Page 230 of Lost Then Found
She doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah? Forget it immediately. Only Hudson can call me that, and you are very muchnotHudson.”
Hudson snickers, popping a chip into his mouth. “I used to call her that when I was little.”
Ridge smirks, his gaze shameless as it drags down the length of her very shiny, olive-toned legs. “I used to be little too. I’ve got baby pictures. You wanna see me in a cowboy hat and no diaper?”
Miller doesn’t even blink. “I’d rather staple own eyelids shut.”
She turns her gaze to me. “We need to talk. Preferably somewhere he isn’t.”
She doesn’t wait for a response, just spins on her heel and starts walking. I fall in step beside her, boots crunching on gravel as we put distance between us and the chaos. Behind us, Duke and Witt are still giving Ridge hell, their laughter echoing like background noise. Ridge, of course, is eating it up—cocky bastard.
“Your brother is a walking annoyance.”
“Trust me,” I say, keeping pace beside her, “you’re preaching to the choir.”
She stops further out on the property where it’s a little quieter, out of earshot. The folder she’s been clutching since she stepped out of that expensive ass car is already open in her hands, papers crisp and neatly arranged. She’s in full work mode now—precise, no bullshit.
“Alright,” she says, flipping to the page she wants. “I’ve been doing some digging into Tate’s financials. Couldn’t get into much—he’s careful—but I found something through a holding company he controls. It’s called Whetstone Holdings, based out of Bozeman.”
She hands the folder to me, and I take it, eyes landing on rows of wire transfers. Big ones. It takes me a second to process the numbers—two hundred seventy-five grand, three hundred, another for a little over one ninety.
I glance at her. “Did you figure out where the hell this money’s going?”
Her mouth tightens, just slightly. “Unfortunately.”
She steps in closer and taps a name printed neatly at the bottom of the transaction summary.
Dawn Rutherford.
Chapter 25
BOONE
My stomach hits the floor, and just like that, the air around me changes—thick and heavy, like something’s splintered beneath the surface.
Dawn?
I stare at the name on the page like it doesn’t belong there, like maybe it’s a mistake or a different Dawn Rutherford entirely. But it’s not. It’s her. I know it in my gut, and still, my brain refuses to catch up.
Dawn’s not some stranger on a bank statement. She’s Dawn. She’s been part of our lives as long as I can remember—part of the Bluebell, part of us. She wasn’t just an employee. She was the woman who taught me and Ridge how to flip pancakes without splattering them on the ceiling—though I damn near took out a light fixture once. She was the first to teach us how to play poker, sitting in the back booth during slow afternoons, dealing cards like a Vegas lifer and letting us win just enough to feel cocky before wiping us clean the next round.
When we were kids, she’d sneak us extra milkshakes in the kitchen, all while she cackled and told stories about her misspent youth. She’d shoot straw wrappers at the cooks when they were slow, would “accidentally” short the coffee when a regular pissed her off, and let Ridge convince her once to deep-fry a Snickers bar just to see if we could. We couldn’t, but she laughed harder than anyone when it exploded.
At night, when we stayed late, helping mop floors or count tips, she’d blast old rock music from the jukebox and dance around like she didn’t have a care in the world.That’sthe Dawn I know—the woman who made the Bluebell feel more like a second home than a diner.
And now her name’s here, linked to wire transfers that reek of Tate’s bullshit. Numbers that don’t make sense for someone pulling shifts slinging pie and coffee. Numbers that look a whole lot likecomplicity.
I can’t wrap my head around it. How could she be involved in this? Withhim?
I shake my head, slow and hard. “No. This…this isn’t right.”
Miller doesn’t flinch. Her voice is quiet, but certain. “It isn’t. I’m sorry, Boone.”
I stare at the folder, still open in my hands, still showing me something I don’t want to see. “What do you think this means?”
“I did some digging on her, after I found the first transfer. She’s got kids—grown. A couple of them live in L.A., and it looks like there are grandkids too. Not much of a trail connecting her to them lately, but it’s there.”
I keep my eyes on the paper. Her voice drifts in and out like I’m underwater.
