Sarah nods slowly. "I've been thinking," she says, lifting papers that hold the power to reshape our world. "The Whitmore's will try to undermine us again. I don’t want to be caught unawares.”
The mention of the Whitmores makes me cringe. Between the harvest and Wyatt’s surprise visit, I almost forgot about coming clean about my bloodlines. "Sarah," I begin, "there's something you need to know. About Ford." I clear my throat that is suddenly thick with dread.
She gives me her complete attention.
"Ford is my father." The confession tastes like every childhood wound that never quite healed.
"I know, honey," she says with such grace that I’m shocked. "I've known since before I came to see you in Cheyenne."
Heat floods my face, shame burning like a brand. "Please don’t think I’m like him.”
"What I think," Sarah says, reaching across to cover my hands with hers, "is that your character, Kinsley Rose, speaks for itself."
The words are an absolution I never dared hope for.
“Thank you.” I glance down at the table. “It’s strange. The day of the stop work order, Elenor showed up at the job site. It’s almost like she wanted to see us fail.”
“I’m sure she did.”
“Yes, but there’s a shadow in all this.” I wave my hand across the table. “I can’t quite place everything on the Whitmores because this feels bigger than them.”
Sarah’s expression hardens. "Do you think there’s someone else involved?”
I take a sip of coffee and think about her question. In politics, there are often back-room meetings and handshakes that can decide policy. Scratching someone's back earns you a vote later on. The thing is, as wealthy as the Whitmore's are, and they are incredibly wealthy, they haven't been playing this game like they're the movers and shakers. They seem to be taking advantage of a situation instead of calling the shots.
"There's a bigger fish in this pond," I admit, feeling the truth of it roll through me.
Sarah stands up to top off her coffee. "How do we bring them into the light?”
“If they’re working with the Whitmores…” I trail off. Oh, the ideas. I steeple my fingers and look at the shadows from several different angles. When I settle on a plan, a shiver races over my skin.
What I'm about to propose feels like going all in at the poker table without looking at my cards. My heart hammers against my ribs as I reach for the guest list.
"I have an idea that might sound like madness," I say.
Sarah's coffee cup hovers halfway to her lips.
"We invite the Whitmores." The words fall between us like pistols drawn at high noon. Facing Brittney with Wyatt has made me believe in this strategy. Already I feel like I’m more in control of myself and our relationship. I’ve had several texts from her over the last two days and not once has my stomach twisted. Maintaining the power is the key.
Sarah sets her cup down so hard that coffee splashes, but her focus never wavers. "Kinsley,” she says my name as a warning.
"Hear me out. If we bring all the players together, they may tip their hand and reveal who is really behind this." I lean forward. "We invite them to what they expect to be our funeral and force them all out in the open."
Sarah stares at me like I've just proposed we dance with the devil, and maybe I have.
"That's either the most brilliant move I've ever heard," she says slowly, "or the most reckless."
"Maybe both," I admit, pulse racing as the danger of inviting our known enemy into our most important evening stares me in the face. "But think about it—they won’t be able to refuse.” I saw the hunger for victory in Eleanor’s eyes. “If there’s even a chance we’re going to fall on our faces–they’ll have to be there to witness it.”
She leans back, the gleam in her eyes alive with possibilities.
"They'll expect to see us grovel and beg for their help.” I continue, gaining momentum. "Instead, they'll be forced to smile and applaud when we win the day. And they’ll see their hopes of getting your land go up in smoke."
The pen in Sarah's hand taps against the table like a war drum. "High stakes," she murmurs. "If they cause a scene—"
"Then they expose themselves and we act as the gracious hosts," I finish. "Either way, we control the battlefield. If they behave, they watch their defeat. If they don't, they reveal their true nature to the most influential people to set foot in Gritstone since its founding."
Sarah studies the guest list and then my face—weighing every risk against the chance for perfect, devastating victory. Slowly, a smile spreads across her features. "You magnificent, ruthless creature," she says with obvious delight.