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He bought out the bank to get ownership of Clint’s mortgage. He’d put pressure on my husband until he started selling off his land to Sovereign Mountain.
He forged a will so everything was left to me, he bought out Clint’s lawyer, and South Platte’s judge to ensure it passed the court system.
He handed my land back to me knowing it would force me into his arms. Knowing I would have no one to turn to for protection but him.
He set a trap, laid the bait, and I’d walked right into it.
My mind whirls.
I can’t make sense of this. The threads are so tangled I can’t find my way through.
My eyes fall on the second name signed to the will.
Westin Quinn.
I run my hand over my face to wipe the tears. I cry too much, I always have, but tonight I’m going to find out the truth, even if I’m sobbing the entire time. I have to know if he’s being honest about his past and if he means it when he says he loves me. Because nothing else will make me forgive him.
I put Gerard’s coat over my sweatsuit, snatch the painted mare from my bedside table, and slip downstairs to find my winter boots. Then I lock the dogs inside and go out into the yard and head for the gatehouse.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
KEIRA
Westin opens the door after a solid minute of knocking. He’s disheveled, his belt undone and his shirt unbuttoned. When he sees it’s me, he turns and hastily finishes doing up his clothes.
“What are you doing here?” he says, scowling.
“Gerard left,” I whisper.
He stares at me, eyes narrowing. “Okay?”
“Something’s wrong,” I say, unable to hide the tremor in my voice. “I was going through a box of my husband’s things and there was a black card with a silver dog on it. He got really quiet when he saw it and left.”
Westin freezes. His eyes dart behind me and he reaches out, grabbing my elbow and pulling me inside. He shuts the door and locks it, glancing around the room before pointing at the kitchen table. I sink down, looking around at the open concept interior. It’s masculine, but clean, with dark wood and leather furniture and blue plaid accents.
He puts his hands on his hips. “You want something?”
“Whiskey,” I say.
He pours two glasses and sinks down opposite me. Westin and I don’t talk often, but he’s close with Gerard. If anyone can answer my questions, it’s Westin.
“What did that card mean?”
He swirls his whiskey, watching me critically. “That’s Jack Russell’s calling card. Everyone knows that.”
“I didn’t. Who’s Jack Russell?”
“He’s a hitman.”
“Like…an assassin?”
He nods once, swirling the whiskey some more. “Yep, just like that.”
My stomach sinks. Clint had that card locked in his safe at his attorney’s office. Which meant, my husband had done business with a hitman.
But…why?
Westin sets aside his glass and steeples his fingers. “When you hire Jack to take someone out, he gives you a calling card. When the job is done, he brings you a receipt. Maybe it’s a finger, or a tooth. And he takes the calling card back. Leaves no trace.”
