Page 65 of Property of Legend

James’ mouth drops open, and I can’t tell if he’s fakin’ or offended.“How dare you?Nobody better runs Paradise Falls better than Sophie.Without her it’d all fall apart, and I’d have nothing.”

I stare at the hospital windows high above us, wonderin’ which one is hers.If she’s awake.If she’s thinkin’ about me.If she knows I would’ve burned the world to bring her home.

But I’m not the one.

Chapter 38

Sophie

I stare at the painting on the hospital wall, a chestnut thoroughbred in full gallop, mane flying, hooves blurred like it’s outrunning the frame.

But all I see ishim.

Not the horse.Legend.

The way he moved through a room like thunder on two legs.The way he kissed me like I was the only clean thing left in his dirty, broken world.The way he looked at me like he didn’t deserve any of it, me, the farm, a future.

He said we were over.

Said I wasn’t safe with him.

And now I’m in a hospital bed with IVs in my arm and stitches along my ribs, so maybe he was right.

But damn it, I’m still here.

My legs work.My brain’s intact.And my name still means something.Sophie Montgomery of Paradise Falls,even if I missed every event leading up to the Derby.Press junkets, sponsor luncheons, the gala.All gone.They paraded my horses, Ribbons Undone, without me, held meetings without me, probably whispered about replacements while I was bleeding into the hay of a rusted-out trailer.

I glance at the nurse’s clipboard on the tray.James’s name is on every contact line.He’s made sure no one gets in unless he says so.

No bikers allowed, I’m sure

NoLegend.

I don’t know if he tried.Part of me prays he did.The other part hates him for notstorming the damn gatesto get to me.

Then again, maybe he didn’t even look.

Maybe he decided I wasn’t worth the fire after all.

The door opens softly, and for a split second my breath catches.

But it’s not Legend.

It’s Sam.

Polished.Clean-shaven.Dressed like he stepped off the Derby red carpet even here, in the stale light of a recovery room.

“Hey,” he says gently, stepping in with a bouquet of white peonies, my favorite.I hate that he remembers.Hate that he brings comfort when I’m trying not to feel anything at all.

“Hey,” I croak, voice raw from screaming and crying and praying I’d see morning.

He sets the flowers on the table and pulls a chair up to the bed.“You look good.”

I let out a short laugh.“Liar.”

He shrugs.“You’re breathing.That’s good enough for me.”

For a long second, we just sit there.He doesn’t touch me.Doesn’t press.Just… waits.

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