Chapter Thirty-Five Reese
Thirty-Five
Reese
Reese stood in what used to be the rehabilitation center of Refugio Paraíso, his wildlife sanctuary on the eastern edge of the Sierra Maestra mountains in Cuba.
Just a couple of days before, this building had been operational: veterinary equipment, recovery cages for injured raptors, a real surgery suite.
Rangers bringing in hurt animals from across the mountain range.
Eco-tourists watching through observation windows as they worked.
Now? Charred beams. A collapsed roof. The surgery suite destroyed. Half the flight cages twisted metal.
Electrical fire. Faulty generator wiring. Started at 2 AM when only the night ranger was on duty, thank God. No casualties. Human or animal. The birds had been moved to temporary housing.
Just millions of dollars in damage and months of work, all because some contractor cut corners on a generator install.
Reese walked through the wreckage, boots crunching on broken glass. His site manager Carlos trailed behind with a tablet.
“The vet equipment’s salvageable,” Carlos said in Spanish. “We can rebuild in four months if we prioritize. Insurance covers maybe sixty percent.”
Reese nodded but wasn’t really listening. He was thinking of Grace, back in Solace Springs. Even an email from Erika confirming records she’d dug up showed the Spencer family had settled in America, on Maple Island, in the 1800s, couldn’t distract him. His phone rang and he saw it was his mom.
He stepped outside, signal flickering in and out, and answered her call. “Reese! You’re alive then.”
He exhaled. “Hey, Ma.”
“Saw the photos of the fire. Looked bad. You all right?”
“Yeah. No one hurt. Just…ash. And wreckage.”
“Mm-hmm.” Her tone said she wasn’t buying the casual tone. “And that waitress you said nothing and everything about when I called you while you were at that inn?”
Reese hesitated. “She’s fine.”
“That’s all I get? ‘She’s fine’? I can tell from the way you talked about her that you like her, so I expect more than one syllable.”
He smiled faintly. His mom knew him too damn well. He didn’t answer.
“All right,” she said. “Keep your secrets. For now. But if you broke a good girl’s heart, you better fix it or stay in Cuba.”
“I didn’t—” He stopped. Raked a hand through his hair. “It’s complicated.”
“Everything with you and women is.”
They let the silence sit for a moment. Then he said quietly, “Erika found some old immigration records. Spencer family settled on Maple Island in the eighteen hundreds. It’s real. The connection. Dad was on to something.”
His mother sighed. “Yeah. Doesn’t surprise me.
He used to mutter about a Spencer inheritance, something buried.
Thought it might fix everything. He’d sit up late with maps and old journals.
” She paused. “He was holding out hope. Right up until the day that last bill came in. I think that’s when it snapped.
I think he tried to imagine the treasure with that journal entry, tried to believe in it one more time.
But it wasn’t enough.” Her voice broke a little, then steadied.
“Your dad was a good man, Reese. He just got…tired. The money problems got too much. He kept it quiet but…it was bad near the end. Lost jobs. Projects went under. Lotta pressure. So he gave up, like a man laying down a load he’d carried too long.
” Reese shut his eyes. “Don’t be like him, Reese,” his mom said.
“Don’t chase ghosts until they eat you up.
Not everything that’s buried is meant to be dug up. ”
“I’m not him.”
“No.” A beat. “Find what you need, son. But know when to stop looking.”
The line crackled. Then went quiet.
“Senor Spencer?”
A woman’s voice. Reese turned.
Beautiful. Dark eyes, darker hair in a practical braid, field pants, and a technical shirt. Early thirties. Camera bag over one shoulder.
“Lucía Ayala,” she said, extending a hand. “Wildlife photographer. Your foundation hired me to document this place? Obviously, I heard about the fire, thought I’d check in. See if you needed documentation for insurance claims.”
She moved past him, assessing the damage. The field pants fit well. Reese noticed this the way he noticed a nice view. Didn’t make him want to stop and stare like it usually would.
“I’ve covered forest fires before,” Lucía continued, pulling out a camera. “This kind of damage…it’s recoverable. The bones are good. You built this place to last.”
“That was the idea.”
She glanced at him. Something assessing in her look. “I read about you. The Untamed Tycoon. The Golden Wolf. The billionaire who actually gives a shit about animals.”
“Magazines exaggerate. The untamed and tycoon bits, anyway.”
“Do they?”
Reese didn’t answer. He was looking at his phone. Still nothing from Grace. Three texts since leaving Solace Springs twenty-four hours ago.
Made it to Cuba. Hope you’re okay. Call me when you can. x
Silence for several hours now.
“Senor Spencer?”
He looked up. Lucía was watching him.
“Sorry. What?”
“I asked if you wanted to grab dinner. Discuss the jaguar project.” Another smile, more invitation in it this time. “There’s a good place in town. Family-run. They do this fish dish that’ll change your life.”
