Page 11 of The Wrong Ride Home

“I need to go through all the fuckin’ paperwork, doll.” I kissed her softly to divert her mind from where it was. Could she feel there was something between Elena and me? “And then we will have dinner at Blackwood Prime.”

Fiona’s phone rang then. “Damn it.”

She took the call as I knew she would. Business first with ourFiona.

I was happy to leave her to it. I went back to my father’s office.

“Señor, would you like some lunch?” Itzel stopped me in the hallway outside the dining room.

“Just something light, Itzel.”

She nodded. She was in a pair of jeans and a white shirt. She looked no-nonsense. She was probably in her mid-forties, and there was a regality to her that Maria had also had. Was she with my father, too?Damn it!

“How about a sandwich,” she suggested.

“That sounds good.”

“Miss Turner has requested a salad. Would you like that as well?”

“Yes, please.Gracias, Itzel.”

I sat behind the old oak desk in my father’s office, the leather chair creaking beneath me. I took it in properly for what felt like the first time since I returned. Earlier, I had been distracted by Elena.

I turned on the Apple laptop. The note on it told me the password:WildFlower. Jesus!

I went through the files and was surprised at how organized everything was. I’d expected a shitshow that I’d have to unravel. My father was an excellent rancher and a terrible businessman. The fact that he’d held onto the ranch was a miracle in itself.

The folders were easy to navigate, and someone helpfully ensured that the system had passwords for all the websites and accounts I needed to access. Everything was documented—every deal, sale, and expense.

That alone was a shock. My father was a lot of things,but organized? Hell no. Nash Wilder had lived on instinct, handshake deals, and gut feelings. Half the time, he barely remembered what he’d agreed to—which was why I expected a mess. Instead, I found records so damn meticulous they could’ve run a Fortune 500 company.

Who the hell did this? Not Elena. She didn’t even go to college.

I found Amos Langley, my father’s accountant’s number, on my phone and used the landline to call him.

The man answered on the second ring. “Langley.”

“Amos, it’s Duke.”

“My condolences, son. Nash was?—"

"Yeah, he was," I cut him off as I flipped through a BLM land lease with flawless margins and crisp calculations. "I’m looking through my father’s records, and they’re…too…well, good. Did you do this?"

Amos blew out a measured breath. "No. It was Elena."

I stilled.

"She handled all of it," he continued. "Filed the taxes, balanced the accounts, covered his debts when he made bad deals with worse men. She saved his ass more times than I can count."

I clenched my jaw. "You’re saying she had control of his finances?”

Amos’s tone went cold. "I’m saying she protected him, Duke.”

“I doubt that very much.”

I heard him growl. This was Amos, the calmest man I knew.

“Now, look, I know some of what went down between you, too, but I need you to know that she didn’thaveto do any of this. She could’ve let him sink. But she didn’t. And if you’re even thinking about questioning her integrity, then you’ve got your head way up your ass, son."

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