The Bourbon Kings #1 (50 page)

They lived dignified, modest lives unmarked by the kind of crazy drama that went on with the Bradfords.

And the thing was, as much as she was attracted to Lane—hell, maybe she was drawn to the very insanity that also repelled her—she simply didn’t have the energy or the wherewithal to keep going with him in any capacity. She fell too hard, too fast for him—and just as before, what he brought to her life was nothing but a pit in her stomach, more sleepless nights … and a feeling of profound depression.

Some risk pools you couldn’t volunteer for. Whether it was certain cancers, or bad accidents, or other kinds of tragedies, you couldn’t always reduce your chances of getting hurt—because you were alive and that was the reality for all the living things on the planet.

Other problems, issues and dangers, however, you were free to step
out of, step away from—and when you were a responsible adult, who wanted to lead a halfway healthy existence, it was incumbant upon you to take care of yourself, protect yourself … nurture yourself.

Clearly, she couldn’t be trusted to keep her head on straight around Lane Baldwine, so she was going to solve the problem of her lack of self-control … with a lack of proximity.

Time to leave.

Like an addict who was going cold turkey, she was just taking off—and no, she didn’t want to talk to him about any of it. That just seemed like a junkie wanting to enter into a deep-and-meaningful with a syringe of heroin. Undoubtedly, Lane was going to have his side of things, but no matter what that was, it couldn’t change the fact that her heart was broken all over again and her decision to quit her job was not subject to negotiation.

And now … she was going to do her best to get on with her day.

Heading down to the greenhouses, she went into the first one she got to and was more than ready to work on the seedlings—which were now not seedlings at all. But before she went over to the supply station to gather her pruning shears, she stopped and took out her phone.

What she did next took no more than a moment.

And was probably a stupid thing to do.

But she transferred seventeen thousand, four hundred, eighty-six dollars, and seventy-nine cents from her savings … to her mortgage account.

Paying off her farm.

Yeah, it was likely not the smartest move, considering she would be selling the thing. Pride, however, made the transaction necessary. Pride, and a sense that she needed to feel that she had achieved the goal she had started with when she’d bought the place.

She had always wanted something that was her own in the world, a home that she established and paid for and maintained without help from anyone else.

The fact that she now didn’t owe a red cent on the land was a counterbalance to everything else she was feeling.

Proof positive that she hadn’t completely failed to look after herself.

L
ane returned to Easterly as soon as he was released.

Well, minus the trip back out to Samuel T.’s to pick up his Porsche.

He entered his family’s property via the back way, driving past the fields and the greenhouses for two reasons. One, because there was press at the main gates; and two, because he wanted to see whether Lizzie was on site.

She was. Her maroon farm truck was parked in the lot along with the other vehicles of the staff.

“Damn it,” he exhaled.

Continuing up to the garages, he parked his car under the magnolia tree and went directly to the rear entrance of the business center. After he entered the code Edward had had him use, he yanked open the door and stalked his way to the reception area, passing those offices, that conference room, that dining room.

Men and women in suits looked up in alarm, but he ignored them.

He didn’t stop until he was inside the glass office of his father’s assistant. “I’m going in to see him now.”

“Mr. Baldwine, you can’t—”

“The hell I can’t.”

“Mr. Baldwine, he’s—”

Lane threw the door open and—

Pulled up short. His father was not behind that desk.

“Mr. Baldwine, we don’t know where he is.”

Lane glanced over his shoulder. “What?”

“Your father … he was supposed to be traveling this morning, but he never showed up at the airport. The pilot waited for an hour.”

“You called the house, of course.”

“And his cell phone.” The woman put her hand over her mouth. “He’s never done this before. No one has seen him in the mansion.”

“Shit.”

Dear Lord, now what?

As Lane bolted out of there, the assistant’s voice called after him, “Please tell him to call me?”

Back in the morning sunshine, he fell into a flat-out run for Easterly’s kitchen entrance. Busting through, he ran past the stainless-steel counters and punched open the door into the staff hallway. He took the back stairs two at a time, nearly plowing into a maid who was vacuuming her way to the second floor.

Down the hall. Past his room. Past Chantal’s.

To his father’s.

Lane skidded to a halt in front of the door, and thought that he really wasn’t ready to have a Rosalinda, Part II, with his own father—but not because he didn’t want to see the dead body of one of his parents.

No, it was more because if the man was going to need a coffin, Lane was going to damn well be the one who put that bastard’s head on the tufted pillow.

Lane threw things open. “Father,” he barked. “Where are you.”

Marching in, he listened for a response and then shut the door behind himself—just in case the man was alive: He was going to hurt the sonofabitch, heaven help him, but he was so going to hurt him.

Chantal might be a slut and a liar, but a woman should never be hit. No matter the circumstance.

“Where the fuck are you,” he demanded as he opened up the bathroom.

When he didn’t find the man hanging in the glass shower enclosure, he doubled back and went into the wardrobe room.

Also nothing.

No, wait.

His father’s suitcase, the monogrammed one he used so often, was open and partially packed. But … packed badly. The clothes were messy inside, hastily thrown in by someone who had little to no experience in doing the duty for himself.

Rifling through the contents, Lane found nothing of note.

But he did notice that his father’s favorite watch, the Audemars Piguet Royal Oak, was missing from the lineup inside the velvet-lined watch case. And his wallet was gone.

Heading back into the bedroom, he surveyed the furniture, the books, the desk, but had no idea if there was anything out of place. He’d been in here only a handful of times … and not for at least a good twenty years.

