Page 97 of West Bound
He presses his lips to my heart with one last featherlight kiss. We lay there together in the quiet for a long while, while our hearts settle and our breathing slows. His voice has a raspy, sentimental edge that I haven’t heard before when he speaks again.
“Sometimes good things are going to be true, even if the past tries to trick us into believing they’re impossible. You taught me that.”
FORTY-ONE
Zephyrine
My heart is beatingout of my chest as I pull up to the gates at my father’s ranch. It’s been so many years since I’ve been anywhere near it that I do a double take at the sign to be sure I’m in the right place. I let all the emotions flood my senses. I think about the times my father ignored me growing up, the day he forced me down the aisle with his arm wrapped around mine, and the night I begged for his help to get away from Corey. It does the job, the tears start to form in the corner of my eyes, and my hands shake as I roll down the window and press the call box. There’s a video link, so I need to play the part of the emotional damsel in distress who's fled captivity for the freedom only her father can provide.
“This is private property.”
“This is…” My words fade on my lips, and I take in a deep breath before I continue, doing my best to sound a little hysterical. Much like the night I begged him to keep me safe. “This is Zephyrine Schaefer. This is my family’s home. I’ve just—I drove as fast as I could. Please. I need help! Please!”
“Zephyrine?” the man repeats.
“Yes. It’s Zephyrine. Please help.” My voice is shaky from nerves and I hope it serves its purpose.
“Just a moment.”
He kills the intercom, and everything falls silent, save for a few birds in the distance and the low rumble of the engine. It feels like an eternity before he comes back. But then I hear a beep and a new voice booms over the sound system.
“Come down the drive and straight to the main house. We’ll meet you there,” the voice instructs. This one sounds older, more authoritative. I don’t recognize it. I used to know all of my father’s old staff, but now, so many years later, with his paranoia having grown, it’s likely I won’t know a single person here. Which is probably for the better. If I have to fight someone to get out of here, use force if necessary, I’d rather not be thinking of their family at home when I do it.
“The main house?” I confirm.
“Yes.”
The truck rolls over the gravel at a slower pace than I’d taken the paved roads to get here. As I travel down the long path, I start running through all the scenarios we practiced. Thinking of all the ways I’ll need to think fast once I’m inside the garage of the main house to make decisions that will keep the guys stowed away and safe until it’s their moment.
When I get to the house, the garage door opens, and I can see two of my dad’s security guards standing at the door to the house, watching as I pull the truck in. My stomach tumbles, and I feel nauseous. I hate how stressed I am. I wish I could be calm. But then, it will look more convincing if I'm anxious and frazzled. I’m supposed to have escaped the Stocktons’ clutches, stolen a set of keys to a truck, and run screaming home to my father for help. So nerves and stress should make sense to them.
My window is still rolled down, and I plan to keep it that way. Just in case they take my keys. My thoughts go to the guys. Levi under the seats in the back, and Rowan and Bishop who are neatly tucked in the false compartment in the bed.
One of the security guards rounds the truck, checking for anything unusual, and opens the lid to the bed, peering inside to find it appears empty. The guys are silent as church mice when the first security guard opens my door and ushers me out. I take a breath, saying a silent prayer. The tears are still fresh on my cheeks as I step out but security has little interest in my wellbeing. They’re too busy following protocol.
“Let’s go.” He motions for me.
“Is my dad here? I need to talk to him,” I say immediately as I step down out of the truck. He shouldn’t be. He’s at a meeting in DC according to his schedule.
“We’ll get to that part.” The second guard gives me a once-over and then starts to pat me down.
So far, it’s going just like the guys predicted it would. This was my home. My family’s home growing up. I came here a million times, and now I'm being treated like an enemy combatant. I feel violated. Searched and watched suspiciously when I’m telling them I escaped captivity. They offer little in the way of consolation, and I’m shuffled toward the door and barked at without any remorse.
Genuine tears start to form in my eyes as I think about how we got here. How I used to play here as a little girl, happy and careless and free. It was so different from the reality I faced as I got older. When I stopped being a cute kid and he started looking at me like a product to be bartered instead. An advantage on the campaign trail, an asset to raise money, and a pawn to deepen his connection to people he felt could keep him safe. To him it might as well be the Middle Ages, and I wasnothing more than another commodity to buy and sell in his empire.
“You escaped, but you could grab your purse?” The one guard gives me a doubtful look. I was grateful for the belt buckle and the lipstick case tucked in my pocket that Dakota gave me as security guard one snatches my purse and rifles through it.
“I had my purse with me when I escaped.” I give him a nasty look and return his once-over with one of my own. Two can play this game. He wants to treat me like trash that’s beneath him? I can do the same. In fact, I was raised to think exactly that way. Something that never settled well on my conscience.
“I see.” The second guard waits for the first to finish searching my belongings.
“Can I see my father? Please? I just want to see him. I was kidnapped by these awful men. Tortured. They kept me caged, and I just want to see my father. I want to tell him what happened,” I plead, doing my best to sound hysterical.
Satisfied that they’ve checked me for weapons and electronics, they usher me in the door. Down a hall I played in thousands of times—racing my half brothers and sliding in my socks while I sang into my toy microphone. The memories won’t stop flooding back. We turn another corner, and I see the dining room. I assume that’s where they’ll take me. Hopefully, I’ll be able to talk to my father via video chat. It’ll be the first conversation in a very long time, but it might convince him to have his guards calm down with their armed interrogation.
But we don’t stop in the dining room. They march me all the way to my father’s office, and when they open the door, my heart stops. Seated behind the table, grayer around the temples than I remember him, is the man in the flesh. This part I wasn’t prepared for, and the sight of him knocks me off kilter.
“Zephyrine,” he acknowledges me, and his eyes drift over my countenance. We purposely dirtied my clothes, even rippedthem in a few places—a thing I was very grateful for in this moment when I was likely about to give the greatest performance of my life.
