Page 81 of Ashes of the Past
There’s a noise behind us, and he pulls back just enough to catch his breath, his forehead resting against mine. A slow, easy grin spreads across his face, and my heart stumbles in response. “Have dinner with me tomorrow night,” he says, his voice still rough from the intensity of the moment.
I blink, surprised. “What?”
He chuckles softly, his fingers brushing along my jaw. “I’m asking you on a date, Brynn. A real one. Let me take you out.”
A rush of warmth floods through me, and I almost forget how to form words. I nod, my lips curving into a smile. “Okay.”
His grin widens. “I’ll pick you up at seven.”
Reluctantly, we step back from each other, the air between us still humming with tension. I clear my throat, needing to ground myself. “So…how did it go with the adjuster?”
He lets out a frustrated sigh, running a hand through his hair. “Hastings was a damn pain in the ass. Rude and accusatory, like he already had his mind made up before even stepping foot on the property. He made it sound like we’re making the whole thing up and that we started the fire.”
I frown. “That’s ridiculous. What did he say?”
Jack’s jaw tightens. “He said that it was normal for ranches that were in financial trouble to start fires or do whatever they could to get a payout.”
Anger flares in my chest. “That’s insane. We’re not in financial trouble.”
“Yeah, well, that’s not even the worst of it.” He exhales heavily, his expression darkening. “Doc Sutton was here earlier. We’ve got some sick cattle. She’s running tests, but it looks like poison.”
I feel the blood drain from my face. “Poison?”
He nods grimly. “That’s what it looks like.”
Lane’s face flashes in my mind like a sick, twisted specter. My hands clench at my sides, the pieces clicking into place.
“Do you think it was Lane?” I ask my voice tight with barely contained fury.
He hesitates for only a second before nodding. “Yeah. But we don’t have proof. Not yet. I’m going to set up cameras on the property, and once we have evidence, I’m taking it straight to the sheriff. He’ll be arrested, and this will end.”
Out of nowhere, a memory crashes into my mind:
I held Olivia tightly as she screamed and cried after Clay attacked her. I had turned my back to him, shielding her from his drunken fit. By the time the police arrived, he was punching me in the back so hard that I’d gone numb.
He fought the cops and was eventually taken out of the house in handcuffs. I wouldn’t let go of Olivia, even when the paramedics were trying to check us over. I filed a report, pressed charges, and went the following day for an emergency Order of Protection. It was granted.
Two weeks later, I stood in front of the judge with carefully written-out forms documenting all the physical and verbal abuse I had endured. I shared pictures, the police report, and the charges that were pressed, the emergency room reports, and testimony from the police and neighbors about his attack on us. The domestic violence advocate stood next to me, holding my hand.
“It’ll all be over soon, you and your daughter will be able to heal,” she had said.
“Miss Castings, I’ve read over everything and seen all your proof of abuse. I understand how much you and your daughter have been through, but I’ve also listened to your significant other plead for grace. He’s gone to rehab, he’s in AA, and he’s taking the necessary steps to get his life in order. I will not be granting the order at this time. I think it’s important thatchildren be able to be around both parents, and I won’t allow a vendetta to harm the child. You’re leaving the state as it is, with your daughter, and I see no reason to cause more paperwork. Your order is being denied,” the judge had said before banging his gavel and dismissing the courtroom.
I stood there numb, in shock, trying to figure out what I had done wrong. The advocate beside me gasped and tried to argue, but the judge shut her down.
“I don’t know how this is possible,” she had said softly.
I fought back the tears, the anger, all of it. Clay and his lawyer started out of the courtroom, but Clay walked over to me, attempting to hug me. When I moved away, still numb and in shock, he leaned forward. “Even the judge knows you’re full of shit,” he had cackled at me. “You’ll never get rid of me. All you do is spout lies.”
I wouldn’t let him see me cry, though. Olivia and I left and returned to Hicks Creek to help my mother when she was sick, and Clay has been torturing us ever since.
I shake my head, frustration bubbling over. “People like him don’t pay for what they do, Jack. There aren’t any real consequences for them. I know that firsthand. He’ll just keep torturing us in whatever way he can.”
He steps closer, his fingers finding mine, lacing through them with a steady, grounding warmth. “We’ll figure it out, Brynn. And he will pay for what he’s done.”
I let go of his grasp quickly. As the memories of Clay’s abuse still run through my head, I don’t want to be touched. All I can think about is all the pain he caused, and I know that’s not Jack’s doing, but my brain doesn’t want to separate the two right now. Anxiety washes over me, and I know that I need to get inside the house before I break down in front of Jack again. I’m not an emotional woman, but damn if I haven’t been lately.
I wish I could believe him about Lane paying for what he did. I wish justice were that simple. But deep down, I know that men like Lane don’t play by the rules—and they don’t suffer the consequences, either.
