Page 102 of The Back Forty
Me:At the gate now.
My phone immediately lights up with his name across the screen.
I swipe to answer. “Hey. Is everything okay?”
His voice is low and warm, a comfort I didn’t realize I needed until I heard it. “Can’t a boyfriend call his girlfriend?”
I blink. My heart skips in my chest. “So… is that what we are now?”
There’s a soft laugh on the other end. “I don’t know, sweetheart. ‘Boyfriend’ feels kind of juvenile at my age. From where I’m standing, you’re mine. My girl. My everything. The one that I plan on having forever with. I don’t need a label to prove that. But if it helps, sure. I’ll be your boyfriend.”
I grin, cheeks heating. “You haven’t had a girlfriend since…”
“Since I was twenty-five years old with Mel,” he finishes. “And you’re the only woman I’ve ever wanted like this.”
I bite my lip, my heart doing a little flip. “How can I help you, boss?”
He chuckles. “Actually, I need a favor. When you get back to the state, can you swing by the house and grab Beckham’s insurance ID from the safe in my office? I’ll text you the code. Mel forgot to get her copy.”
“Of course. I’ll meet you at the hospital?”
“Sounds good.” He pauses, then adds softly, “Hurry home, sweetheart, I miss you.”
Chapter 40 – Dani
“Hello? Is anyone here?” I call into Lawson’s house, stepping through the front door and waiting a beat before fully entering.
It’s a formality really. His siblings rarely come in without Lawson being here, but still, the old habit of asking sticks because one time I accidentally walked in on Cash and Rae having sex in the living room when Lawson was out of town.
Why didn’t they just do it at their own house a few miles away on the Marshall land you might ask? Because they said it was kinkier doing it here at thepossibilitythat he might walk in.
I disable the alarm with a quick flick of my fingers, then toss my keys and purse on the kitchen counter, the clatter echoing loudly throughout the empty house.
The hall stretches quiet and familiar as I make my way to his office. The door creaks open and, yep, it’s chaos in here. Piles of unopened mail, notebooks half-covered in the doodles I know he makes when he's taking an important phone call, half writtenmarketing plans printed off in Power Point format and his dirty cowboy hat sits on top it all.
It’s a mess that would normally give my Type A side an aneurysm, but somehow Lawson always knows exactly where everything is. Organized chaos, he calls it. I’ve stopped questioning it because he's always on top of things.
I crouch behind his desk and slide open the cabinet where he keeps the black iron safe. Just like he told me, I spin the knob and enter Beckham’s birthdate. A soft click. The door creaks open and I’m in.
Inside, there’s wads of cash. Neatly rubber-banded stacks of hundreds rest beside legal documents in clear sleeves, two passports, and a navy zip-up folder.
“Geez, Lawson. What the hell are you doing with this much money?”
I push the cash aside and unzip the folder. Social security cards, official-looking paperwork. My fingers pause on a birth certificate. I don’t mean to read it, I really don’t. But my eyes catch on the name printed there in dark, black ink like a message.
Lawson Daniel Miller.
Wait—what?
I blink and read it again.
NotMarshall, Miller?
My eyes dart to the rest of the certificate, my heart thudding.
Mother: Bethany Jane Smith.
Father: Joshua Frederick Miller.
