Page 8 of King of the Weld
Ethan's eyebrows rise slightly. "Impressive."
"I had motivation," I say grimly. "Marriage to Harrison would be a life sentence. He doesn't want a wife; he wants a possession he can control and hurt whenever he feels like it."
Ethan is silent for a long moment, those intense eyes looking straight through me. "So what now?" he finally asks. "They'll be looking for you. The Valentines have resources, connections."
"I know." The thought sends a chill through me despite the warm coffee in my hands. "I need to get farther away. Change my appearance, find somewhere to hide until I can figure out a more permanent solution."
"Running isn't a plan," Ethan says. "It's a temporary fix at best."
"What choice do I have?" I ask, frustration creeping into my voice. "I told you. I can't fight them legally. My father has judges and lawyers in his pocket. I have no money of my own, no friends they don't know about. The only asset I have is my trust fund, and I can't access that until I'm thirty. Or until I marry," I add bitterly.
Ethan drums his fingers on the table, thinking. "You need leverage," he says finally. "Something that makes them back off."
"Like what? I don't have anything they want except me."
"Everyone has secrets," he replies. "Especially families like yours."
He's right, of course. The Valentines have generations of skeletons in their closets. Deals made in shadows, problems thatdisappeared with the right amount of money or the right threats delivered to the right people. But accessing that information would mean returning to the estate, to the family archives my father guards so jealously.
"Even if I knew their secrets," I say, "I don't have proof. It would be my word against theirs, and we know who society will believe."
Ethan nods, understanding the reality of power dynamics all too well. "Then we need to buy you time. Get you somewhere safe while we figure out next steps."
"We?" I repeat, not missing his choice of pronoun.
He looks almost surprised himself, as if the word slipped out unintentionally. "Figure of speech," he mutters, but I'm not convinced.
"Why are you helping me?" I ask, the question that's been on my mind since I woke up on his couch. "You don't know me. This isn't your problem."
Ethan is silent for so long I think he might not answer. When he does, his voice is low, almost reluctant. "I've seen what happens when people with power decide they own others. Seen it overseas, seen it here. Never sat right with me."
There's more to it than that. I can see it in the shadows that cross his face, the way his hand tightens around his mug, but I don't press. Everyone has their reasons, their history. Ethan Morrison certainly has his.
"I should go," I say, though the thought of leaving the safety of this cabin terrifies me. "I've put you at risk just by being here. If they track me to your property—"
"Let them try," Ethan interrupts, something dangerous flashing in his eyes. "This is my land. I know every inch of it, and I'm not afraid of men who hide behind money and connections."
The certainty in his voice should be comforting, but it only heightens my concern. "These aren't men you want as enemies, Ethan. My father doesn't fight fair. Neither does Harrison."
"You think I do?" Ethan asks, and there's something in his tone that reminds me he was a soldier, that he's seen and done things I can't imagine.
We fall into silence, the weight of the situation settling between us. Outside, clouds have gathered, darkening the sky. The distant rumble of thunder matches the storm brewing inside me—fear and hope and confusion all swirling together.
"I need to check those stitches," Ethan says eventually, nodding toward my feet. "Then we should talk about immediate next steps."
I extend my left foot, wincing slightly as he unwraps the bandage. His hands are a contradiction—huge and calloused from his work, yet capable of such gentleness. No one has ever handled me with such care before, as if I'm something valuable but not breakable.
"Looks clean," he says, examining the neat row of stitches. "You're lucky it didn't get infected out there."
"Lucky you found me," I correct him.
His eyes flick up to meet mine, and something passes between us. Then he looks away, focusing on rewrapping my foot.
"The rodeo job Jack mentioned," he says as he works. "It's in Pine Haven. I need to go there tomorrow to look at the project."
"I understand," I say, trying to keep the disappointment from my voice. "I'll be gone before—"
"You're coming with me," he interrupts, surprising me. "Not safe for you to stay here alone, and even less safe for you to go off on your own with no money and injured feet."
