Page 54 of Melt the Ice

“Lettie, wait. Let me make sure it’s safe.”

Her eyes pin me in place. The fiery businesswoman who showed up here a few months ago is now front and center. All business and willing to cut down anyone who gets in her way.

My hands fly up. "Please, just let me check. At least let me go in first. I know you can handle it, but I can’t.”

There’s not a lot in life I’m afraid of, but seeing someone I love die or get hurt while I could have prevented it is at the top of that list. Call it trauma from my parents' deaths. She nods, and I walk in, taking inventory of the house. Nothing seems out of place, and I feel my shoulders relax. Taking a deep breath, I extend my hand to her.

She doesn’t take it. Instead, she makes a beeline for my couch. Plopping down and immediately burying her face in her hands. Her shoulders shake with the force of her labored breaths. I look over at Miller, who hesitantly walks into the room.

He stands in the corner, taking his boots off like the gentleman he is, while I toe off my tennis shoes before sitting on my coffee table. My legs bracket Lettie’s, my hands run up the outside of her thighs, back and forth until she lets her hands fall. Her eyes are blazing, she’s not sad, she’s pissed. “What's going through your head?” I ask, as I brush a piece of hair from her face.

She scoffs, throwing herself back into the couch, arms crossed over her chest, as her feet drum anxiously against the floor while she holds my gaze.

“Was Nana into anything that could have put a target on her back?” Her eyes move to Miller. He’d be the only one with the answer to that question.

He swallows roughly as his brows pinch together. “Not that I know of. I mean, she had a temper, but she usually just rectified that with a hard day's work.”

Her tongue runs across her top lip, a humorless laugh breaking free from her chest. “I can almost guarantee this was my dad, or one of his little henchmen.”

She stares at my fireplace for a second before her eyes meet mine again. “I need to figure out what he wants.”

“Whoa, hey. Let’s not jump to that conclusion just yet.” My fingers tighten around her calves.

She blows out a breath as she lets her head fall, rolling back and forth across the back of the couch. “How can I not, Lucas?” She asks, staring at the ceiling. “I can’t let him hurt the ranch. The animals… you.”

“I’m a big boy, Lettie. You said together, don’t try to be a hero, and do this by yourself. Let us help.” I nod at Miller, who walks around the front of the couch and sits next to me on the table.

“There might be a perfectly rational explanation for this,” I say, even though I know there isn’t. The increase in odd circumstances tells us that much.

I look over at Miller, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen this man look so nervous. “Is there something you’re not telling us?” I ask. His eyes widen at what I’m sure came out like an accusation, which is not how I meant it. But it's too late.

He looks between the two of us, lips rolled together, before he speaks. “I’m not hiding anything, I just…” His head falls forward, staring at the floor before looking back up.

“I don’t know that I believe Anna died the way they say she did.” He blows out a heavy breath, “We all left one night and came back the next day, and she was gone. A lawyer told us she died of a heart attack, but no one ever saw her. Who found her? No one who worked here at the time had.”

Lettie hiccups, and a lone tear trails down her cheek. I pick her up and slide behind her so she’s on my lap. My hand runs the length of her spine in long, slow strokes. I squeeze tighter around her as my eyes meet his over her head.

“This is all my fault.” The broken lilt to her voice would send me to my knees if I wasn’t already sitting. She doesn’t need consoling. She doesn’t need apologies. She needs to be reminded of how strong she is. That this place is where she was always meant to be. Not only at the ranch, but with me. Together.

Miller stands, scooting the table back across the floor a bit. “We’ll figure this out. Lock up behind me,” he throws over his shoulder, one boot already on before he’s out the door.

I do, placing Lettie to the side, I lock the door before heading to the kitchen to make us omelets. Extra cheesy, just like she used to make when we were teens. Neither of us says anything as she moves to the island, watching as I silently crack the eggs. “I’m not going to entertain those thoughts of yours,” I say as I fold in the cheese. “We don’t know anything yet. Don’t make up scenarios. Let’s attack this with facts and level heads.”

Her back curves in the middle, sagging against the island. “But I feel like this wouldn't have happened if I didn’t come back.”

Her chin rests on her folded arms, eyes weighed down with worry as she looks at me. “I don’t want anything to happen to you because of me. That’s really what it boils down to.” Her eyes lower to the countertop, as if she’s ashamed of the very thought. “If this is tied to my dad, which I don’t know who else it’d be tied to, I know how ruthless he can be. And you don’t deserve to be pulled into a battle that’s mine to fight.”

There’s something in the way she’s fidgeting with the hem of her shirt, actively avoiding my gaze, that makes me think she’s not telling me everything. Like, there’s something else happening, or something that she’s kept to herself. And I have to tamp down every instinct telling me to either drag it out of her or run before I get left behind.

I place the spatula in the sink, pull out two forks, and slide her plate in front of her. I don’t move from my spot, standing opposite her as I lean my elbows on the wooden surface, cutting into my omelet. “This is not a battle you’ll fight alone.”

I watch as she slides the fork out of her mouth, the tines leaving white lines along her lips, begging me to kiss them. “I’m here, and I already told you I don’t break my promises, not even ones I made seventeen years ago. Whether you consider us your family or not, you have Miller, me, and half a hockey team behind you. I’m more worried about what you’ll do,” I point my fork at her, “while you try to minimize the perceived threat. One we don’t even know the extent of yet. There may not even be one.”

She snorts, eyes widening at the sound before she breaks into a laughing fit. “The last time I did that, my mom hit me with a wooden spoon.” Her laugh gets louder until she can’t help but snort again. “Damn,” she says as she tries to catch her breath, tears now falling from the corner of her eyes. “It feels good to actually laugh without having to make sure it’s ‘ladylike’.”

“I’ve always loved your laugh.” I used to dream about it, or maybe it haunted me. Guess it depended on the day.

“Thanks,” she mutters as she moves her eggs around on her plate. “You know, with Thanksgiving literally being in four days, it might actually not be my dad. They usually go to Mexico.”