“What are you up to, Father,” he asked the quiet, still air.

Following an instinct, he went out, reshut the door, and jogged back down the staff stairs to the first floor. It took him less than a minute to get out to the garages and once inside, he counted the cars. The Phantom was still there, but two of the Mercedeses were missing. Chantal had obviously been in one.

His father had to have taken the other.

The question was … where.

And when.

“Y
’all can’t be doing this again. Come on, now, wake up.”

Edward batted at the hand that pulled at his arm. “Lea … me ’lone.”

“The heck I will. It’s cold in here, and you’re not up to this.”

Edward opened his eyes slowly. Light was coming through the open bay at the end of the stable, catching swirls of hay dust and the profile of one of the barn cats. A mare whinnied across the way, and somebody kicked their stall—and off in the distance, he caught the low-pitched growl of one of the tractors.

Holy shit did his head hurt, but it was nothing compared to his ass. Funny how a part of the body could be both totally numb and in pain.

“Y’all need to get the hell up …”

All the chatter made him curse—and try to focus.

Well, what do you know. There were two Shelbys talking at him: His newest employee was standing over him like a disapproving teacher, her hands on her lean hips, her jeans-clad legs and booted feet braced as if she were considering soccer-balling his head.

“I thought you didn’t curse,” he mumbled.

“I don’t.”

“Well, I believe you just said a bad word.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Are you getting up, or am I sweeping you out of here with the rest of the debris.”

“Don’t you know that ‘hell’ is a gateway word? It’s like marijuana. Next thing you know, you’ll be dropping ‘fuck’ bombs left and right.”

“Fine. Stay there. See if I care.”

As she turned and walked off, he called out, “How was your date the other night?”

She pivoted back around. “What are you talking about?”

“With Moe.”

At that, he struggled to get himself up off the cold concrete floor of the stable. When he couldn’t manage it, she lifted a brow. “You know, I do believe I
will
leave you there.”

Above his head, Neb snickered like the stallion was laughing.

“I didn’t ask for your help,” Edward gritted out.

Without warning, his hand slipped and his body slammed down to the concrete so hard his teeth clapped together.

“You are going to kill yourself,” she muttered as she marched back over.

Shelby picked him up with all the care one might offer to a fallen pitchfork—but he had to give her credit. Even though she came up to only his breastbone, she was more than strong enough to get him down the aisle, out of the bay, and across the lawn to his cottage.

Once they were inside, he nodded to his chair. “Over there would be—”

“Y’all hypothermic. That’s
not
going to happen.”

Next thing he knew, she’d sat him down on his toilet seat and was starting the bath.

“I’ll take it from here,” he said, leaning to the side and letting the wall catch him. “Thanks.”

He was just shutting his eyes when she slapped him in the face. “Wake up.”

The sting did bring him around, and he rubbed his cheek. “Did you enjoy that?”

“Yes, I did. And I’ll do it again.” She shoved his toothbrush into his mouth. “Use that.”

It was hard to talk around the damn thing, so he did what he was told, working the left side, the right, the front, the under parts. Then he bent over and spit in the sink.

“It’s not that cold,” he said.

“How would you know. You’re saturated drunk.”

Actually, he wasn’t—and that was probably part of the problem. For the first time in how long, he hadn’t had anything to drink the night before—

“What are you doing?” he said as her hands went to his fleece.

“I’m getting you undressed.”

“Really.”

While she worked his clothes, he looked at her body. It was hard to see much of it, what with her sweatshirt, and he decided to reach for her to test out that waist.

She stopped. Stepped back. “I’m not interested in that.”

“Then why are you taking my clothes off.”

“Because your lips are blue.”

“Turn that off.” He pointed to the faucet. “I’ll take it from here.”

“You’ll drown.”

“So what if I do. Besides, you don’t want to see what’s under here.”

“I’ll be waiting out by your chair.”

“And doesn’t that give me something to look forward to,” he said under his breath.

She shut the door behind her with a clap—and he didn’t follow through on anything. He just went back to leaning against the wall and looking at the steaming water.

“I don’t hear any splashing,” she said from outside.

“It’s not deep enough for me to swim in yet.”

Knock. Knock. Knock.
“Hop to it, Mr. Baldwine.”

“That’s my father. And he’s an asshole. I go by Edward.”

“Shut up and get in the water.”

Even through the fog of his stupor, he felt a flare of something for her. Respect, he supposed it was.

But who cared—

Boom, boom, boom!

“You are going to break that door down,” he yelled over the noise. “And I thought you didn’t want to see me naked.”

“Water. Now,” she clipped out. “And I don’t, but better that than you being dead.”

“Matter of opinion, my dear girl.”

And yet he decided to do what she said. For some insane reason.

Bracing his arms on the sink and the back of the old-fashioned toilet, he hefted his body up to his feet. His clothes were a pain in the ass, but he got them off … and then he was in the tub. Strangely, the warm water had the opposite effect that it should have. Instead of heating him up, it made him feel freezing cold, and he began to shiver so badly, he created chop on the surface of the bath.

Crossing his arms over his chest, his teeth rattled together, and his heart skipped beats.

“You okay in there?” she asked.

When he didn’t answer, Shelby said more loudly, “Edward?”

The door burst open and she jumped into the bathroom like she was prepared to go lifeguard and save him from twenty-four inches of water. And it was horrible … as she looked down at him, all he could do was stare into the messy water—and hope that it covered up his spindly legs, his flaccid sex, his white skin with its purple scars.