"I don't think you want to upset me right now, do you?" The threat hangs between us.
I take a breath, trying to find steady ground in a conversation that's tilting toward disaster. This man's not just any bully—he's got the kind of power that can destroy everything my family's built. But if I back down now, he'll own me. "Sir, I can understand that you want good things foryour family—but this isn't the answer. She'd be miserable with me in the long run."
"Son," he says, and I hate the word. I hate hearing him say it and I hate the way he’s trying to make me feel small. "No woman is happy in the long run."
“Maybe notyourwoman,” I spit before I can think better of it.
He drops his hand from my shoulder and immediately grabs my upper arm, squeezing hard enough that I feel it through my jacket. His grip is iron—holding me in place, making it clear I don't walk away until he's done with me.
His laugh is cold, and he steps even closer—close enough that I can smell the whiskey on his breath. He's done playing polite. "What do you think this is?" He gestures broadly at the event, with his free hand. "Kinsley's job is to play people, to manipulate circumstances and emotions. I'm a Texan. I like rodeo and cowboyin' and the life it represents. Kinsley knows this and she put together this whole shindig to make up my mind for me. She's the biggest manipulator of them all—and she's good at it. That's why she gets paid the big money."
His grip on my arm tightens, fingers digging in like he's proving he can make me submit without ever raising his voice. My jaw clenches. The red haze at the edges of my vision is getting harder to ignore.
"But under that ambition?" His voice drops. "She's nothing but a political prostitute."
Red explodes. I punch him before thought, before reason, before any part of me that knows better can stop it. My fist connects with his faceand his head snaps back.
People around us gasp. So far, our conversation has gone unnoticed, but everyone noticed my punch.
"Keep her name out of your mouth," I growl, flexing my knuckles where they connected with his jaw. Blood rushes in my ears and my chest heaves. I just assaulted a United States Senator at a fundraiser meant to save my family's ranch. But I'd do it again. "Long as I'm breathing, you don't talk about her that way."
Martinez touches his split lip, examining the blood on his fingers with the detached interest of a man who's been hit before. A slow smile spreads across his face—satisfied, like I just played right into his hands. He nods to the people staring. "I'm okay folks. Just playin' up the cowboy theme tonight."
They turn back to their own conversations with one ear still tuned on us, but I can feel the damage spreading like ripples in water.
He steps closer to me and talks low, and now there's something darker in his eyes. "Here's how this works. I solve all your problems and make this environmental mess disappear. Your family keeps their ranch. Kinsley looks like the hero. Everybody wins. All you have to do is give my baby girl the wedding she wants. Simple as that."
His voice drops to a whisper. "Or I can make sure every federal agency with jurisdiction over ranch land decides to take a very close look at Halloway operations. Kinsley fails and is blacklisted as a lobbyist. And your family is reduced to a feed store while someone else farms their land.”
I stare at him but don't answer.
"You don't want me for an enemy, Wyatt. I promise youthat. Now, put on a smile for these ladies and let's all make nice."
I glance over to see Kinsley and Brook coming our way and my heart drops. Kinsley's got a careful look about her, like she's barely holding it together. It's wrong that a woman like her should seem so vulnerable.
And it's my fault. I just destroyed any chance she had of saving this night—of saving the ranch she worked so hard to help.
Martinez smooths his jacket and steps back just as they reach us, but the damage is already done.
Forty-One
I’VE GOT TO PLAY HIS GAME OR PAY THE PRICE.
KINSLEY
"Something's wrong," Brook murmurs beside me, following my gaze to the corner where Wyatt and Senator Martinez stand too close, their voices too low beneath the country band's slow ballad.
"I can see that." My voice comes out steady, controlled.
We step through the wooden doors into the evening air, where string lights crisscross overhead and a small cluster of guests watches the confrontation from a careful distance, champagne glasses frozen halfway to lips. Across the venue, Cash and his band continue to play, oblivious to the tension unfolding at the edge of the dance floor.
Blood dots the senator's lower lip. Fresh. Red.
By the time we reach them, crossing the polished concrete that reflects the amber glow of overhead lights, I'vestuffed every emotion I have into a tin box inside my heart where they will stay until the end of time.
Martinez dabs his mouth with a handkerchief, his eyes never leaving Wyatt's face. I get the feeling that he is putting on a show for me and making sure I know that Wyatt hit him. I don’t care if he is trying to manipulate me into taking his side. I’m here to do a job and that means playing nice with this man that I want to grind under my boot.
"Gentlemen," I say, stepping into their orbit with the same calm I've used to defuse a hundred political standoffs. Inside, I'm calculating damage control—one bloody senator, dozens of witnesses, and a client relationship hanging by a thread. This is familiar ground, even as my personal life collapses. "I hope everything's all right over here."