Chapter 15 #2
“You need to leave.” I took a step back instinctively, putting more distance between us even though the counter was already separating us. My hand moved to my phone in my pocket, Connor's number already pulled up, ready to call. “Now.”
“In just a moment. First, we need to have a conversation about a business opportunity.” He stopped directly in front of my counter, close enough that I could smell his cologne.
Something woody and expensive. “My associate, Mr. Beaumont, made you a very generous offer several weeks ago. An offer you declined.”
“I'm not interested.”
“You should be interested, Ms. Walsh. Particularly given your current situation.” His smile was cold, reptilian, showing teeth that looked too white, too perfect.
“Living with Connor Whitaker at his ranch. How fortunate for you that he took you in after that unfortunate fire destroyed your apartment and everything you owned.”
The way he said unfortunate with that subtle emphasis, that knowing tone that made the word sound like a joke we were both supposed to be in on, made it crystal clear.
He knew what had caused the fire. Had probably done it himself.
Nausea rose in my throat, bitter and burning. “What do you want?”
“I want you to reconsider our offer.” He pulled out his phone from his inside jacket pocket, the movement smooth and practiced. “We're prepared to pay off all your debts.”
He tapped the screen, pulled up something, then turned it toward me. Numbers. A list of numbers that made my blood run cold.
“The boutique lease,” Silas said, his voice conversational like we were discussing the weather instead of my financial ruin.
“Three months overdue at four thousand per month. Twelve thousand dollars total, though I understand Mr. Whitaker has generously handled that for you.” His dark eyes met mine. “How kind of him.”
“Your other vendors,” Silas continued, scrolling through his phone like he was reading off a shopping list instead of my private financial information.
“Miller's Textiles wants four thousand, two hundred.
Cascade Wholesale claims one thousand, one hundred.
Morrison Manufacturing requires six hundred.
Bella's Boutique Supplies only claims three hundred. Total: six thousand, two hundred dollars.”
The exact amounts. Down to the penny.
“Your maxed credit cards.” He kept reading, his voice never changing. “Totaled together, eight thousand, four hundred.”
My fingers dug into the edge of the counter, my nails pressing hard enough into the wood that I felt them bend. “How do you—”
“We make it our business to know.” He pocketed his phone with that same smooth efficiency.
“Fourteen thousand, six hundred dollars in remaining debt, even with Mr. Whitaker's generous assistance.
Plus your car payment. That's fifteen thousand, two hundred and eighty dollars, Ms. Walsh. Not including whatever interest is accumulating on those credit cards at,” he paused, tilted his head.
“What was it? Twenty-three percent APR? Quite predatory, really.”
He knew everything. Every single debt I had, every payment I was behind on, information that should have been private, confidential, protected by laws that apparently meant nothing to people like him.
“In exchange for signing over this property to our investors,” Silas continued, “we pay off everything. Every penny plus extra. You walk away debt-free, Ms. Walsh. Free to start fresh wherever you'd like. A very simple business transaction.”
“I already said no.” My voice shook despite my efforts to keep it steady. “I'm not selling. I'm not signing anything.”
“That was before you had something else to lose.” He pulled out his phone again, tapped something, then turned the screen toward me with deliberate slowness.
The image made my heart stop.
Connor's ranch. His house with the wraparound porch where we'd sat just last night, drinking wine and watching the sunset paint the sky. His barn with its white paint weathered by Wyoming winters. His pastures stretching toward the mountains, horses visible as small dots against the snow.
Everything Connor had built. Everything he loved. Everything that mattered to him.
“Mr. Whitaker has built something quite impressive,” Silas said, his voice still conversational, still casual, like we were discussing real estate instead of threats.
“A successful ranch operation. Eight hundred and forty-seven acres, isn't it?
Excellent reputation in the community. Strong business relationships with local feed suppliers and veterinarians.
Everything a man could want from a life's work.”
He paused, those dark eyes holding mine with cruel amusement.
“It would be a terrible shame if something happened to it.”
My blood turned to ice. “What are you saying?”
“I'm providing context for your decision, Ms. Walsh. Information to help you make the right choice.” Silas pocketed his phone again. “Ranch fires are tragically common in Wyoming. Did you know that? The statistics are quite startling.”
