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“Colton insisted on this when he learned of the deal.”
Three signatures—my kid brothers’—acceptingGrand-mère’sgift deed and promising to never contest it as she transferred ownership of the Bar 9 to the four of us. Where I inherit 55% of the company and they each inherit 15% a piece.
Even the triplets are in on this nightmare—they lied to me.
The betrayal cuts deep, but not as deep as the knowledge that the Bar 9’s future rests on mywomb.
Everything inside me clutches in horror at what’s happening, but I still rasp, “All right. I’ll sign.”
Her knees buckle as she flops onto the nearest sofa, but her relief doesn’t bring me much peace. Even if Iampartially doing this for her and for the legacy I never asked to be a part of.
I scratch out a few lines that will act as an addendum Colton will need to sign—a divorce after a baby is born and a statement that the first child of Colton Dean Korhonen born from Susanne Felicia McAllister will be the sole heir of the Seven Cs and the Bar 9.
Getting to my feet once that’s signed, I throw the documents on her lap. “Confirm that a baby is enough of an expiration date, and I’ll see this through to the finish line.”
She snags at my hand, but I ignore her and shove past, toward the door.
“Susanne, thank you,” she warbles, more of her relief sinking into her words, but that’s cold comfort to me.
I don’t stop walking until I’m outside where, finally, I can breathe.
Everything about the Bar 9 is massive.
Always has been.
I tend to forget that, though.
I’m used to New York. Yet as shiny and expensive as things are there, big in its own way, that’s nothing to the sheer expanse of space that is McAllister land.
Two hundred and ten thousand acres—that’s how much we own. Even more than the Korhonens. Manhattan itself is only fourteen thousand acres.
“How the hell are we at risk of losing it all?” I ask myself as I storm toward the lake where the stag had lapped from the shoreline earlier.
Along the way, I throw my jacket onto the ground.
Next comes my camisole.
I can see the ranch hands spying on me as they come in for lunch, but to be honest, I don’t care. I hear the rumble of an engine being gunned so that means my audience is increasing, but again, I. Don’t. Care.
If I’m having to marry to save this fucking piece of land, then if I want to freak out by bathing in the lake, I will.
My skirt and tights shimmy down my hips next, and I kick off the heels I only wore to avoidGrand-mère’s ire, uncaring that one splashes in the water.
I hear her shriek from the porch: “What are you doing, child?!”
Ignoring her, I carry on, wading into the biting cold lake in my underwear, hoping it will do the impossible—stop me from throwing up. Stop me from wanting to faint. Stop me from wondering if this is a nightmare.
But, it isn’t.
This is reality.
My grand-mère sold me to the rancher next door.
The rancher who hates me and thinks me capable of the worst type of crime—equicide.
Worst still, my brothers agreed to it.
Walker wouldn’t have.