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Once we get the horses settled, Ridge helps me carry our luggage into the cabin. No surprise, he carries several overstuffed travel bags like they’re nothing.
Then, as he says goodnight, he mentions pulling the Ford into one of the sheds to keep it out of the snow if I need to grab anything else from it.
I thank him, shut the door, and huff out a breath.
Relief floods my brain, though I’m not sure it should.
The cabin is really a mid-sized house and only looks modest next to the mansion. It has a couple bedrooms with full baths, a kitchen, living room, and loft area. All very stylish modern country, decorated with log furniture and lots of red-and-black plaid—pillows, curtains, and tablecloths.
Like something straight out of a log and hearth magazine.
Dad slouches on a sofa in front of the gas fireplace that’s crackling away, blowing a comfortable heat into the room.
“You know who Ridge reminds me of?” he says, hands out in front of him to catch the warmth.
I blink, grateful his words snap me out of the trance I’ve been in ever since we showed up here.
There’s an armchair near one corner of the sofa, and a rocking chair on the other.
“No, who?” Walking over, I lean against the side of the armchair.
“That actor who used to show up in all the big films when you were a kid—Barnet. I think he did a couple really bad Westerns a while back.”
“Dane Barnet?” I ask, though I’m sure that’s who he means.
Oof.
It hits me like a snowball to the face.
There’s little denying Ridge looks a lot like him, and Dad knows his Westerns. He’s always loved them, but that can’t possibly be it…right?
It’s too implausible, even if our mysterious benefactor for tonight is clearly loaded to the gills.
“Hmmm, I don’t know, Dad. Just a weird coincidence, I bet. We’ve had plenty of those tonight,” I say with a meager smile.
I don’t have the heart to tell him Dane Barnet wouldn’t be caught dead living on a ranch in small-town North Dakota. What kind of celeb molded straight from Hollywood royalty would?
“I’m telling you, it’s him!” Dad takes another loud sip off the hot tea Tobin prepared before he headed back to the big house with Ridge. I can smell the spices.
He’d already eaten a bowl of chicken soup that Tobin also made him. There’s an insulated carafe holding more of the tea on the coffee table, plus a bottle of cough syrup and a bottle of pain relievers.
“Everybody has a twin,” I say, stepping in front of the chair. I sit, not wanting to tell him, yet knowing I have to deliver the bad news. “So, Noelle called, Dad.”
He gives me a sharp look and for a second we lock eyes.
“Aw, hell.” He hangs his head, rubbing a hand over the side of his face near one ear. “We can’t go there, can we?”
My stomach sinks all over again.
I hate how he has this weird sixth sense for bad news sometimes.
“Not anymore. She told me somebody called and left a nasty message on their voicemail at the gift shop. They…they have their kids. It’s frustrating as hell but it wouldn’t be right.”
His chest rattles as he sighs. It seems like the warmth the fire breathed back into his skin goes out of him, leaving this small, pale, fragile man next to me.
“I’m sorry, Gracie. You’re right. And as much as I hate to do it, we’ll have to deal with that bastard again. I’ll sell the horses, the truck, empty out what’s left in the accounts…if Clay could be convinced to take my pension—”
“No way! You’re not giving more to that horrid man,” I snap, the anguish bleeding out of me. It won’t fix this. Rosie and Stern are old, and every penny we have won’t cut it.
“Grace…”
“It won’t be enough, Dad,” I say, softening my tone. “If there’s anything we should know by now, it’s that. Nothing’s ever enough for him.”
“I’ll give it up and go to the police, then. The FBI. Tell them everything. If I come clean, maybe there’s a chance they’ll—” He breaks into a fresh new coughing fit.
Seriously.
I can’t take this.
So I lean in next to him, gingerly rubbing his back until it eases.
“Dad, no. We know it can’t end well. We’ve been through this a hundred times.”
If anything, I’m understating how many times we’ve discussed a confession. We’ve literally played out every scenario, every what-if, every apparent escape thousands of times over the last couple years.
We both know involving the law means Clay gets to him eventually.
If not before he’s in jail, then certainly after he’s imprisoned. It’s inevitable. A crime boss with contacts as deep and aggressive as thistle roots won’t take anyone who wants to squeal on him lying down.
And whatever sentence they’d dole out to Dad would be for life.
