Chapter 6
The helicopter banks left and my stomach rolls with it. Outside the window, Montana spreads beneath us—patchwork fields, winding rivers, and endless sky.
The nurse beside me checks my IV line. "How are you feeling, Mr. Kane?"
"Like I'm being kidnapped by rich people," I say, not looking at her.
She laughs like I'm joking. I'm not.
The sepsis is gone, but I'm still weak. Three additional days of recovery at Mayo after I woke up, and they still insisted on this whole transport setup. Private medical plane. Helicopter waiting to take me to the Ashby Ranch. I feel like a piece of expensive cargo.
The pilot announces our descent, and my ears pop with the pressure change. Below us, the land shifts from anonymous fields to something I recognize—the familiar contours of Drybone. I can make out the winding ribbon of the dry riverbed that separates Kane land from Ashby territory.
I've never crossed that line before. Not properly. Not through the front door.
The helicopter ride is worse than the plane—louder, shakier, more intimate with the sky.
Through the window, I catch my first real look at the Ashby Ranch from above.
It's obscene how much land they own, how green it is compared to everything around it.
The main house sits in the center like a crown.
Log cabin? Only if ten-thousand square feet of 'rustic' living can count as a cabin.
When we land, the medical team ignores my complaints about the gurney. I argue once, twice, three times before giving up. They've got their procedures. I'm just a body they're transporting.
"I can walk," I tell them for the fourth time as they wheel me out.
"Protocol, Mr. Kane," says the one who seems to be in charge.
Even over the spinning rotors, I can hear her. "Legion! Legion!"
Mercy is running toward the helicopter, her face split with a grin I haven't seen since before I went to prison. Someone catches her before she reaches me—a broad-shouldered man in a black suit, definitely security, not ranch staff. His hand on her shoulder is gentle but firm.
The bodyguard points up at the rotors, tells her something I can't hear. Mercy looks up at the spinning blades, then shrinks back. But when I'm wheeled out from under them, she's there. Rushing up to me, bouncing on her toes, waving frantically. "You look better!" she yells. "Not gray anymore!"
I lift my hand in a small wave, embarrassed by the whole setup—me on a gurney like some invalid, her being held back like I'm dangerous.
No Cash. No Savannah either.
This is a mistake. I should be at the trailer. That double-wide might not feel like home yet, but at least it's mine. Or was. I don't even know if I still have it, or if the club took it back after everything.
They load me into an ambulance for the short drive to the house. Through the back windows, I watch Mercy running alongside until the security guy catches up with her. A small dog yaps at her heels—something fluffy and useless-looking that hasn’t had a place in this story of mine until now.
A puppy. Did they have the puppy before Mercy came to live here?
Doubt it.
It's a bribe.
But kids don't care. It's not that Mercy's fallin' for Cash's lies, it's that he's giving her things she could only dream of before now.
Is this what Colt did to Destiny?
I'm not sure. I'm not gonna ask, either. Destiny, young as she is, is an adult now. A mother. She's allowed to make her own mistakes.
Still, it burns. The Ashbys and their money, thinking they can own everything and everyone.
I don't wanna be here. But I'm not leaving Mercy alone with Cash. And there's something deeply satisfying about the thought of Cash having to watch me and Savannah together under his own roof.
Like, as a couple.
In his childhood home.
It almost makes the CPS shit worth it.
Almost.
The ambulance stops and the doors open. Mercy is bouncin’ and talkin’ like she just drank a hundred Red Bulls.
They pull the gurney out and start to wheel me away, but I grab on to a railing on the ambulance door, and do not let go.
The gurney shifts sideways. Their expressions go sideways too.
I sit up, push my legs over the side, look them in the eyes, and say, “Get the fuck out of my way. Thank you for the help, but I got it from here.”
The medic in charge of the transport blows out a breath, figuring he did ninety percent of his job and decides this fight is not worth it. He smiles. “Be my guest.” Then moves out of my way.
I stand, shaky, but determined, and look up.
The Ashby mansion is a fuckin' monument to money.
Two stories of logs thick enough to need a crane to lift. Each one stripped and stained the exact same amber-gold. Not a knot out of place. Not a crack showing. The kind of perfect that only comes from paying people to sand away reality.
The roof peaks into what must be fifteen different angles, all covered in slate the color of gunmetal. Chimneys rise from five different spots, though it's too warm for smoke.
The wraparound porch could fit my entire double-wide with room to spare. Cedar pillars thick as tree trunks hold up the overhang, and I count at least four different seating areas with brightly colored cushions. As if people actually sit on the porch in places like this.
Floor-to-ceiling windows line the front, reflecting the Montana sky back at itself. The glass is spotless, probably cleaned daily by servants to make sure the Ashbys don't have to see a single smudge.
