Chapter Thirty-One
Jane! Jane! Jane!
Marigold won’t reach Leadville until seven, which gives me three and a half hours at the truck stop.
There are shower stalls, so I buy flip-flops, as I expect the shower floors have some stories to tell.
The truck stop’s clothing selection is slim pickings, but I need something clean to change into, since everything in my backpack has gone feral.
I pick out a T-shirt with a drawing of Bigfoot that says, “Leadville: Respect the Locals.” The woman who rings me up has a silver braid down her back.
When I ask her if I can charge my phone behind the counter, she says, “Of course, sugar.”
Sugar. Nobody’s called me that since I left Kentucky.
The showers cost a dollar a minute. It’s the best ten dollars I’ve ever spent, watching the pink rivulets of calamine lotion streaming off my mostly healed poison ivy rash.
Afterward, I find a booth in the diner next door, order fries and a root beer, and sit there in my ridiculous shirt with my damp hair and my half-charged phone.
Then, I scroll. I’m looking for whatever I can find about Chet. Turns out, there’s a lot. On the phone, Marigold told me, “Chet’s stepbrother Mason has beef with him. I’ll tell you the rest when I see you, but in the meantime, go ahead and do a Google search.”
I’m unprepared for the digital bloodbath.
There’s a slew of posts, most of them alleging that Chet didn’t just hide Birdy away while she faked having cancer. They claim he wanted her to be sick so he could be the white knight who came in to save her.
My stomach turns over, maybe from anger, maybe from shame. Didn’t I basically accuse Chet of the very same thing?
“Both Chet and Birdy are fucked up,” one poster states. “Not sure if I’m furious, or if I feel bad for them. No denying, they’re both pathetic.”
Harsh. Hopefully Chet hasn’t been reading these posts.
Many trace the entire history between Chet, Mason, and Birdy. Usually, Mason’s painted as the hero. Except, there’s a void.
Because last night, something happened, but people aren’t sure what.
Birdy’s still tucked away at her luxury mental health facility, so whatever went down was between Chet and Mason.
At some point, Mason put two and two together, figuring out that Birdy stabbed him and that Chet tried to hide it.
Then, it wasn’t hard for Mason to frame himself as the good guy, wronged by Birdy’s lies and Chet’s cold-blooded ambition.
The entire internet seems to believe that Mason was a victim. They applaud how he’s now seeking justice for everyone Chet “bulldozed along the way.”
It gets worse.
A “citizen forensic accountant” alleges that Chet embezzled not a few hundred thousand from ShopSpot, but nearly eight million in just under two years.
This guy even created a Google Slides presentation called “The Chet Funnel,” with arrows pointing nonsensically, making connections between ShopSpot, Chet’s old address in Silicon Valley, and Resilience Ranch.
I am so far down the rabbit hole that I scroll past the same bit twice before catching the most infuriating snippet.
“He even stole his new girlfriend’s horse.
That’s right, folks. According to Reed Adkins, the new girlfriend’s brother, when the family’s stables were suffering, instead of helping them, he purchased her favorite thoroughbred as a trophy for his Colorado vanity project. That’s a new low, even for this guy.”
Why would Reed talk to this guy? And how dare someone who doesn’t know Chet spew such lies? And they are lies. Chet made many mistakes, but he was never vain. And he was always well-intentioned.
I’m so angry, I nearly slam down my phone.
But I won’t take out my anger on my poor, weathered 2021 Android that’s seen better days.
Besides, it’s like an old friend now, having really hung in there along the Colorado Trail.
Its charge lasted longer than you’d think, letting me take lots of great photos.
Plus, I used its flashlight feature more than once in the middle of the night, when I was sure I heard something creepy-crawly coming from inside my tent.
And now, my poor little phone’s battery is about to die.
Slamming it into a hard surface helps no one.
I text Marigold, telling her that my phone may run out of juice soon, so when she gets here, come directly into the diner. I’m in the booth at the back.
Soon, my phone is dead, which means no more internet sleuthing. Probably a good thing. So to kill time, I reread Escape from the Springs for the kazillionth time. But now, it’s like the words are tattooed beneath my eyelids. Because rather than just reading them, I’ve lived them.
Eventually, Marigold enters the diner. “How are you doing, hon?” she asks without preamble.
I start to answer, but she holds up a finger. “Hold that thought,” she states. “My bladder’s about to explode.”
I watch her disappear into the bathroom, trying not to vibrate out of my skin. After she emerges, Marigold orders a club sandwich to go. “We’ll wait until we’re in the car to discuss Chet. Never know who might be eavesdropping.”
When she finally slides into the driver’s seat of her Subaru and pulls onto the highway, I last about forty-five seconds before demanding, “Okay. Tell me what happened.”
She takes a bite of her sandwich and speaks in between chews. “Keep in mind that everything I know is secondhand from Axel Rose.”
