Page 16 of King of the Weld
But I know my father's threats are never empty. "We should go," I say urgently. "They'll be back, with more men, with—"
"They won't be back today," Ethan interrupts with certainty. "Your father's not stupid. He knows I'm armed and that I've called the sheriff." He holds up a cell phone I didn't even see him use. "Local law enforcement is on their way to document the trespassing. Your father won't risk being here when they arrive."
"You called the sheriff? But what if they—"
"Sheriff Carter is a friend," Ethan says. "He won't turn you over to anyone without due process, and there's no legal basis for forcing you to go anywhere. You're an adult, Sophia."
I am an adult. I have rights. In the Valentine household, such concepts were theoretical at best. My father's will was the only law that mattered.
"Come on," Ethan says gently, offering his hand. "Let's get inside before Carter arrives. You can decide how much you want to tell him."
I take his hand, allowing him to support some of my weight as we walk toward the cabin. Now that the immediate danger has passed, the pain in my feet has returned with a vengeance, each step a reminder of how far I've come and how far I still have to go.
"How did they find me?" I ask as we reach the porch. "I was so careful."
Ethan's expression is grim. "We'll figure that out. But for now, you're safe."
Chapter 6 - Ethan
I guide Sophia into the cabin, aware of her weight against my side, the subtle trembling in her frame. The confrontation has shaken her, though not as much as it might have. There's steel in this woman. The same kind I've seen in soldiers who've survived against impossible odds.
"Sit," I tell her, easing her onto the couch. "I need to check if they got inside."
A quick sweep of the cabin confirms my suspicions. They'd tried to enter. The lock on the back door shows scratch marks from amateur lockpicking, but my security measures held. The windows are intact, and nothing has been disturbed inside. Small mercies.
When I return to the living room, Sophia is sitting exactly where I left her, staring at her hands in her lap.
"They didn't get in," I assure her. "Everything's secure."
She nods but doesn't look up. "This is just the beginning," she says quietly. "You don't know them like I do, Ethan. My father doesn't lose."
"Neither do I," I reply, though the bravado feels hollow even to my own ears.
I flex my right hand, feeling the sting of split knuckles from the impact with Richard Valentine's jaw. Blood has dried in a thin crust across my knuckles, the ache of properly delivered blows settling into my bones. It's been years since I've had to use those skills in civilian life, but the muscle memory never leaves you.
Sophia notices the movement, her eyes widening at the sight of blood. "You're hurt."
"It's nothing," I dismiss, but she's already on her feet, limping toward me.
"Let me see," she insists, taking my hand in both of hers. Her touch is gentle as she examines the damage, turning my hand to catch the light. "You need to clean this."
"I've had worse paper cuts," I try to joke, but her expression remains serious.
"Sit," she orders, using my own command against me. "Where's your first aid kit?"
I find myself obeying, sinking into the chair as she retrieves the kit from the bathroom. There's something disarming about her concern, about having someone fuss over injuries I would normally ignore.
She returns with the kit and a damp cloth, kneeling in front of me despite her own injured feet. Before I can protest, she's cleaning the blood from my knuckles.
"This isn't the first time you've done this," I observe.
A sad smile touches her lips. "My mother believed a proper lady should know basic nursing skills. 'You never know when you'll need to patch up a husband too proud to see a doctor,'" she mimics, her voice taking on a prim tone I assume belongs to the Valentine matriarch.
"Sounds like she was preparing you for Harrison," I say before I can stop myself.
Sophia's hands pause momentarily, then resume their work. "Yes," she agrees softly. "I suppose she was."
I watch her as she works, this woman who was raised to be an accessory to men like Harrison Blackwood—decorative, useful, silent. Yet here she is, defiant and determined, choosing a different path despite the forces aligned against her.
