Page 15 of Bones and Ashes

"That's... something," I finally manage, my voice smooth. I change the subject. "I just want you to know that the Ashby ranch is your home now too. Just as much as it is Colt's." I straighten my shoulders, speaking in my hostess voice. "Where is Colt, by the way? Is he there?"

"No. He's at a meeting."

"A meeting?" My eyebrow arches all on its own. Colt and "meeting" in the same sentence usually involves bourbon, women, or trouble. Sometimes all three.

"Yeah," she sighs, murmuring things to the baby as it coos. "Some development deal. Anyway, thanks for letting me know about the welcome. At the ranch."

"Oh, it's no problem at all." I'm pacing now, one booted foot in front of the other across the polished hardwood. "Do ya'll have any plans to come back? Or should I make some plans to come see you?"

She doesn't reply immediately, and the silence stretches between us like barbed wire across a dry gulch. I'm kicking myself for being so forward, for revealing how desperately I want something real in this family of perfect appearances.

"Well… I don't think we're comin' back, Savannah. We have a house here. Colt has business now. He hasn't mentioned anything about Montana, to be honest. And I'm not tryin' to be hurtful here, but he hasn't brought you or Cash up once since we left. If it makes you feel any better, he doesn't talk about Legion either. Though… you know. That would be a reason to stay away."

"Right," I sigh, and my breath catches on something sharp in my chest. "I get it. Colt's his own man. He was never interested in running a ranch. He did more than Wyatt, obviously. But this is definitely Cash's domain. And of course, you want your own house. Who doesn't."

The silence makes my skin itch. I've been photographed too many times to not know when I'm losing someone's attention. Four million followers and not one person who really wants to listen.

Think, Savannah. Think.

I straighten my spine by instinct, the way Mother taught me when I was seven. Perfect posture sells the lifestyle. Perfect words sell the lie.

"Legion isn't gonna be a problem, though. We talked about it last night. That's why he gave me your number."

My voice comes out smoother than the bourbon Cash drinks. I can feel the practiced smile stretching my face—the one that made it into Eleanor's coffee table books.

"Yeah, I know," Destiny says. "But… I'm not afraid of Legion, Savannah. If I stay away, it's because I want to."

"Of course." I'm smiling my biggest Little Ashby Princess smile when these words come out. Despite the fact that she can't see it. The corners of my mouth ache with the effort, and I catch my reflection in the window glass—a pretty mannequin, posed just right in her perfect prison of a house.

Sometimes I hate myself. Not the occasional self-doubt that fills Instagram captions about "authentic moments" and "real talk," but the kind that hurts to admit.

"Yes. I know that. And he's… your brother. So. No. Of course not. I just want to make sure that you know you're welcome here. And Destiny, the Ashby Ranch isn't just part of you now, it's part of Marigold."

"Well..." I can almost see Destiny's sneer through the phone, that slight curl of her lip that all the Kane women seem to master by puberty. The kind that says they don't need anyone, especially not an Ashby. "Again, appreciate it. But Marigold's gonna be just fine without the Ashby ranch. It was nice talkin' to ya, Savannah. I'm sure, at some point, we'll meet up again. And I would like to say thank you for... you know. Bringing us groceries and stuff while Legion was in prison. And tell Cash thank you too. For putting Mercy in that school. She calls me all the time. She loves it."

I maintain my smile even though she can't see it, caught in the muscle memory of being photographed my entire life.

"You're welcome," I say, voice steady as a show pony in the ring. "It was the least we could do." What I don't say is that I'd have done more—so much more—if Destiny hadn't treated every offering like charity with strings attached. The Kanes and their pride, sharp-edged and impenetrable as barbed wire. Sometimes I admire it; sometimes, like now, it leaves marks.

There's a pause, just long enough for me to hear my own heartbeat, a gallop instead of a trot.

"Talk to ya later. Bye."

And just like that, the call ends. The lit-up screen stares at me for a moment, then, after enough of them pass, it goes dark, reflecting my face back at me—still smiling, still perfect, still performing for an audience that's already left the theater.

"Well," I say out loud. "That was... unproductive."

"What was?"

I whirl around, my hair fanning out in what would've made a perfect slow-motion shot for Mother's camera. Wyatt, of all people, is standing at the threshold to the dining room, one shoulder propped against the carved doorframe like he's holdin' it up instead of the other way around.

He looks absolutely wrecked—bloodshot eyes swimming in pools of yesterday's whiskey, hair sticking up in tufts, face the color of uncooked biscuit dough.

There's something almost vulnerable about seeing him this hungover, like catching a wild animal with its guard down.

"Nothin'," I reply, pushing past him with practiced grace, the fabric of my skirt brushing against his jeans as I move. I can smell the alcohol seeping through his pores.

"I know what you're doin', Savannah."