Chapter 3
LARKIN
The gala had been difficult, but I had told myself it was just an off night.
But I felt no better waking up the next morning in our cavernous master bedroom, the eastern exposure bathing everything in soft dawn light that did nothing to warm the chill that seemed permanently lodged between my shoulder blades.
Ephraim was already gone, as he often was before sunrise, leaving only the faint scent of his cologne on the pillows and the lingering silence that had become my constant companion in this sprawling house.
He might rise early, but that did not mean I would find him out in the barn or checking the perimeter fences.
Those were duties we had long ago hired out, along with the hands-on daily labor that had once made this ranch feel like a working operation rather than the corporate headquarters it had become.
I dressed methodically, my movements slow and deliberate as I went through the familiar morning routine.
Coffee brewing in the gourmet kitchen, toast in the toaster, all the while my mind replaying moments from the night before with excruciating clarity.
It wasn’t just that Ephraim had been dismissive, it was how automatic it had become, how neither of us seemed to notice anymore.
My phone buzzed on the marble countertop, the notification light blinking insistently.
I ignored it, knowing it was probably the event coordinator from last night sending follow-up emails about next year’s planning.
I couldn’t bear thinking about another gala, another performance of the perfect rancher’s wife when the role felt increasingly ill-fitting.
Instead, I walked through the silent house, my slippered feet making no sound on the polished wood floors.
The photographs along the hallway told the story people expected to see, Ephraim and me in various stages of our marriage, smiling at milestones.
The progression from the nervous newlyweds to the confident power couple was clear, but what wasn’t visible was the gradual erosion between the frames, the moments of disconnection that had never made it into our official narrative.
I paused in front of one of my favorites, taken at the completion of the stable renovation five years ago.
In the photograph, Ephraim’s arm was wrapped around my waist, both of us leaning into each other with genuine affection, the new stable behind us gleaming in the afternoon sun.
We had stayed up late that night, sitting on hay bales in the empty building, talking about the horses we would rehabilitate there and the difference we might make for animals that had been abandoned or mistreated.
He had kissed me with a passion that had nothing to do with business or appearances, his hands tangled in my hair as he murmured about how much he admired my compassion.
The memory made my chest ache now, not just for what had been but for how thoroughly that connection had faded.
The stables still stood, still housed rescue horses that I tended daily, but the partnership Ephraim and I had shared in their creation had dissolved, leaving only my solitary devotion to the project he now viewed as an expensive hobby.
Back in the kitchen, I poured my coffee and stared out at the valley stretching before our home.
In the distance, I could see the irrigation systems watering the wheat fields, precise and efficient, not a drop wasted.
Ephraim had installed them three years ago as part of our “modernization,” a word that had come to mean the systematic replacement of everything personal with everything profitable.
I took a sip of the coffee I had once taken pride in brewing just right for Ephraim each morning.
Now, he grabbed something from the espresso machine in his office, part of his increasingly self-contained world that required little input from me.
The realization wasn’t new, but this morning it felt particularly acute, as if I were seeing my life through the harsh clarity of unforgiving daylight for the first time.
The sound of tires on gravel pulled me from my thoughts, and I watched as Corrine West’s luxury SUV pulled up to the house. She emerged looking impeccable as always, her blonde hair catching the morning light, a leather portfolio tucked under her arm. Business visit, then. Not unexpected.
I opened the door before she could knock, offering what I hoped was a neutral greeting. “Good morning, Corrine.”
“Larkin, darling,” she replied with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Is Ephraim in?”
“Ephraim home this late in the morning?” I said with a slight edge that surprised even me. “No, I suspect he’s already at the office. You could try calling ahead next time.”
The faint tightening at the corners of her mouth told me she registered the rebuke, but her voice remained smooth. “That’s all right. I might as well talk to you. I’m having a little gathering tonight and both you and Ephraim are invited. Informal, just a few of us from the development committee.”
The knot in my stomach that had loosened slightly overnight now tightened painfully again.
The development committee was one of those entities that sounded innocent enough but was actually a thinly veiled group of land speculators looking to maximize their profits, often at the expense of the very environment I worked to protect through my conservation efforts.
“I’ll check with Ephraim,” I said, taking the embossed invitation she handed me. “Thank you for thinking of us.”
“Of course.” Corrine’s gaze swept over me with an almost clinical assessment.
“You’ll wear something lovely, I’m sure.
And do tell Ephraim that if he wants to finalize the water rights discussion before the county meeting, he should arrive promptly.
I have some new data I think he’ll find interesting. ”
There it was, the subtle reminder that while I might be Mrs. Holt in title, the business of the Holt empire flowed through different channels entirely.
I managed to maintain my polite expression as she turned to leave, her expensive heels clicking on the stone steps back to her car.
Only when the sound of her engine had faded in the distance did I allow myself to slump against the door frame, the invitation crumpling slightly in my hand.
The irony of my situation struck me suddenly, so strongly I almost laughed.
I lived in a mansion built by generations of my husband’s family, had access to more resources than most people could imagine, and yet I felt poorer in spirit than I had when I was living in a small apartment in Seattle, working three jobs to afford horseback riding lessons.
At least then, my choices had been my own.
My life had been directed by my passions rather than by the expectations of others.
I had fallen in love with Ephraim believing our paths were aligned, that his ambitious nature and my nurturing spirit complemented each other perfectly.
I never expected that his ambition would eventually consume everything, including me.
As I retreated back inside, the invitation still clutched in my hand, I made a decision.
Tonight’s gathering at Corrine’s would be different from the other social obligations I had endured.
Tonight, I would not play my assigned role of silent, supportive wife.
I was tired of being decorative, tired of smiling while my intelligence and passions were dismissed.
If Ephraim wanted to showcase me as part of the Holt brand, he would have to accept that the woman he was presenting came with thoughts, opinions, and boundaries of her own.
The resolution brought a measure of peace as I spent the day preparing, not just physically but mentally, for the evening ahead.
I selected a dress in deep emerald green, a color I loved but knew Ephraim preferred only for specific occasions, as it drew more attention than his usual preference for me to remain elegantly in the background.
When Ephraim arrived home that afternoon, he found me reviewing documents at the kitchen table, not in the midst of dinner preparations as he probably expected.
He paused in the doorway, his expression unreadable as he took in my unusual attire for a weekday afternoon.
It was clear he was trying to discern some specific motivation for my choice.
Did he imagine it was all a ruse, a way to coax more attention or provoke him?
The thought almost made me smile, but instead I looked up calmly and held his gaze.
“Corrine invited us for tonight,” I said by way of explanation, gesturing to the invitation on the counter.
His eyebrows raised slightly, then his face relaxed into the familiar mask of pleasant neutrality. “Good. I need to follow up on that McCullough land situation. Will you be ready by seven?”
It was phrased as a question but sounded more like a directive, as his questions often did these days. “I’ll be ready,” I said, returning my attention to the papers before me. “I’ll meet you at the car.”
His hesitation was brief but noticeable.
Usually, I waited in the front entry for him, ready to leave together as a unified front.
My change in routine clearly registered with him, though I doubted he would comment on it.
Ephraim rarely addressed anything that might lead to uncomfortable introspection.
He walked past me to pour himself a drink, the ice clinking against the crystal decanter in the otherwise silent kitchen.
I continued reviewing the financial reports for the horse rescue foundation I had quietly established, feeling his presence behind me like a physical force.
We had once spent countless hours in this room together, planning and dreaming, our conversation flowing as naturally as the Yakima River in spring.