CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT Benedict

" Y ou motherfucking, lying asshole, son-of-a-bitch!" I hissed, slamming the door after arriving home.

I leaned against the door inside the clinic waiting room, fuming over the betrayal from my father. The Tahoe's headlights still cast beams of light across the parking lot while Hunter remained parked outside. I was so angry I was spitting piss and vinegar. My father must have lied to me about my grandmother's trust. She hadn't insisted I be here. He wanted me here. But why?

I'd lashed out at Hunter as well, and he didn't deserve my hostility. Unless, of course, he knew. His father managed the ranch. He lived on the ranch as well. How could he not have known the details of this arrangement? Perhaps I was being fucked with from all sides.

But what if I was wrong about Hunter? What reason would he have to withhold information from me? And he certainly hadn't shown any signs that he was a spiteful man. If I found out he was involved somehow, then it'd be easier to reset my heart and the feelings building within it. However, if he was innocent, then I needed to eat a big slice of crow pie and apologize for my behavior.

Perhaps I should be the bigger man and go back outside and apologize right now. I'd gone from being a friendly, trying to get to know him, nice guy, to a bitch on wheels. He was most definitely deserved of better from me. I peeked out of the window. His taillights were visible at the stop sign. Too late.

I wandered upstairs to my apartment, my insides tumbling around like a dryer full of tennis shoes. I'd been used for some reason, and it didn't feel good. There had to be a reason that my father would want me in Plentywood this precise year. Was it a coincidence that I came here June 1 st and agreed to stay through May of the following year?

I mean, I had completed my medical training, so the timing was good, but how could he have timed it so perfectly without there being a reason? Could that even be a coincidence, considering Hunter told me the trust that oversees the ranch ends exactly on that date?

Sleeping would suck tonight, but it was far too late on the East Coast to call my father and investigate what the hell he was up to. I'd scream my ass off at him first thing in the morning.

You shouldn't confront your father directly, Ben. He has masterfully manipulated you thus far. Play his game, but smarter.

The message played over and over in my head, until finally my nerves gave way to sleep.

* * *

I was up at six in the morning. Nine, New York City time. "Jaime Goldberg, please," I said, tapping my fingers on my desk. We wouldn't have a patient until eight and Agnes wouldn't be here until fifteen minutes prior to that. I had time to do a little investigating.

"May I ask who is calling?" an uptight guy asked.

I think I'd seen the wannabe gatekeeper, Clark Kent lookalike the last time I was in Jaime's office. That had been an awful visit. But based on what I thought had really happened back then, it was about to get worse. I'd been manipulated. That didn't feel good.

"Tell him it's Benedict Hawthorne, the third ," I stated. "The one in Montana."

Some shitty classical tune played while I was on hold. Actually, it could have been Hallelujah , and I'd still have been pissed off.

"Young Ben Hawthorne," Jaime answered. "And to what do I owe this pleasure?"

"Cut the shit, Jaime," I demanded.

"Excuse me?" he asked, acting all offended.

"Do you manage my trust?" I asked. "The one set-up by my grandmother? Not the one my parents established for me."

"Why, yes, yes I do," he clarified.

"Good!" I hissed. "And if I wanted to hire a different lawyer to maybe… say… take a look at that trust. That would be within my rights, correct?"

"Well, I'd have to speak with your father about that," he resisted. "You know, in case he has an issue with such a thing."

"And you'd do that because his name is on that trust, Jaime? Is that why you would need to speak with my father? You know, just in case I hire that lawyer I mentioned to verify my rights?" I asked. Jaime Goldberg was silent all of a sudden. "I can't hear you, Jaime. What was that?" I pushed.

"I simply think it's wise to involve your father, Ben."

"And why is it that you refer to my father as, sir, but me by a shortened version of my given name, Mr. Goldberg?"

Again, Jaime was quiet. But this time, I let him hang. I was not going to speak first, no matter what.

After a minute expired, he spoke up. "Well, sir," he began. "We have always included your father in these discussions. That is how we've always done it, so naturally, I assumed you'd want his advice regarding these delicate matters."

"And by always done it," I began. "Do you mean, show me some paperwork, never explain said paperwork, and then thrust this paperwork under my nose to sign? Would that be how we always do it, Mr. Goldberg?"

"Yes. That has been the acceptable procedure in the past," he defended.

"For whom?" I asked, anger building in my voice. But I didn't want to lose my cool. Historically, I'm an ineffective advocate for myself when I get emotional. "For whom exactly was this the acceptable procedure, sir?"

"Well, of course, for your father and his wishes, Mr. Hawthorne."

"I like how that sounds, Mr. Goldberg," I admitted. "Not the part about meeting my father's wishes part. Oh, hell no! But you referring to me as Mr. Hawthorne part; that has a nice ring to it."

"What can I do for you, Mr. Hawthorne?" he asked, sounding far less eager to assist me.

I had done some early-morning research about generational trusts and the various types used to preserve money for large estates. I had my hunches and was about to explain them to Mr. Goldberg once he confirmed a simple detail for me.

"Will you please tell me the specific type of trust that my grandmother set up for me, Mr. Goldberg?" I asked. "I'm sure you know the legal names of such structured trusts."

"Your father didn't advise you of that, sir?" he asked, using a slimy delay tactic.

"Please don't, Mr. Goldberg," I warned. "I have a list of at least a hundred trust attorneys who would love my business. And when I hire one of them, you can explain how you didn't do your fiduciary duty to keep me appraised of my rights as the beneficiary, and to your position as the trustee," I stated. "So, what is the type of trust my grandmother had you establish?"

"Your trust is a generation-skip trust," he revealed. "They are designed to skip the usual heir or heirs and bequeath to the next generation."

"As in, skip Benedict Hawthorne, the second , and leave the estate to his rightful heir?" I asked.

"That would be correct, sir," he agreed.

"And who is the sole heir?" I inquired. "The heir who is also an only child, Mr. Goldberg?"

"That would be you, sir. But only of course, once you were of legal age, or if the trust hadn't been written to be accessible at an older age," he explained.

"Terrific, Mr. Goldberg. And my trust? You know, the one that is solely mine. What is the heir's necessary age precisely?"

"Twenty-one, sir," he confessed. "And, sir. You should be made aware that there are actually two trusts."

"Hmmm. Two trusts," I confirmed. "And who owns the other?"

"You do, sir. The second one holds the deed to a large amount of land in Montana. I'm unsure of the exact name of that specific holding off the top of my head, sir."

"Could that be the trust that expires next May, Mr. Goldberg? The one holding Triple H Ranch within it?" I asked.

"That is the one, sir."

"That will be all, Mr. Goldberg," I said, disconnecting the call.

"Motherfucker!" I raged under my breath. "Nice fucking try, Dad!"

I had an apology to make and a new life to take control of. The days of being manipulated by my father were over. I'd deal with his unforgivable ass later. I had a man I needed to make up with.