“You getting out or what?” the driver asked from the front seat.
Courtney nodded and unbuckled the car seat. She rounded the vehicle to retrieve Dylan, and the driver met her at the door. He opened it and she grabbed the carrier, careful not to jar the baby.
“How much do I owe you—?”
The man shook his head. “It’s been taken care of. I was asked to give you this when we arrived.” He handed her a padded envelope. Before she could open it, he jumped into the Mercedes and screeched out of the driveway.
One look and her gut sank. She recognized the handwriting on the label. She lowered Dylan to the ground and gently tore open the envelope. She pulled out a phone with a sticky note attached.
Keep the phone with you.
Keep your silence. Especially from your father.
And don’t forget, you can’t hide from us. We’ll always find you.
The note crinkled in her grasp. How did he know so much? The words blurred on the paper. Her knees shook; her legs quivered. She nearly sank to the ground. Her gaze whipped to the now empty driveway. Was the driver blackmailing her? She shook her head. Somehow she doubted it. He wouldn’t have wanted to show his face. Besides, he’d said someone else had paid him.
The blackmailers had made their point clear, though. She’d better follow his instructions exactly. No police, no law enforcement. She couldn’t imagine what the cops would think when they found Marilyn. She’d considered phoning in an anonymous tip, but she couldn’t risk being arrested. Not before she was certain Dylan was safe.
“Okay, you can do this. You can do anything for Dylan.” She shoved the phone into her pocket and stumbled through the front door of the mansion. The eight-thousand-square-foot home had been in the family for four generations, the money originated from more than a few deals with Andrew Carnegie.
Courtney had never ruminated on her family’s money much. It had always just been there. She’d never been more thankful for the privilege than she was today.
She glanced at her son. Today the money she’d always taken for granted would save Dylan.
She refused to consider that the first payment wouldn’t be enough to get rid of the blackmailer. One step at a time.
The foyer’s Baccarat chandelier glittered high above her, though the butler didn’t appear out of nowhere like he usually did.
“Fitz?” she called.
No response. How strange.
“Clarissa? Burbank? Anyone here?”
Her footsteps echoed on the marble floor. Where was the rest of the staff?
A horrific possibility hit her squarely in the chest. What if the killer had come here. Oh God.
She started to run from room to room. No. This wasn’t right. Bare rooms, boxes, paintings missing.
“F-father?” she called, her voice shaky. She opened the door to her mother’s old sitting room. The blank space on the wall slammed into her. The Degas painting her mother had purchased just before her death was gone.
“Father!” she shouted again.
“In the library.” Her father’s voice filtered through the deserted hallways.
Something was wrong. He sounded strange, his words slurred. Courtney hurried through the double doors. A stack of boxes littered the floor. He huddled behind his mahogany desk, staring across the room as if in a trance. A half-empty bottle of cognac sat at his elbow, an empty old-fashioned Waterford glass directly in front of him.
Carefully, she set Dylan down on the floor and ran to her father. “What’s going on?” Was he actually leaving their family home? It didn’t make sense.
He shoved his hand through his already mussed hair and cleared his throat. “I should’ve called you sooner.” He let out a long sigh.
She studied his bleary gaze. Drinking again. Why wasn’t she surprised? “Father, I don’t mean to be rude, but right now I need your help. For Dylan. We need three million dollars.”
He blinked up at her, confusion lacing his eyes. He reached for the century-old bottle, poured four fingers and swigged it down. “No.”
She couldn’t have heard him right. “You don’t understand. Please. I’ll move out of the penthouse. I’ll find somewhere else to live. But I need that money.” Panic raised her voice. He had to help. She didn’t want to reveal the threat. She couldn’t afford for her father to contact the FBI or the cops. He always wanted to fix everything. Had made it his mission to protect her from the time her mother had died.
“It wouldn’t matter,” he said. “I’m sorry. So very, very sorry.”
“What are you talking about?” She gripped the lapel of his coat. “I haven’t asked for anything since I started working. I make my own way—”
He pressed a finger over her lips and gazed at her with bloodshot eyes.
“I’d give you the money if I could, Courtney. You don’t know how much I wish I could, but I can’t.” He looked away. “All the money is gone.”
Spring didn’t bring new beginnings to Last Chance Ranch; it choked ’em dry in the West Texas sun. Jared King had learned long ago that his family’s cattle spread richly deserved its name. It had for six generations.
Now, he even had to fight his north-side neighbor, Ned Criswell, for water that was rightfully theirs. A never ending feud he’d tried to escape for years.
When Jared had volunteered for the Army at eighteen, he’d been convinced he would never succumb to the ranch’s bad karma. What a young fool he’d been. After being discharged he’d brought home a beautiful young wife and pretended he could find hope where only despair had dug in roots. After Alyssa’s death, he’d finally given in to whatever mojo the half-million acres possessed. He wouldn’t try to buck destiny again.
He tilted his Stetson against the afternoon glare and hooked his boot on the sturdy rail of the bull pen. He leveled the dead-cold stare that would have sent his ranch hands quaking and running for cover on Ned Criswell and his no-good son. The two burley men refused to back off. “You can’t keep that river dammed up. Last Chance Lake is down several feet already.”
Ned’s face turned beet red, and he stuck out his barrel chest. “The water stays on my side of the property line until you stop those company men from traipsing across my land.”
Jared head throbbed. They’d replayed this scene countless time over the years. The bad blood between the families stretched back decades, but Ned Criswell had become even more ruthless. And relentless. He might actually do it, just to get back at Jared’s father, even though he’d passed away years ago.
The son, on the other hand, Chuck Criswell was all about the money. And the power.
“The water’s running low for my cattle,” Jared said, fighting to keep his tone reasonable for the moment. “You don’t want to take this fight any further, Ned. You know I’ll win.”
“My father has as many friends in Austin as you do. We want what’s coming to us.” Chuck spit a wad of tobacco on the ground.
“Shut up,” Ned said, glaring at his son.
Even with the same goal, the two men couldn’t show a united front. A sure way to lose. Jared was fine with that.
A loud snort sounded from the enclosure next to them. Chuck scooted away from the fence. “That bull is a menace.” He frowned. “You shouldn’t have saved him.”
Sometimes