Just like the day she left.
Some things don't change, no matter how much time passes or how many reasons you had for letting them go. I drain the glass and set it down harder than I mean to.
Maxwell grunts.
His shirt hangs loose where it used to strain across his shoulders. The desk lamp throws harsh shadows across his face, carving out hollows that weren't therebefore. Whatever's gnawing at Maxwell has been working him over from the inside out, leaving him looking like something the coyotes dragged in from the back forty.
"You look like death, Maxwell," I say, settling into the chair across from his massive desk. The same desk where we've carved up more deals than a butcher shop.
His laugh sounds like gravel in a cement mixer. "Feel worse than I look." He reaches for the whiskey bottle with trembling fingers. "Ironic, isn't it? The Halloway's think they won."
I lean back in the leather. "They did win. Martinez is finished and the feds backed off their land grab."
"Exactly." Maxwell pours himself three fingers. "Which means that land is cleaner than it's ever been. No red tape hanging over it."
Before I can ask where he's going with this, Eleanor glides in. Seventy-three years old and still sharp as a skinning knife. "Gentlemen." She settles into the wingback chair like a queen. "I trust we're discussing what’s coming up.”
Maxwell leans back in his chair, the leather creaking. "McCoy's coming home from college next month."
"That boy has the Whitmore steel in his spine," Eleanor says, and for the first time tonight, she looks genuinely pleased. "He'll be ready to take over."
"He better be." Maxwell sounds like a man running out of time. "There's a lot he needs to understand about what's at stake here."
I've watched McCoy grow up on this ranch. Kid's got his father’s eyes and his grandfather’s ruthless streak. He'll do fine when thetime comes.
"And Ruby?" Maxwell asks.
Eleanor's smile warms by a degree. "She's agreed to come. Should arrive within the week."
Maxwell's shoulders drop an inch, tension bleeding out of him. "Good. That's... good." He clears his throat. "The girl's got sense when she wants to use it."
"She does," Eleanor agrees. "And she'll be here when we need her."
“Good–the right pressure makes all the difference,” I say.
"Those text messages got Kinsley rattled," Maxwell continues, swirling the amber liquid. "She was shaking in her boots.”
The words hit like a kick from a horse. My hands clench on the chair arms, and for a second, I forget who's signing my paychecks. All the years of keeping my distance, of watching from the shadows, of making sure Kinsley stayed far enough away that Maxwell's world couldn't touch her—all of it crashes down in that moment.
It was him. Maxwell sent those texts.
My voice comes out low and steady. "I'll do your dirty work. I'll lie for you, cheat for you, and probably go to hell for you. But Kinsley's off limits. Lose her phone number. Now."
Maxwell's eyes narrow, but there's amusement mixed with the calculation. "You claiming her as your blood now?"
"Yes." I say, and the word feels like swallowing broken glass. "But she'll never claim me as her father."
The truth of it sits between us—all the reasons I let Callie take that baby girl and disappear, all the choices that seemed like protection at the time. Maybe they were. Maybekeeping them away from this world, from Maxwell's reach, was the only decent thing I ever did.
Maxwell studies me for a long moment, then nods slowly. "Fair enough. The girl's off limits."
He stands, moving to the window that looks out over the valley. "You know what I see when I look out there, Ford?" He doesn't wait for an answer. "Home. This entire valley should be Whitmore territory." His reflection in the glass looks like a ghost—pale, hollow, but still dangerous. "Gritstone Ranch stands eternal. Everything else is just... temporary."
Thirty years I've been the foreman, and I know when the boss is gearing up for war.
"Get some rest, Boss," I say, standing up. "I'll see you in the morning."
He nods, still staring out at the valley that he'll never stop believing belongs to him.