Page 47 of Monk

John.

He rode past on his motorcycle, the engine roaring, his cut flapping in the wind. He didn’t see me. Didn’t even glance in my direction. He was focused on the road ahead, his jaw tight, his shoulders tense.

My breath caught in my throat and my hands tightened on the steering wheel, my knuckles going white. I wanted to follow him. I wanted to pull a U-turn, chase him down, force him to stop and listen. I wanted to tell him the truth, that Tatum washis, that I hadn’t betrayed him, that I spent seven years believing he was dead and mourning the life we could have had. I wanted to scream at him for walking away from me in that barn. For not listening. For assuming the worst.

But I didn’t. Because I wasn’t going to be one ofthosewomen. The kind who chased after a man who didn’t want to hear what she had to say. The kind who begged and pleaded and made herself small just to be heard.

I had too much pride for that and, more importantly, I didn’t have time.

The light turned green, and I pressed down on the gas, driving forward, leaving him behind.

I made my decision.

Two weeks ago, after learning just how bad the farm’s finances were, I had called my boss in San Francisco and resigned. He had been shocked, tried to talk me out of it, offered me a raise, more flexibility—anything to keep me. But I said no, because this wasn’t about money or career advancement or building a life in a city that had never really felt like home.

This was about family. About my family’s legacy, about Tatum’s legacy. About refusing to let some jackass developer from New Jersey buy my family’s farm and turn it into a casino.

I hired a moving company to pack up my apartment and ship everything to Oklahoma. I had gotten Tatum registered at her new school, the one she had just gotten suspended from. I started putting out feelers at local law firms, reaching out to contacts, sending résumés, and setting up interviews. All while helping my dad manage the farm, going over the books, meeting with creditors, trying to figure out how the hell we were going to keep this place afloat.

I was spreading myself thin.

I knew it, but I didn’t care. Because my family farm had been in my family for four generations. My great-grandfatherhad built it from nothing, worked the land with his bare hands, raised cattle and horses and children on this soil. My grandfather had expanded it, modernized it, and turned it into something sustainable. My father had poured his heart and soul into it, sacrificing everything to keep it running, and I’d be damned if I let it die on my watch.

As I pulled into the driveway, the gravel crunched under the tires. Tatum unbuckled her seatbelt and hopped out, running toward the house. I sat in the car for a moment, my hands still gripping the steering wheel, my eyes staring at the farmhouse ahead.

It needed a new coat of paint. The porch steps were sagging. The barn’s roof was leaking.

There was so much work to do. So much to fix, and I was going to do it.

All of it.

I took a deep breath, opened the car door, and stepped out into the Oklahoma heat.

John was a complication I didn’t have time for right now, no matter how much I still felt for him. No matter how much it hurt to see him and not be able to reach him.

I had a farm to save.

A daughter to raise.

A life to build, and I was going to do it on my own terms.

Just like I always had.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Monk

The Oklahoma back country stretched out before me like a long strip of asphalt laid over the bones of nowhere. No buildings. No lights. Just open fields, barbed-wire fences, and the occasional cluster of cattle standing motionless in the dying light like they knew something I didn’t. The sun sagged low on the horizon, bleeding orange into bruised purple. Beautiful, maybe, if you had any use for beauty.

I didn’t.

I twisted the throttle harder. The engine answered with a roar that rolled up through my legs and lodged in my chest. Wind tore at my cut, snapping it behind me like a warning flag. My hands locked around the handlebars, knuckles pale, jaw clenched so tight my teeth started to ache.

I was trying to outrun it.

Her face. That kid’s voice. The look on Lina’s face when she realized I’d heard it—when she knew I knew she had a daughter.

A fucking daughter.