Chapter 9
EPHRAIM
The drive to Seattle felt endless, rain-slicked highways stretching before me as if leading nowhere.
Each mile west away from the ranch was a step deeper into unfamiliar territory.
I had always been in control, whether negotiating with landowners or directing my staff.
But sitting in the luxury SUV with its silent cabin and perfect climate control, I felt a disquieting sense of uncertainty for the first time I could remember.
My phone remained stubbornly silent in the center console.
No reply to the letter I had sent with those expensive flowers, no acknowledgment that I had crossed the Cascade Mountains to meet her on neutral ground.
The Bellevue Four Seasons was preparing a private dining space for our “discussion,” a term that felt wholly inadequate for what needed to happen between us.
As Seattle’s skyline appeared through breaks in the weather, I pushed down the irritation rising within me.
This wasn’t how reasonable people behaved.
Larkin had never been impulsive or irrational, which made her current behavior all the more puzzling.
She had responsibilities, a life we had built together that couldn’t simply be abandoned for some undefined quest to “find herself.” We had an agreement, spoken and unspoken, about our roles and what we each contributed to our partnership.
My phone finally buzzed as I was navigating the confusing maze of freeways leading toward Bellevue, and I grabbed it eagerly, anticipating an apology, an explanation, or at least confirmation she would meet me.
Instead, I found a brief, maddeningly simple text message from Larkin that stopped my thoughts cold.
I appreciate the gesture, but I’m not ready for this conversation. Please don’t come to Seattle.
I read the words three times, each pass stoking the fire of frustration building in my chest. The nerve of her.
To dismiss my effort with such casual indifference.
I had upended my schedule, traveled through treacherous mountain passes, all in an attempt to be accommodating, and she couldn’t be bothered to even have the conversation face to face?
My first instinct was to turn around, head back to Eastern Washington and show her that her absence meant less than she seemed to think.
Let her see how quickly life went on without her, how unnecessary her dramatic exit truly was.
But another instinct, stronger and more unfamiliar, kept me driving west, deeper into the city where she had chosen to hide from our problems.
She couldn’t just refuse to see me. Not after everything I had done to make this meeting happen.
With a few quick commands to the car’s navigation system, I redirected away from Bellevue and toward the address of her horse rescue.
If she wouldn’t come to the neutral ground I had provided, I would go to hers.
The contrast between the pristine luxury of the Four Seasons where I had intended to meet her and the humble, functional structures of the horse rescue was jarring.
As I stepped from the climate-controlled comfort of my SUV, the damp Seattle air immediately penetrated my tailored suit, making me feel uncomfortably out of place.
This was Larkin’s world now, apparently, muddy and ordinary and miles from the life I had provided for her.
The main office door was closed but unlocked, the simple wooden structure showing signs of weathering and use.
I pushed inside without knocking, finding myself in a cramped space overflowing with paperwork, photographs of horses, and the earthy smell of animals and hay.
The room was empty, but through a window I could see people moving in the barn, their attention focused on the horses in stalls.
“May I help you?”
The voice came from behind me, startling me slightly.
I turned to find a young woman with a volunteer badge pinned to her jacket.
I quickly donned my most authoritative expression, accustomed to immediate deference when I entered a space.
But this woman seemed immune, looking at me with open curiosity rather than recognition or respect.
“I’m looking for Larkin,” I stated simply, as if my presence explained everything.
The woman’s eyebrows rose slightly with suspicion. “And you are?”
I felt an unusual hesitation before responding, as if announcing my identity in this setting was somehow embarrassing. “Ephraim Holt. Larkin’s husband.”
Recognition flickered in her eyes, followed by a guarded expression I couldn’t quite interpret. “She’s not here right now.”
“I know she’s here,” I countered, glancing toward the barn where I could just make out a figure working with a horse, a figure whose bearing was unmistakably my wife’s even from this distance. “I can see her through the window.”
The volunteer’s posture changed subtly, becoming protective rather than merely cautious. “Mr. Holt, Larkin has requested that she not be disturbed.”
