She entered Peter Wilson into the search box and hit Enter. Multiple records appeared in the results, and she scrolled through them until finding one marked as an estate file.
Bingo.
Opening it, she skimmed several legal pages before reaching the assets and recipients part of the will, dated years before his death. She read it once, then again more carefully. Everything would be passed to Helen. If Helen predeceased him, everything went to Shane. There was no mention of another child, no amendment, and no updated version.
She returned to the first page of the document and read through the entire thing, just to be certain she hadn’t missed anything. Most of it was in legal language that made her eyes glaze over, but the conclusion remained the same.
According to the probate records, Peter Wilson had only one child and heir—Shane.
Shylo leaned back and stared at the computer screen. She shouldn't be surprised. Peter had known she existed—he'd sent money every month until the day he died—but nowhere in the official records was there any indication he'd ever acknowledged her. Not anywhere she could find.
A hollow ache spread through her chest.
She wasn't sure what she'd expected. Proof he'd cared? A provision tucked away in the will? Some sign he'd thought about her beyond a monthly deposit into her mother's bank account?
There was nothing except a legal record of a son.
Apparently, a man could support a child for years and still keep her separate from the rest of his life. Peter Wilson had managed it.
She closed the file and sat for a moment, staring at the darkened computer screen. The records had answered one question. Peter had never acknowledged her in any way that mattered legally.
Sooner or later, she was going to have to tell Shane the truth. Somehow, she had to ask to speak to him in private and explain everything. She’d hand him copies of the bank statements and the private investigator's report and hope he believed her.
And if he didn't? If he refused to listen or give her what she deserved, would she need a lawyer?
The thought made her stomach knot.
Rubbing a hand across the back of her neck, she stood and grabbed her purse. She needed a better plan than the one she'd arrived with. The woman who'd driven into Hazard Falls no longer existed. Or maybe she'd simply remembered who she really was. But had she already set too much in motion to turn back?
Outside, the sun had climbed higher while she'd been inside, warmth already radiating off the sidewalk. She climbed into her truck and pulled away from the curb, letting herself wander without a destination.
Banners stretched across Main Street, while storefront windows displayed posters announcing the upcoming Rodeo Bonanza. Lou had told her that it usually took place the last weekend in June, but a scheduling conflict on the state rodeo circuit had moved it to the third weekend in July this year. From everything Shylo had heard, the Bonanza drew competitors and visitors from all over the region every summer. Bar None would have a vendor booth selling beer and its fan-favorite chili, and Lou had already told her she could have all the overtime she wanted that weekend—if she was still in Hazard Falls by then.
A Victorian house caught her attention. It stood apart from the rest of Main Street, meticulously maintained with fresh paint, manicured landscaping, and tall windows that looked better suited to a larger city than a small Kansas town. A decorative sign near the walkway identified it as the Kline Gallery.
So that was Bridget Kline's place.
Shylo turned the steering wheel toward the curb, slowed her old pickup to a stop, and stared at the house. The front door opened, and a woman stepped onto the porch. Even without an introduction, she knew exactly who she was.
Everything she'd heard about Hazard Falls' resident snob suddenly made sense—expensive clothes, perfect posture, and the kind of confidence that came from never having to wonder whether the bills would get paid.
Bridget's gaze flickered over the pickup first—the faded paint, the rust beginning to creep around the wheel wells, and a dent near the tailgate.
Then she glanced at Shylo. The assessment lasted only a second before her lip curled and she looked away.
Shylo had been dismissed.
Just like that.
The feeling was familiar enough to sour her mood. She'd seen that look before. People from the wealthier side of town had it perfected when she was growing up. One glance and they'd already decided where she belonged. Here, apparently, she was being judged because she drove an old truck.
Fine.
The woman’s opinion ranked somewhere below a flat tire on her list of concerns.
Still, as she pulled away from the curb, the dismissal bothered her more than she cared to admit. Bridget Kline hadn't said a word, yet Shylo felt like she was fifteen again, standing on the wrong side of town and being reminded exactly where she belonged—outside looking in.
A few minutes later, the storefronts gave way to open country. Shylo shoved the stuck-up bitch from her mind. She had more important things to worry about. Fields stretched toward the horizon beneath a cloudless Kansas sky, and the road unwound ahead of her in a lazy ribbon of asphalt.
