Page 75 of Monk

My eyes narrowed. “What other avenues?”

That cold smile returned, thinner this time. Sharper.

“Rezoning,” he said simply. “The county is eager for economic development. A casino would bring jobs, revenue, tourism. If this land gets rezoned for commercial use, your property value drops. Construction surrounds you. Noise. Traffic. Lights all night. Your horses won’t tolerate it. Your clients will leave. And in the end, you’ll be forced to sell anyway for a fraction of what I’m offering you now.”

Rage flashed white-hot behind my ribs.

“You’re threatening me,” I said, my voice low and deadly calm.

“I’m informing you,” Hutchins corrected. “There’s a difference.”

“And if rezoning doesn’t work?” I asked. “What then?”

Hutchins shrugged, like he was discussing weather. “Eminent domain,” he said. “If the county decides this land is needed for public use, and a casino that brings in jobs and tax revenue could certainly be framed that way, they can force the sale. You’d get fair market value, of course. But choice wouldn’t factor into it.”

He let the words sit between us, smug and poisonous, clearly expecting me to fold.

That was when whatever patience I had left snapped clean in half.

I stepped off the emotional ledge and moved into his space, closing the distance fast enough that Hutchins actually rocked back on his heels.

Good.

He should have been afraid.

“Let me make something perfectly clear to you, Mr. Hutchins,” I said, my voice cold enough to frost over. “I’m a criminal defense attorney. I spent seven years in San Francisco going toe-to-toe with prosecutors, judges, and federal agents. I’ve won cases that should have buried my clients. I’vedismantled arguments built by men smarter than you, richer than you, and a hell of a lot more dangerous than you.”

Hutchins’ smile finally faltered.

“If you think,” I continued, stepping even closer, “that you can intimidate me with threats of rezoning or eminent domain, you are out of your goddamn mind. I will tie you up in court for years. I will file injunctions. I will challenge permits, assessments, environmental reviews, easements—every scrap of paper tied to your project. I will depose every county official who even looks at you sideways. I will turn your dream development into a legal sinkhole so deep your grandchildren will still be trying to crawl out of it.”

The color drained from his face.

“You can’t?—”

“I can,” I cut in. “And I will. Because this land isn’t just acreage to me. It’s my family’s legacy. It’s my daughter’s inheritance. It’s everything men like you think you can price and package and bulldoze because the numbers work in your favor.” I took another step, and Hutchins stumbled backward hard enough to nearly lose his footing. “Now get the fuck off my property,” I said, each word sharp as broken glass. “And don’t come back.”

Hutchins stared at me for a long beat, his mouth working soundlessly, like he couldn’t quite believe I’d spoken to him that way. Then he turned and headed back toward his car with clipped, rigid steps. At the driver’s side door, he paused and looked over his shoulder, fury tightening every line of his face. “This isn’t over,” he said, voice shaking with restrained anger. “I will get this land. One way or another.”

“Try it,” I challenged. “I dare you.”

He slammed the car door hard enough to rattle the frame, then tore out of the driveway, gravel spraying behind him like shrapnel.

I stood on the porch, my chest heaving, my hands still clenched so tightly my nails had left half-moon marks in my palms. Adrenaline still thundered through my veins, hot and relentless, making my pulse race and my skin feel too tight for my body. Every muscle in me was strung taut from the fight, from the rage, from the sheer force of holding my ground. But I had meant every word I’d thrown at Gerald Hutchins. Every promise. Every threat. I would fight him. I would fight the county. I would fight every greedy bastard who thought my family’s land was something they could circle, price, and strip for parts. Over my dead body.

I dragged in a breath through my nose and let it out slowly, trying to force the fire in my chest to settle into something manageable. The porch boards creaked faintly beneath my boots. Somewhere out in the pasture, one of the mares nickered. The evening air smelled like dust, grass, and sun-warmed wood. Familiar things. Steadying things. I latched onto them the way a drowning person clings to driftwood, trying to will my body back under control.

And that was when I heard it.

The low, unmistakable rumble of a motorcycle engine rolled across the property, cutting through the quiet like a blade. Deep. Rough. Familiar enough that every inch of me went still before my mind had even caught up.

I turned toward the road so fast my pulse stumbled. A bike was turning down the long gravel driveway, kicking up a trail of pale dust behind it. Even from a distance, the rider’s silhouette was unmistakable—broad shoulders, powerful frame, that easy command of the machine beneath him like it was an extension of his own body.

John.

My heart slammed once—hard, painful, violent enough to steal the air clean out of my lungs.

What the hell is he doing here?