My temper, already frayed, threatened to break. “I’m not some random disturbance, I’m her husband. You need to tell her I’m here.”
She hesitated, glancing toward the window and back to me. “I could give her a message...”
The implication that she was willing to pass along my words but not allow me direct contact felt insulting. I pulled out my phone, bringing up Larkin’s number with deliberate clicks. “I’ll just call her myself, since you seem unclear on marital protocols.”
As I hit dial and raised the phone to my ear, I kept my eyes fixed on the woman, waiting to see how she would handle this challenge to her authority in this space.
Larkin’s phone rang, and through the open window, I could hear the distant sound of it playing from somewhere in the barn.
I watched as the woman working with the horse reached into her pocket, glanced at the screen, and deliberately silenced the call without ever looking toward the office.
The call went to voicemail after four rings, Larkin’s recorded voice impersonally greeting me while the live version continued working as if my presence meant nothing.
The rage that had been simmering beneath my carefully maintained composure boiled over.
“Fine,” I snapped, ending the call. “Since you and she seem to believe I’ll leave quietly, let me disabuse you of that notion right now.
I’ll wait right here until she finishes whatever she’s doing and we speak in person.
You might not understand how marriages work, but my wife and I have business that cannot be conducted through intermediaries. ”
The young woman’s face hardened, and she took a deliberate step toward me. “With all due respect, Mr. Holt, this is Larkin’s sanctuary, and if she doesn’t want to see you here, I’m obligated to honor that request.”
The challenge in her words was clear, and for a moment, we stood in a standoff, two people from completely different worlds suddenly thrown into conflict over a woman who apparently had more control over this situation than either of us.
I felt the ridiculousness of it all suddenly overwhelming, me, Ephraim Holt, the man who owned more land in the state than nearly anyone else, standing in a modest horse barn arguing with a volunteer about seeing my own wife.
But pride would not let me back down. Instead, I pulled one of the office chairs out roughly and sat, adjusting my suit jacket with deliberate precision. “Then I suggest you find something productive to do, because I’m not leaving until Larkin and I resolve this.”
The young woman watched me for another long moment before nodding curtly. “Your choice,” she said before turning and leaving the office, closing the door behind her with more force than necessary.
I sat there alone in the small room, surrounded by the trappings of Larkin’s new life, feeling increasingly out of place and increasingly angry.
Photographs of rescued horses lined the walls, their stories of recovery and rehabilitation written beneath them in neat handwriting that I recognized as my wife’s.
In a different context, I might have found these stories touching, evidence of the compassion that had first attracted me to Larkin years ago.
Now, they felt like accusations, representations of all the things I had dismissed as unimportant compared to the business of running our empire.
Time passed slowly, marked only by the distant sounds of work continuing in the barn.
I checked my watch, realizing nearly an hour had elapsed.
The nerve of her, making me wait like some petitioner seeking an audience.
The longer I sat there, the more my initial hurt transformed into resentment.
What had started as an effort to be reasonable, to meet on neutral ground and discuss our differences like adults, was rapidly becoming a power struggle I had no intention of losing.
Eventually, the door opened, and Larkin stepped inside, her expression not the apologetic or contrite look I had half-expected but something closer to weariness mixed with resolve.
Her clothes were practical and worn, streaked with dirt and hay, her hair pulled back simply instead of the polished style she had maintained in our public life.
Seeing her like this, in her element, something twisted uncomfortably in my chest.
“I could call the police and report you for trespassing,” she said by way of greeting, closing the door behind her.
The casual threat shocked me into an inappropriate laugh. “Trespassing? Larkin, I’m your husband. I own half of everything in this place, including whatever absurd notion you have that I need an invitation.”
Her eyes flashed with an anger I had rarely seen directed at me. “You don’t own this place or any part of it. The rescue was established as a trust, or have you forgotten?”
“It wouldn’t exist without my financial support,” I countered, rising from the chair. “Let’s not pretend you’ve built this all by yourself.”