Page 5 of Her Ex's Father
“I was. Yes.”
Caroline levels me with a look over plates of T-bone steaks, sweet potatoes, duck, and poached apples. “No offense, big brother, but I’ll skip the parenting advice.”
I’m about to open my mouth and lecture Caroline onwhythis needed to happen—the importance of preserving Bronson Hall through moving into the modern age, pairing with modern companies. Our money is old, and old money does not survive on reputation alone.
But her attention is elsewhere.
I follow her narrowed gaze and find Madeline Clarke staring.
At me.
“Watch it,” Caroline warns quietly. “You keep smoldering in her direction, Ben, and there’s going to be a scandal.”
Another scandalgoes unspoken. The last thing we need.
“Promise that you’ll find him after dinner?” I grunt, pulling my plate toward me gently but firmly. “I want to get back on the plane as soon as possible.”
“Hmm…you,or your son? Derrick seems hot to leave.”
Ignoring her, I stab into the steak with a serrated knife and saw at it as if I could cut out the bitter part of me that feels far from celebrating.
This isn’t what love looks like.
This is selling out.
The infectious sound of Madeline’s laughter chimes once more in the dining hall, and I can’t take it anymore.
The other guests are rambling their way through dessert. Chatting. Laughing. Murmuring and judging.
Zachariah Carter has managed to keep my attention, and my temper controlled, throughout dinner. I find myself wishing that he was the man I was tying my family to. But alas, we have no need for cattle.
“Excuse me,” I murmur to the down-to-earth rancher. “I need to stretch my legs.”
He gives me a knowing nod as I manage to slip away from the table and into the shadows. It isn’t easy; I tower over most of the men here. But it isn’t hard, either, if you don’t want to draw attention to yourself. Even the rich can be stealthy.
Walking lightly through the barn, I take dark corners until a red “Exit” sign glows. It presses open with an audible click and then the air outside invades my lungs, a welcome cleansing.
Montana spreads out before me. It’s deceptively dark, twilight already shifting into night. The mountains in the distance are silhouettes, only the snow caps glowing lightly against the navy-blue sky.
There are other shadows that draw me—the distillery itself. Weaving through the corral of cars, I make my way toward the massive buildings.
Getting in isn’t a problem. The doors are open, night workers on a bare-bones crew moving quietly about their tasks. They nod politely as I stride in, as if I own the place.
In a way, I do.
The large copper kettles and steel drums wait patiently, or seethe in silence. I pass through them into another room, all wood and brick, with lower ceilings and a long bar.
There are black leather stools, barrels lining the far wall, iron chandeliers overhead.
It’s nothing to step behind the bar, choose a bottle, and pour myself a glass. Two fingers of Elkhorn Whisky, a variety I’m familiar with from the estate in Aspen.
The soft rustle of silk draws my attention.
Madeline Clarke practically glows in the shadows.
It’s not just the champagne color of her dress; it’s her eyes, warm honey, her pale face vulnerable thanks to the up-do.
“Hello.”
