My lawyer.
In all actuality, that means Miller, but that’s neither here nor there.
“Absolutely,” he says smoothly, sliding the folder toward me. “You can keep this one. Everything you need is in there.”
I clutch the folder to my chest, nodding.
Wendell stands, pulling a business card from his pocket and handing it to me. His name and number printed cleanly across it, along with his ranch’s brand in the corner.
“So you know how to reach me,” he says.
I take it, the weight of it heavier than it should be.
He adjusts his hat, turns for the door, but then pauses.
“Lark.”
I glance up.
“You can take some time,” he says easily, sliding his hands into his pockets. “But don’t take too much.” His voice drops just slightly. “I don’t like to be kept waiting.”
Then he tips his hat, pushes the door open, and walks out. The bell jingles as it swings shut behind him.
I let out a slow, measured breath, standing up from the booth.
I can’t believe what just happened.
I can’t believe the number I saw.
The kind of money that could be mine in the snap of a finger.
I press a hand to my forehead. God. What am I going to do?
What would Alice do?
That’s not even a question.
Alice would’ve taken one look at Wendell Tate, told him exactly where she was going to shove her cowboy boot, and kicked his ass straight out the door.
But Alice didn’t have a son to think about. Didn’t have to weigh the future of someone else against her own.
But she worked so damn hard to get here. To make the Bluebell what it is.
And it’s been good to me. To Hudson.
The thought of it not being here anymore makes my stomach turn, nausea curling in my gut.
Then—
“Lark?”
I freeze.
Oh god. Not now. Not today.
I already know who it is before I turn around.
Boone stands a few feet away, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his Levi’s, shoulders broad under his Carhartt jacket. His dark hair is curling at the ends, like he’s going to be overdue for a cut soon. His jaw is sharper, more defined, but his eyes—those fucking eyes.