My chest constricted, making it hard to pull in air. “You're threatening Connor's ranch.”
“I'm sharing information about fire safety risks on agricultural properties.” His smile was all teeth now, sharp and predatory.
“Equipment malfunctions. Fuel storage issues.
So many ways for things to go catastrophically wrong on a property like Mr. Whitaker's.” He tilted his head slightly, studying my reaction like a scientist observing a lab rat.
“Particularly on properties with insufficient fire safety measures. Especially when fires are set with expertise in multiple locations simultaneously to ensure maximum spread.”
Terror flooded through me, hot and overwhelming. “You can't—you wouldn't—”
“We can do whatever is necessary to protect our investment and motivate cooperation.” His voice never changed, never lost that conversational tone that somehow made the threats worse.
“Mr. Beaumont has been very patient with you, Ms. Walsh.
Very understanding of your initial reluctance.
But patience has limits, and we've reached ours.”
He moved toward the door, his hand on the handle, then paused to look back at me. The late afternoon sun slanting through my windows caught his face, highlighting the sharp angles, the cold eyes, the complete absence of mercy or humanity.
“You have three days to accept our offer. Seventy-two hours to sign over the boutique property and save everyone a great deal of trouble and tragedy.”
“And if I don't?” The question came out as barely a whisper, my throat too tight to speak properly.
His smile was chilling, the kind of smile that promised pain and suffering and worse things I didn't want to imagine. “Then Mr. Whitaker's ranch becomes another unfortunate accident. These things happen, Ms. Walsh. Fires spread so quickly in rural areas. Often, people don't wake up in time.”
The implication was explicit. Crystal clear. Horrifyingly, unmistakably clear. They would burn Connor's ranch. With us inside.
My whole body started shaking, tremors running through me that I couldn't control. “You're insane. You're completely insane.”
“I'm practical. This is business, Ms. Walsh. Nothing personal.” His expression didn't change, didn't show any emotion at all.
Just that cold calculation, that reptilian assessment.
“Three days. Seventy-two hours. We'll be in touch tomorrow with instructions for the property transfer. I suggest you spend tonight thinking very carefully about your priorities.”
He stepped out onto the sidewalk, letting the door swing shut behind him. The bell chimed with that cheerful sound that felt obscene after what had just happened, and I watched through my window as he climbed into a black SUV with tinted windows parked three spaces down.
The engine started with a low rumble. He pulled away from the curb, turning onto Harold Street, disappearing around the corner like he'd never been there at all.
Gone.
Only then did my legs give out completely.
I sank to the floor behind my counter with my back against the cabinet beneath the register.
My whole body shook so violently I couldn't have stood if someone had offered me a million dollars to do it.
My breath came in short, sharp gasps that weren't getting enough oxygen to my lungs, my vision swam with tears I couldn't hold back.
I don't know how long I sat there on the floor. Five minutes. Ten. Long enough for the tears to slow, for my breathing to even out slightly, for the shaking to reduce from violent tremors to just constant trembling.
Long enough for my phone to buzz in my pocket.
I pulled it out with fingers that could barely grip it properly. A text from Connor, sent ten minutes ago while I'd been frozen on the floor.
Connor
How's your day going? Still okay?
The casual concern in the message made fresh tears spill down my cheeks. He had no idea that someone had just threatened to burn down everything he'd built. To kill him in his sleep because of me, because of my debt and my failing business and my stupid pride that had gotten us into this mess.
I stared at the message, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. I should tell him. Call him right now and tell him everything.
But if I told him, what would he do?
Connor was protective, fiercely so. He'd insist on going to Sheriff Davies immediately. Would refuse to let me handle it alone and probably do something reckless, heroic and stupid to try to protect me.
He'd put himself in even more danger than he was already in.
Besides, Davies couldn't help. He hadn't been able to find Armand for the last three weeks, how would he find Silas? How would he protect Connor from people this connected, this ruthless, this willing to burn innocent people alive to get what they wanted?
My phone buzzed again. Another text from Connor.
Connor
Harper? You okay? You're worrying me.