She wasn’t being subtle. Reese could appreciate that, at least. No games. Just a beautiful woman making her interest clear. A week ago, he would’ve said yes. Would’ve definitely said yes. Beautiful wildlife photographer, good dinner, maybe more after. That was how these things usually went.
Now all he could think about was Grace in that tower. Grace covered in Monopoly pieces. Grace’s face as he’d walked away.
“Appreciate the offer,” Reese said. “But I need to keep my head down for now, ride this one out. My assistant can set up a meeting about the camera trap locations.”
Disappointment flickered across Lucía’s face, quickly masked. “Of course. I understand.” She left her card and made a graceful exit.
Reese stayed in the ruined building, staring at his phone.
Still nothing from Grace.
—
By evening, Reese had slipped into what his team called “Reese mode,” where emotion fucked off and problems became checklists.
Conference calls with insurance. Video meetings with contractors.
Emails with his foundation board about interim facilities, with the vet school about temporary placements for the animals, with his PR team about donor communications.
The sanctuary fire was trending on socials. Most of it sympathetic: billionaire’s passion project destroyed, tragic. But the usual vultures were out, too.
Maybe karma for rich guys playing at conservation while locals can’t afford basic services.
Billionaire cries about pocket change while real rangers make $20k/year.
Reese closed the app. Read three more reports. Approved emergency repairs. Signed off on a revised budget for temporary housing.
By the time he got back to the hotel at 11 PM, his eyes burned and his neck felt like concrete.
The hotel was a small eco-lodge he’d invested in two years back.
Sustainable architecture, solar power, the kind of quiet luxury tourists paid good money for.
His room overlooked the forest canopy. He could hear howler monkeys in the distance. It was beautiful.
It was also empty.
More importantly, Grace wasn’t there.
Reese stripped off his shirt, poured whiskey from the minibar, stood on the balcony. The mountains at night were dark except for scattered lights in the valley. Somewhere below, voices drifted up. Laughter.
His phone rang.
Sam’s name lit the screen.
“Hey,” Reese answered. “Late for you. Kids okay?”
“Kids are great. Ellen sends her love. I just wanted to see if you were okay.”
“Yeah. Property damage. Could’ve been worse.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Reese took a drink. “I’m fine.”
“Liar. I could tell when I picked you up on the island that something’s up, beyond what’s happened with the fire. Something that lives in Solace Springs.”
Despite everything, he smiled. Sam had known him too long.
“Tell me what’s wrong,” she said. “And don’t give me that ‘fine’ bullshit.”
Reese was quiet. Then: “Met someone.”
“Oh?”
“The other person vying for the inn. Name’s Grace. She’s…” He trailed off. Didn’t know how to finish that sentence. “Something. Everything. Nothing like anyone I’ve met before.”
“Wow. You’ve got it bad.”
“Apparently.”
“So what are you doing in Cuba, then?”
Reese looked at the dark scar of fire damage visible across the valley. “You know what I’m doing. Dealing with this. It’s my responsibility.”
“Bullshit. You’ve got teams. Sure, good of you to show up but now you’re just hiding.”
“I’m not—”
“Reese.” Sam’s voice softened. “Listen. I almost died in that crash in Yemen. Remember? Engine failure, hard landing. You know what I thought about when I was going down?”
“Ellen.”
“Yeah. Ellen. Hadn’t even asked her out by then. All the time I’d wasted on shit that didn’t matter. I thought: If I survive this, I’m going to stop waiting for the perfect moment and just live.”
Reese was quiet.
“You know what the perfect moment is?” Sam continued. “It doesn’t exist. There’s just now. Either you grab what matters or you don’t.”
“She won’t return my messages.”
“So go there; you’re rich, for God’s sake! Worst case, she tells you to fuck off and you have your answer. Best case…” Sam trailed off. “Best case, you stop running.”
The words landed hard.
You stop running.
Was that what he’d been doing? All these years of projects and properties and places. Building sanctuaries, funding research, moving from mountain to coast to forest. Beautiful strangers. Magazine covers. Lots of money in the bank.
Had he just been running?
Reese looked at his watch. 11:17 PM. He could get his jet ready for tonight. Be in Solace Springs by morning. Crazy. Impulsive. Completely irrational.
“You still there?” Sam asked.
“Yeah.” Reese was already moving. Grabbing his laptop. Pulling up his pilot’s number. “I’m here.”
“So?”
Reese was already texting his pilot, his assistant, his security team. Wheels in motion. Machine responding. “I’m going,” Reese said. “Thanks, Sam.”
“Go get her, Golden Wolf.”
Reese hung up. Stood there for a moment. Whiskey in hand. Cuban mountains spreading out below. Then he finished the drink, grabbed his bag, and headed for the door.