenne and running out of welcome."

I keep my voice level, although I'd rather push back my chair and leave him to his phone.

"I believe you. And I'm willing to help.

But I need you to understand that I have been waiting since Tuesday to tell you about the most important professional milestone of my career, and you couldn't give me five uninterrupted minutes. "

"You're right." He reaches for my hand across the table. "Tell me. The contract. Six months, your terms, what else?"