"Need help walkin' up?" Mercy asks
"I got it," I tell Mercy, trying to sound upbeat and positive as I ignore the tug of the IV line still feeding antibiotics into my arm. I might be weak, but I'm not an invalid.
Not far off one, either. Which is why it matters. Poor people don't have the luxury of being… whatever this is. Injured, I guess. Incapacitated.
It's the law of the jungle with people like me.
Only the strong get by.
As I walk up the little path, I study the immaculate landscaping.
Flower beds burstin’ with colors that don't belong in this part of Montana, green grass that must drink a thousand gallons of water a day.
Stone pathways branch off toward what looks like a guest house to the left and some kind of pool around the back.
The front door is massive. Ten feet tall, carved with scenes of cattle drives and wild horses. Brass hardware that's polished to a mirror shine. No dust dares settle here.
Beyond the main house, I can see part of the stables—another perfect structure with copper weather vanes spinning in the breeze. A paddock where three horses graze on grass that's greener than any field that doesn't come with the Ashby name.
That's what so vile about this place. It's not the house. Though it's big enough to be on the gross side of opulent. It's the acres and acres of Ashby territory, stretching toward mountains in the distance.
From here, you can't even see where it ends.
That's the real wealth. And the green grass is more of a flex than a whole pile of fuckin' diamonds could ever be.
The water rights this one family owns, is sick.
The fact that their land stays green when everything else around it burns brown in the summer sun is enough to make me want to turn away and never look at this place again.
"Ready Mr. Kane?" The medic is getting impatient. "We need to get you settled."
I take a step forward, feeling the gravel crunch under my boots that appeared in a package yesterday, along with the jeans and t-shirt I’m wearin’ right now.
The front doors swing open before we reach them. A woman in a crisp uniform—not quite a maid, something fancier—nods at me with professional distance.
"Welcome to the Ashby Ranch, Mr. Kane. Miss Ashby is waiting for you inside."
I've never been inside before. Never even been this close to the main house. All those years with Savannah, and we always met at the silo, or by the creek, or in some out of the way place that wasn't on a map.
Now I'm walking through the front door like I belong here.
"Legion." Savannah says my name with a breath of relief.
She's waiting for me beneath the towering stone portico entrance, framed by the massive oak columns like some kind of homecoming queen. Her hair is pulled back, face clean of makeup, wearin’ a simple sundress that reminds me of the girl she was before college, before Marcus, before everything.
I breathe through the effort it takes to walk over to her and slip my arm around her waist. I don't know the woman who lives in this place. I only know the girl from the silo.
She leans in, cautious, like I might break, and kisses me on the cheek. I turn in to it, take her face in my hands, and kiss her properly.
Her mouth smiles against mine, kissin’ me back without hesitation. I didn't do it as a test, but it is one.
Who are we under this roof? Two lovers? Two friends? Two strangers?
"My god, I've missed that tongue of yours.
" She whispers this into my mouth, answering my unasked question.
Then she pulls back a little. "I wish I could take you upstairs, but the doctors say you need to stay on the ground floor.
So…" She smiles at me. "I've turned the library into your new bedroom.”
The improvised hospital room they've set up is bigger than my entire trailer.
Tall windows let in afternoon light, illuminating a space that's been divided into sections—a bedroom area with monitoring equipment, a sitting area with couches, even a dining space.
The wet bar in the corner has been converted to a makeshift kitchen.
Mercy talks the entire time they're settling me in, jumping from topic to topic.
Her new puppy Puddles. Her bedroom with its own bathroom.
The indoor pool in the east wing and the outdoor one out back.
There's a chef who makes her whatever she wants for breakfast. And she spends every day in the stables with the horses.
The bribery is so obvious, as is her happiness, my heart goes sad.
"And there's a movie theater downstairs," Mercy says, eyes wide. "With real movie theater seats and popcorn machines."
I don't respond, just watch her bouncin’ around the room, looking healthier and happier than I've ever seen her. The guilt sits heavy inside me.
Is this what money does? Turns scared feral kids into happy children?
Yes, Legion. That's exactly what money does.
The medical team leaves after setting up my treatment schedule.
I don't have to stay in bed here, which is something at least. They leave the IV port in my arm for the antibiotics I'll need three times a day, but the current treatment is finished and there are no tubes or wires hooked up to anything.
When I'm finally alone with Savannah and Mercy, I pull back the bandage to show them what's left of the brand. The Badlands B is nothin’ but wound now. If you squint, and use your imagination, you might still see the shape of a B, but they had to cut away too much dead skin to save it.
"Does it hurt?" Mercy asks, leaning in close.
"Nah." Which is a lie. I can't imagine a time when this brand will ever stop hurtin'. "It just itches now. Feels strange."
Like something foreign is growing under my skin.
Like I'm being unmade.