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“Not interested,” Shane replied.
Hell, he had no idea what his grandfather had been thinking. Leaving his entire estate to Shane. The fuck up. The ex-con. The house alone was worth a fortune, but the property with nearly one hundred acres of forested land and a small lake to boot, was worth so much more. And that was only a small part of the estate. With monies invested, the portfolio was impressive.
And then there were the horses.
Shane heaved a heavy sigh. He didn’t deserve it and his father knew it, yet Niall had believed in him to the end.
Three years ago, Shane would have handed over the property to his father, taken the money and run. He’d have blown it on booze, drugs and women without thought. Sure he would have hated himself, but like a freight train running full steam ahead down the road of excess and misery, he would have been all over that.
“Not interested,” his father repeated, unable to hide the surprise in his voice.
Shane started, momentarily gone down memory lane and turned around, arms folded across his chest as he leaned against his workbench.
He thought of the letter his grandfather had written, the one handed over to him by the attorneys—the one he’d been unable to read.
What the hell was he doing?
He’d been in New Waterford for months now and hadn’t once been back to White Hall. He’d ignored every single request for a meeting with the lawyers and the only reason he’d even gone yesterday was because…
Christ, he didn’t even know why. The only thing he was sure of was that it had been time. Time to move one. Time to face his demons. Time to face his past.
Time to get his shit together.
If not for himself, then for his grandfather.
James Gallagher cocked his head to the side and stared at Shane for several long moments. Eventually his eyes wandered, behind him, to the portrait on the wall and for a second, for one brief moment, a wash of pain touched his eyes. But it was gone so fast, Shane wasn’t even sure he had seen it.
“You still paint.”
Shane said nothing. This had always been a touchy subject between the two of them. Shane’s need to express himself artistically, and his father’s need to mold Shane into an exact replica of himself. In the end his father had lost that battle and yet, in the end, Shane supposed they had both lost.
“Who’s the old man?”
“No one you’d know.”
James crossed the room and stood inches from him as he studied the picture. Up close, his father looked tired and his pallor was pasty. It was unsettling, seeing this larger than life man, the bastard who’d made his childhood a misery, look weak and not at the top of his game.
“I don’t know what you’re up to Shane, but I can’t let you keep White Hall. You’ll run it to the ground and his legacy will be for nothing.”
“His legacy meant nothing to you,” Shane retorted, pushing away from the bench and putting some distance between himself and his father. “Hell, you don’t even live here anymore.”
James smiled, a wash of winter in an otherwise stony face. “Not true,” he said quietly. “As of last Wednesday I’m back.”
James pulled out a pair of leather gloves from his suit jacket and slipped them onto his large hands. “Celia and I have bought a condo near the water and our daughter, your sister Eden in case you’re forgotten her, has already been registered at New Waterford High. So you see son, I’m not going anywhere.”
With a curt nod, James Gallagher turned and left Shane stunned, pissed off, and more confused than ever.
His father was a multi-millionaire who had finally moved to Detroit several years ago with his wife and daughter, after commuting for most of Shane’s life. He didn’t belong in small town America. He sure as hell didn’t belong in Shane’s town. And no matter what his motives, James Gallagher didn’t give a flying fuck about White Hall.
So what was he really after?
And when was the last time he had called him, son?
Chapter Twelve
“You’ve been doing that a lot lately.”
Bobbi whirled around, splashing hot coffee all over her forearm.