“Marigold—”
“Okay, okay.” She adjusts her grip on the wheel. “Mason was threatening to sue Chet for all that he had. So Chet got creative. He set up an endowment and signed over his entire net worth to the horses.”
I stare at her profile. “I’m sorry. Chet gave all his money to the horses?”
“Correct.”
“Chet’s horses—Spitfire, Copper Cash, Freckles, Miss Adele, Betty, and the lot—collectively, they’re billionaires?”
“Technically, yes.”
“Is that even—” I press my fingers to my temple. “Wait. If the horses belong to Chet, doesn’t the money still belong to him as well?”
“That’s the thing,” Marigold says, merging lanes. “He can’t touch the money unless it’s for their direct care and benefit. Which means if Mason wants that money, he has to sue the horses. Not Chet. The horses.”
Something between a laugh and a sob rises from my chest. “That’s insane. That’s genuinely insane.”
“Mmm.” Marigold tilts her head from side to side.
“There’s method to his madness. Mason’s already a billionaire.
If he sues a bunch of aging horses, he’ll seem petty and ridiculous.
And it gets better.” Marigold’s voice softens.
“The house, the land, all of it belongs to the endowment. Chet’s been living in your trailer.
Axel Rose says that ever since you left, he’s been doing all the horse care himself. Hasn’t hired anyone.”
I look out the window at the darkening highway. “Wow,” I finally say, which is embarrassingly inadequate. “Chet must have set up the endowment in record time.”
Marigold glances at me. “Yes. But apparently, he knew this was coming for a while. So he had some time to prepare.”
I think back to that morning when I overheard Chet on the phone. How he wanted to set up an endowment that was airtight, just in case Mason repeatedly filed against him.
“But there’s more,” Marigold says. “Last night, Mason showed up at Resilience Ranch. He’d found out about the endowment, and he was furious.”
I grip the door handle like it’s an eject button. “What did he do, Marigold? Did Mason hurt Chet?”
She stares straight ahead, not blinking. “It’s messy.” Marigold keeps her eyes on the road, knuckles white on the steering wheel. “I’ll tell you what I know, but keep in mind—the horses are alright.”
“Umm, okay . . . why add that disclaimer?”
“Because,” Marigold answers, “I heard through the grapevine that you can get—” she takes a breath “—worked up. That you experience a strong physical reaction when a horse is suffering?”
My throat goes dry. “Did Mason try to hurt the horses?”
Marigold chooses this moment to take another bite of her sandwich, washing it down with a swig of lemonade.
After swallowing, she says, “Yes. Axel Rose told me that when she got to the ranch this morning, she found Chet on the stable floor, passed out—I guess from the pain. After she roused him, Chet said that Mason had gone straight to the horse stable, carrying a hoof knife, like the one he was stabbed with. Chet ran in after him; Mason ranted that the horses would be billionaires over his dead body, that he’d kill them first. Chet tackled Mason, kept him from hurting the horses.
But . . .” her voice softens “. . . Mason stabbed Chet in the stomach. Chet still hasn’t gone to urgent care. ”
“What? Why not?”
“Because he’s worried Mason will return. Axel Rose said he was nearly delirious. They called Sheriff Theo, of course, but he can’t find Mason. Until Mason is apprehended, Chet refuses to leave the ranch.”
An image of Chet, injured, lying on the stable floor, assaults my brain. Was he scared? Did he call for me?
Jane! Jane! Jane!
I ball my hands into fists. “Mason better hope Theo finds him before I do. Because if I get to him first, he’ll regret ever being born.”
All of a sudden, sick floods my mouth; I swallow it, then clench my fists in my lap. Marigold notices. She pulls to the side of the highway and kills the engine.
“Hey,” she says, keeping her voice light. “Do you need air?”
All at once, my stomach makes its decision. I’m out of the Subaru and bent over the curb, regurgitated root beer and rage splashing onto the gravel. I retch until my eyes burn and my throat feels like someone’s sandpapered it from the inside.
“Sorry,” I rasp.
“Don’t apologize.” Marigold has gotten out of the car. She’s by my side, holding back my hair with one hand, rubbing my back with the other. “Here,” she says, handing me a bottle of water. “Take a sip.”
I do as she says. “It’s just so embarrassing,” I say once I’m no longer doubled over. “Everyone back home calls me Jane Wreck, because I puke every time I see a horse in pain.”
Marigold pats my shoulder. “But you didn’t see a horse in pain.”
“Okay, I heard about it, then.”
Except, this would be the first time that’s happened—me throwing up just from hearing about a horse being in pain.
“But, Jane,” Marigold states, “none of the horses were hurt. Only Chet.”
Only Chet. Alone and in pain, crying out for me, and I’m not there to help him . . .
Silently, I come to the conclusion right as Marigold says it aloud.
“Jane.” Marigold takes a sharp breath. “Maybe this thing with you isn’t just about horses. Maybe you’re extremely protective and empathetic toward anything—or anyone—you simply happen to love.”