The blonde-haired, blue-eyed young woman sitting in front of me was twenty-five years old but there was a distinct naïveté in her demeanor. From the limited background information I had, I knew that her maternal grandparents had raised her from the age of five. I could only imagine that her childhood must’ve been drastically different than her brothers. She grew up in Greenwich, Connecticut and, from what I’d gathered, she’d had zero contact with her brothers or father. I couldn’t imagine how complicated that must be.
Not that I had a lot of experience with family dynamics, complicated or otherwise. My father had never been in my life.
I’d only spoken to him once, it hadn’t gone well. He was married and had his own family when my mom got pregnant. For the first eight years of my life it had been me, my mom, and whatever guy my mom happened to be dating.
Then, when I was eight, my mom met Harold York. That was when everything changed. From the first day I met Hal, I loved him. He was funny, smart, and treated me like his very own.
They had a whirlwind romance, marrying only a month after meeting. On my last day of third grade, Hal and Mom picked me up and we flew to Manhattan.
Hal was an attorney who came from an affluent family. He was twenty years my mom’s senior, and he treated her like a queen and me like a princess.
For the first time in my life I didn’t have to worry about whether or not I’d come home from school to find an eviction notice on the door, or whether or not there would be food in the cupboards, or if the lights and heat would be on.
He was strict but fair. He gave me rules, which was something I’d never had, since my mom had always treated me more like a friend than a daughter.
I felt safe in the world for the first time in my life. He adopted me on my tenth birthday and even talked my mom into allowing me to legally change not only my last name, but also my first.
Then, the summer before my senior year of high school, he was diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumor and told he had weeks to live.
He survived for ten more months, and was even able to see me walk across the stage at my high school graduation with honors. My mom showed up late, but he was there on time.
I was more thankful for those last few months with him than I was for anything else in this world. Before he passed he knew that I’d gotten into his alma mater and was planning on studying law.
He made sure that my mother would never have to worry about money again, and that my college education was taken care of. He took care of us, even after he was gone.
Hal was wealthy, but nothing close to Cheyenne’s grandparents. Not even the same ballpark.
Her maternal grandfather, Leonard Wentworth III, was the heir to a pharmaceutical company. The Wentworths were easily millionaires, and perhaps even billionaires. It wouldn’t shock me to find out that Sabrina’d had a trust which would be passed down to her children.
“I’ll see what I can find out, but I’m not sure how much help I can be.”
A little tension seeped from her face, but then she met my eyes solemnly. “I should warn you. My grandparents are influential people and if there is a trust, they’ll do anything they can to stop my brothers from inheriting a dime.”
The warning was as vague as it was ominous. “Why do you say that?”
“Because that’s what they said. From what I gathered it’s a significant sum and they are adamant about keeping it from, and I quote, James Comfort’s demon seeds.”
I raised one eyebrow. “Noted.”
It was so strange to me that these people would cherry-pick which grandchild they deemed worthy of their love and attention. Was it some sort of reverse sexism? Unlike royalty, did they not want any male heirs? When she still didn’t relax, I assured her, “I’ll tread lightly.”
“Thanks.” Her shoulders lowered and she appeared visibly relieved as she stood. “For everything.”
“Of course.” I pushed my chair back and rose, reaching my hand across the table. “It was very nice to meet you face to face, Ms. Comfort.”
I’d spoken to her over the phone the day I’d arrived in Firefly to notify her of the will reading, and unbeknownst to me, of her father’s passing. I’d never had to notify next of kin that a loved one had passed.
Adding another surreal layer to the conversation was the fact that she hadn’t seen her father in twenty years. We’d touched base a few times over the next two days, and she felt like an old friend.
“Call me Cheyenne, please.” She shook my hand and I could sense her hesitation to leave as she dropped it. “There’s one more thing. One more favor I wanted to ask.”
I grinned, not sure of what else I could do. “What’s that?”
“I know you said that you might come to the bar tonight, but can you? I’m kind of nervous to go by myself. It would be nice to have someone to sit with.”
Looking at her vulnerable, hopeful face, all of my excuses flew out the window. Saying no to her would be akin to kicking a puppy.
I forced myself to smile. “That sounds great. I should be done here around six, I’ll meet you there at six-thirty.”
“Thanks!” Her face lit up like the sky after a summer rain and she gave me a brief hug before practically skipping out the door.
I, on the other hand, felt a lot more trepidation. In fact, I felt like I was walking into enemy territory, and the only weapon I had at my disposal—my self-control—was shaky at best, thanks to the mental breakdown I may or may not be having. Billy Comfort was having quite the effect on me.
I took a deep breath. I didn’t quite know what I was getting myself into, but I was quite sure I was getting into something.
CHAPTER 7
Billy
When I did finally pull up to the house and turn off my truck I noticed that my long-cut had not worked. Jimmy still wasn’t there. I sat in the cab for a moment, just looking at the house.
“Hank’s house,” I said to myself.
That still felt strange rolling off my tongue. This was the house I’d grown up in with Hank and Jimmy. When Hank had told us to come over to “the house,” there had been no need to specify which house. This was it. The house.
And it was Hank’s now. Which, don’t get me wrong, I had no resentment about. I’d left the day of my eighteenth birthday, not able to stand one more second under the same roof with our alcoholic, verbally—and sometimes physically—abusive father. Hank had moved back home within a week of my departure to look after not only Pop but also Jimmy, who was only twelve at the time.
He’d earned this house, there was no doubt about that. It was just strange, that was all, to know that when I walked through that familiar front door, it would be Hank that greeted me, and not my bourbon-soaked old man, sitting in his chair and cursing at the television.
A heavy weight constricted my chest and it was like a dark cloud settled around me.
It had been three days since I got the call that I’d known was coming for years. The one where Hank said the words that I’d known one day I’d inevitably hear. “Pop is gone.”
He’d gone into Pop’s room and hadn’t been able to wake him up. The cause of death hadn’t officially been determined, but we all knew the truth. Pop had drank himself to death. He’d been told for years by the doc that if he didn’t put the bottle down his body was going to give out on him, and it finally had. He used to joke that he’d be well-preserved because of the amount of alcohol in his system. I tried to tell him it didn’t work like that and he needed to take what the doctors said seriously. But since he was always halfway to shitfaced if not already there, he was never in any condition to listen to reason.