Page 92 of Awaiting the Storm
I frown and turn back to him. “You don’t know that.”
“I do. I’ve seen it happen before, both to myself and to your uncle Boone, as well as to a dozen other men who tried to balance business and romance. He made some mistakes, of course, but I don’t believe he ever intended to hurt you.”
I don’t say anything for a long time. Just sit there, my plate untouched and my coffee getting cold.
“Call him,” Daddy says as he digs back in.
“I’ll think about it,” I say finally.
He nods. “That’s all I’m asking.”
The prompt on my screen blinks, beckoning me to type something, but my head’s too cluttered to put together a coherent sentence. I’ve been staring at the same numbers for what feels like hours now, but in reality, it’s been more like twenty minutes. Invoices, bank statements, logistics schedules, material deliveries, employee holiday rotation—it’s all a blur. I rub my eyes and lean back in my chair, letting out a breath that feels like it’s been sitting in my chest for a week.
The door swings open.
“I swear,” Holland announces as he barrels in, “time flies when you’re having fun. Pharaoh’s Secret’s chariot is arriving next week. Just in time for Thanksgiving.”
I blink at him, slowly.
“The jockey who’s been working with him in Kentucky swears he’s got the biggest attitude he’s ever seen on four legs. Like he knows he’s descended from royalty. Gorgeous animal though. I can’t wait for you to meet him.” He steps just inside the office, his arms full of papers, and continues talking. “Oh, and Priscilla finally heard from Waylon. Damn boy left a voicemail at two in the morning, drunk as a skunk, but he might be coming home for Thanksgiving.”
“Might?” I ask.
“Well, you know how he is.” Holland waves a hand. “Said he misses the old place, which could mean he’s homesick or he just wants a plate of his mother’s cornbread dressing and sweet potato casserole. I ain’t holdin’ my breath. I just hate it when he gets Priscilla’s hopes up and doesn’t follow through.”
He drops the stack of papers on my desk, then walks over to one of the leather chairs and plops down.
“You picking Marcia up, or is she driving herself?”
Istare at him.
He stares back.
“What?” he asks.
I shake my head, trying to snap out of this mood. “Sorry. What’d you say?”
“I said”—he leans forward, steepling his fingers, eyes narrowing as he studies me—“are you picking Marcia up, or is she driving herself down from Jackson Hole?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“You don’t know?” he repeats, voice a little softer now. “Well, Priscilla’s got her room all ready in the big house. You want us to go fetch her?”
I look away, glance back at the laptop screen even though I’m not really seeing it. “Yeah, maybe.”
He sighs. “You haven’t heard from Matty, have you?”
I don’t answer at first. There’s no point in pretending.
“No,” I finally say.
Holland lets out a long breath, sits back in the chair, and shakes his head. “Hell, Caison. I’m sorry. I figured after a few days, she might cool down.”
“Yeah,” I say, rubbing my jaw. “Me too.”
He watches me like he’s not sure what to say next, then shifts forward again, elbows on his knees. “You want me to go over there? I could talk to her. Tell her it was my idea from the start. Hell, I’ll take the blame for the whole damn thing if it helps. She knows me. Knows how cutthroat I can be,” he says and then chuckles. “I’ve never been her favorite person anyway.”
It’s a generous offer. One I appreciate more than he knows. But I shake my head.
