Page 13 of Oops I Fell For The Rancher Next Door

Joint savings. Our joint savings that was supposed to be split fifty-fifty, which it was, which I have the paperwork to prove. He got his half. I got mine. The cabin was bought with my half. My money. My decision. My name on the deed.

But Kevin doesn't lose. Kevin takes. That's what he does. When I left him, he got the house, both cars, the furniture, the dog. When I asked for the savings to be split, he dragged it out for months. Now that I've used my share to build a life he didn't approve, he wants that too.

My hands are shaking. Damn it.

The phone buzzes again.

Kevin Arndt:

Also, I hope you're doing well. It doesn't have to be contentious.

I want to throw the phone out the window. It doesn't have to be contentious. His favorite line. The one that means: agree with me, or watch me make your life hell while I smile and call it reasonable.

My lawyer is a woman named Dana in Denver who charges two hundred an hour and doesn't flinch. I text her.

Me:

Kevin's claiming the cabin. Joint savings argument. I have all the disbursement paperwork. Is this real?

Dana:

It's posturing. He has no claim. I'll handle Ellen Marsh. Don't respond to him directly.

Me:

Wasn't planning on it.

Dana:

Good. Sit tight. This is noise, not substance.

Noise. Okay. Just noise. My lawyer says it's noise.

So why can't I breathe?

Because Kevin knows where I am now. The address is on the property filing. Public record. He didn't have to search hard. And knowing Kevin, he didn't. He had his lawyer do it while he sat in his office feeling righteous about reclaiming what's his.

The drive back up the mountain is a blur. Gravel road, switchbacks, the trees closing in on both sides. By the time I pull into my yard, my chest is so tight I can barely turn the steering wheel.

Cade's truck is in my driveway.

He's on my porch. Sitting on the step he fixed, elbows on his knees. When he sees me pull in, he stands. Reads my face in two seconds.

"What happened?"

"Nothing."

"Shelby."

"I said nothing." The groceries come out of the back. Bags gripped too hard. A can of tomatoes rolls across the gravel. He picks it up.

"You've been crying."

"I haven't." But my eyes are swollen and we both know it.

He follows me inside. Sets the can on the counter. Stands in the doorway while I slam groceries into cabinets with more force than soup cans require.

"Talk to me."