I stare at him, my thoughts bewildered. “He did.”
His eyes are dark as they study and judge and question. “You didn’t know?”
“Know what?” Alarm bells are sounding off, but I can’t ignore them this time around, so I let them blare in the background.
“The overdue accounts in town. Did you know about them? Why didn’t you pay them? Did you—” He steps closer to me. The foyer is dark and the only light being from the kitchen at our backs, but his determination is undeniable. “Why didn’t you pay them?”
“I didn’t know about them. He ran the finances. He had the passwords to everything. He—”
“And you never asked? You never paid your own bills?”
I laugh in unease. “I’m not—I didn’t used to be detail oriented with stuff like that. When I left home, I sucked at it and just let him handle it.” I shake my head, hating that I have shame heavy in my belly. I’d been so complacent and naïve that I never bothered to try to handle my own finances. After the first payment I missed because I was so distracted taking pictures of all the new scenery to remember, I hadn’t wanted the responsibility, and that’s on me. “I didn’t know about the late accounts until the first time I showed my face in town after Fletcher died.”
“Who ran the ranch?”
“We did.”
“The day-to-day, who ran it?”
“I don’t understand—”
“Just answer the goddamn question, Knox!”
I flinch and hate that, for the briefest of seconds, he sounds like Fletcher used to in those last few weeks, which is to say demanding and agitated and nonsensical.
“We did. He did the major stuff like the breeding schedules and stud fees and payroll. The . . . the day-to-day,” I say, flustered and confused.
“And your role?”
I try not to get my feathers ruffled at his tone. He has no idea how completely inadequate I always felt or how Fletcher didn’t let me do anything when all I wanted to do was more.
“I exercised the horses. I groomed them . . . but other than what I learned from hearing the guys talk or watching them work, I didn’t know much else than that.”
“You lived here for years, and you think I’m going to believe that you just sat idly by the whole time?”
“I wasn’t idle. I was sneaking out when I could to do photography on the side.”
“Of what?”
“Ranch life and landscapes. Things I had planned on putting in my portfolio to someday try to open a gallery with.”
His head angles to the side momentarily as he chews over what I’ve said, as he decides whether I’m lying or not.
“How did you think you were getting supplies?”
“What do you mean? Like feed?”
“And groceries and everything else. If you weren’t going into town, everything was being delivered, right?”
“Yes.” I draw the word out because he just answered his own question so I’m not sure he needs more.
“Why didn’t you go to town for them?” There’s something in his tone—in what he’s looking for—that almost feels like, if I say the wrong thing, he’s going to walk out and never come back.
I hate that the thought makes me panic.
What the hell happened?
“Fletcher didn’t like me going into town alone. He was paranoid about something happening to me. But—”
“So why didn’t he go with you?”
“Stop cutting me off!” I shout, which kind of shocks him so that he steps back. He doesn’t speak or even try to apologize. He just stares at me with an unrelenting desire to have answers to questions I don’t understand why he’s asking. “I didn’t realize that Fletcher asking me to stay here was really him controlling me until after he died. He had me convinced he was protecting me from the people in town—their judgment and harsh words—and I was dumb enough not to question it.” I shrug, feeling like an idiot as fresh shame settles over me like a well-worn jacket from the back of my closet. “He told me stories about how he was treated in town. How people still made comments about the stupid story I wrote. How the Destin twins were still upset about us getting the ranch. He made it seem like it was just easier if I stayed here. He convinced me, and I believed him.”
“So, he locked you up here like Rapunzel, but instead of putting you in a tower, he put cameras on the gates to watch your comings and goings?” he asks sarcastically, and my spine stiffens, his comments making me feel stupid and compliant. He snorts. “I have a hard time believing the woman with a blazing temper and loaded shotgun would ever put up with that kind of shit.”
I despise that every part of me agrees with him but knows that unless he was in that moment, unless he had been so worn down mentally that he believed the mistruths he was being told, he couldn’t ever truly understand.
My throat tightens as I force a swallow over the lump in it. I should just nod and tell him I agree because he’s right.
But I was a different person back then. A person who saw the signs but was too afraid to speak up. A woman who saw the hints that her husband’s explosive temper was more than just the stress of trying to make this place thrive. A wife who wanted to believe that the long nights he spent in the bunkhouse were because of work or that he really did accidentally leave his phone there instead of leaving it on purpose so that I wouldn’t see or answer his calls.
A spouse too afraid to speak up and face the truth because I was held captive by my decisions.
“Right, Knox?” he says my last name like a slur. “Why didn’t you leave then, huh? Why didn’t you—”
“You want to question me. What about if I want to question you?” I say, my mind scattered as I try to shove away all the emotions his accusations have drummed up. “What kind of man takes a six-month contract to work as a ranch manager? What kind of man gets turned down for a job but sticks around town just to wait to see if the owner will change her mind? Who are you, Jack?”
“You know everything about me you need to know. It’s all there in my resume.” His nonchalance does nothing more than push my buttons and not in a good way.
“I know your history—a breeder, a trainer, a guy with connections, but I don’t know shit about you. You could be an axe-murderer for all I know.”
His laughter rings through the house. “That’s it. I prey on single female ranchers. I stay with them for a month, put up with their temper and defensiveness, and then decide to kill them. That’s exactly who I am.” He shakes his head and takes a step forward while I take one in retreat, my ass hitting the accent table that lines the wall behind me. “Is that enough of an answer?”
His lips barely move when he says the last sentence, and for some reason, when the scent of his shampoo or cologne or whatever the hell that fresh scent he wears hits my nose . . . I have a hard time remembering that I’m angry at him.
I have a hard time forgetting that I’m not supposed to be attracted to him.
“Why Texas?” I ask, my eyes flickering between his lips and his eyes and then back again.
“Same thing could be asked of you.” His voice lowers to a deep tenor that is nothing but seduction when I don’t want to be seduced.