Page 71 of The Lonely Road

A pause. “Documented?”

Didn’t I just say that? “Yes.”

“Send it to the lawyers.” And keep him out of it.

“I’ll need some days to find the document.” I am buying time, and I don’t know why. I should close this down and get the hell out of town. That’s what a smart man would do. That’s what a sensible man would do.

“Of course. Take what you need.” He’s pleased that he finally will have proof that his investment, which is me, is working. “How many days?”

“A week or two,” I hedge.

“And the lawyer herself? You’ve made progress there?”

“My methods are none of your business, Senator,” I snap.

He laughs.

“One more thing,” I cut the hyena sound off. “Are you running anyone else in Wildflower Canyon?”

A beat. A fraction too long. “No, ’course not. Just you.”

“Good to know.” I keep my voice pleasant. “I’ll be in touch.”

I hang up.

Jessup is a weasel, and like all weasels, he lies with ease—but I’ve spent my whole career in rooms with men like him, and I can read their tells before they’ve finished the sentence.

He sent Trafton, and the problem with a man like Trafton isn’t that he’s not effective; it’s that he’s loud. Men like him cost less than men like me precisely because they don’t care about the noise they make, which can damage the client’s position. It leaves evidence. It creates exactly the kind of exposure that careful work is designed to avoid.

But it doesn’t just hurt the client. It hurts whoever is in the way.

And right now—Taya is in the way.

CHAPTER 17

taya

The road to Silverbell Ranch runs north through the part of the valley that hasn’t been touched yet—no development pressure, no rezoning applications, no corporate survey stakes in the fence lines. The land is coming back to itself after a hard winter, the pastures greening in patches, the creek running full along the eastern corridor.

I drive with the window down, and the discovery requests on the passenger seat, and the weight of knowing what’s at stake.

I am trying not to let that knowledge become fear.

Fear, in my experience, is useful in small amounts. It sharpens. In large amounts, it paralyzes, which I cannot afford right now.

When I pull in, Dakota Whitman is mucking the near stall.

She’s sixteen with her mother’s jaw and her father’s coloring and madly in love with horses.

She works the fork with the no-nonsense rhythm of someone who stopped thinking about it months ago and now just does it.

I know her schedule as I know Clara’s.

They do chores—all of them, even little Eli—then they go to school, all of them, and come back. While Eli does his homework, Dakota does ranch work, and when Eli is done, Clara works while Dakota watches Eli and often makes dinner.

Clara keeps at it until it’s time to eat and then does paperwork after the kids go to bed.

Dakota sees me and straightens.