Chapter 15 #3
I forced my trembling fingers to type out a response, each letter feeling like a betrayal to him as I lied.
'm fine. Sorry, was helping a customer. Today's been good. Decent sales.
Connor
Good. Want me to pick you up when you close? Or are you driving yourself home?
Home. To Connor's ranch. To the property that Silas had photographed, that someone was watching, that would burn in three days if I didn't cooperate. I’d tell another lie. But I’d need time, needed space to think without Connor watching me with those perceptive brown eyes that saw too much.
I'll drive myself. Might be late though, I want to finish some inventory work.
Connor
Okay. Be careful. Call me when you leave.
I will. Can't wait to see you.
At least the last part was true.
I forced myself to stand on legs that felt disconnected from my body, using the counter for support. My whole body ached like I'd been in a fight. My muscles were tight with tension, my head pounded and my stomach churned with nausea that threatened to overwhelm me.
I moved to the front door on autopilot and flipped the sign to “CLOSED” even though it was just before five and I typically stayed until six.
I couldn't stand the thought of another customer coming in, of having to smile and make small talk and pretend everything was fine when my entire world was crumbling around me.
I locked the door, my fingers fumbling with the deadbolt until it finally clicked into place.
Then I stood there for a long moment, pressing my forehead against the cool glass, trying to breathe. Trying to think through the panic that was threatening to drown me.
I couldn't tell Connor. Telling him would just put him in more danger, would make him do something reckless to protect me.
I couldn't go to Sheriff Davies. Davies couldn't stop people this connected, this ruthless. How was he supposed to protect Connor from a threat he couldn't even identify?
Which only left one option.
My phone buzzed again, making me jump hard enough that I nearly dropped it. A text from an unknown number.
Unknown
Mr. Beaumont's business card is in your office desk. Third drawer from the left. You threw it away. We retrieved it for you. How thoughtful of us.
My stomach dropped, nausea rising in my throat so fast I had to swallow hard to keep it down.
They'd been in my office. Had gone through my things. Had been watching me closely enough to know I'd thrown away that card weeks ago.
I moved through my boutique toward the back office, my legs moving automatically even though every instinct screamed to run, to get out, to go to Connor and tell him everything and let him handle it.
But Connor couldn't handle this. No one could handle people like this except by giving them what they wanted.
My office was small, barely bigger than a closet, with a desk and a filing cabinet and shelves crammed with inventory records and old order forms. Nothing seemed out of place.
But when I opened the third drawer from the left in my desk, there it was.
The business card.
With Armand Beaumont's contact information.
I picked up the card, staring at those silver numbers. All I had to do was make the call. Accept their terms. Sign over a business I was going to lose anyway in a few weeks when Connor's loan ran out and I still couldn't make rent.
It was just a building. Just a dream that had turned into a failing business. Connor's life meant more than this.
Then why did my gut twist with wrongness, with the deep, instinctive certainty that if I made this call, if I accepted their terms and signed whatever papers they put in front of me, I'd be stepping into something I couldn't come back from?
These weren't legitimate businessmen making a fair offer. These were criminals. Arsonists. People who burned down buildings and threatened lives to get what they wanted.
People who wouldn't stop with just the boutique.
I slipped the card into my pocket, feeling it burn there like a brand, like a mark of my failure and weakness and inability to protect the people I loved without sacrificing everything I'd worked for.
I grabbed my purse and my laptop, turned off the lights, and locked up the boutique through the back door.
My car sat waiting in the small parking lot, looking exactly as I'd left it this morning.
Back when the worst thing I'd had to worry about was whether I'd make enough sales to justify staying open.
I climbed into the driver's seat and just sat there for a long moment, staring at nothing, my hands on the steering wheel.
I started the car and pulled out of the parking lot, heading toward Connor's ranch on autopilot. My hands moved through the motions of driving while my mind spun in useless circles, chasing solutions that didn't exist.
The card in my pocket felt like it weighed a thousand pounds.
By the time I pulled into Connor's driveway, it was nearly six-thirty. The sun was setting, painting the sky in those same shades of orange and pink I'd admired last night when everything had been simpler.
Connor appeared on the porch before I'd even turned off the engine, concern etched into his features. He met me at my car, pulling open the door with that immediate protective instinct that made him Connor.
“You said you'd call when you left.” There was worry in his voice but no anger, just concern. Just that protective instinct that I loved and hated in equal measure right now. “I was about to drive into town to check on you.”
“I'm sorry.” I climbed out, letting him pull me into a hug I desperately needed. His arms wrapped around me, warm and safe, and I wanted to stay there forever and pretend that everything was fine. “I got caught up with inventory and lost track of time.”
Another lie. The lies were piling up now, stacking on top of each other like debris from a disaster I couldn't prevent.
“You okay?” Connor pulled back to look at my face, his eyes searching mine. “You look exhausted.”
“Just tired. It was a long day.” I forced a smile that felt like broken glass cutting my face. “But decent sales. Made over four hundred dollars.”
“That's good.” He kissed my forehead, and the tenderness of it made me want to cry, almost made me want to tell him everything and beg him to fix it.
Almost.
But he couldn't fix this. No one could fix this except me.
“Come on,” Connor said, taking my hand. “I made dinner. And then you're going to bed early because you look like you're about to fall over.”
I let him lead me inside, into the warm house that smelled like whatever he'd cooked for dinner. Let him settle me at the kitchen table with a glass of water while he plated food. Let him talk about his day of fence repairs and a horse that was responding well to training.
I responded when he asked questions. Smiled when he made jokes. Ate the dinner he'd made even though every bite tasted like cardboard and sat in my stomach like stones.
And all the while, the business card burned in my pocket, reminding me that in three days, I would have to make a choice.
My dream or Connor's life.
I already knew which one I would choose.
I just had to figure out how to live with it.