Chapter 5

five

. . .

River

I gave myself exactly one evening to sulk. I took full advantage of the wine cellar and that fancy new tub they'd installed in my room. Cried. Ranted. Cried some more. But they were angry tears. You know the ones, where you're so frustrated by your situation that you just need to purge some of the overwhelming emotion so you can think straight and then focus on taking down your enemy? Yeah, that kind.

Thank God this house was so damn huge. Unless they were spying on me, the Cross brothers wouldn't have heard me sobbing in the tub. I made a mental note to check for cameras and listening devices because I wouldn't put it past Daniel Cross Jr. to do exactly that. He trusted me about as far as he could throw me.

I didn't even trust him as far as I could throw him . So there.

This morning had been the silent treatment as we both got our coffee—we being Cross and I, Walker never rose before noon if he didn't have to—then a little people watching from the kitchen window as I drank said coffee. The view was nice, especially the cowboys working in the distance and that ranch hand, Bishop, as he mended a bit of fence nearby. That man had a lot going for him. One, he was fuck hot. Two, he wasn't related to the Cross family. Three, he screamed ‘mysterious past,' and that really appealed to the part of me that loved uncovering secrets.

In another life, I think I might have liked being a private investigator. I loved my true crime podcasts and always tried to solve the crimes while listening. Spoiler alert, it's almost always the husband. ‘Never meet a man,' as one of my favorite podcasters always says.

Preach, sister. Words to live by for sure. Men are trouble.

Exhibit giant D stalked into the kitchen, poured himself a fresh cup of coffee, tossed me a mean-as-hell glare, and stormed back out. Whatever. I had my very own cowboy revue outside. I didn't need him.

My phone chirped with a text notification, pulling my gaze from the landscape of hot guys and horses.

Gigi:

Got your email this morning. Thanks for taking care of that. I don't know why there were duplicate journal entries. Accounting is so not my thing.

Me:

That's why you have me. It absolutely is mine.

Gigi:

Thank God for that. Anyone who enjoys math should be canonized for sainthood. Or detained in a ring of salt until they can be tested for demonic energy.

Me:

You've been reading those paranormal romances again, haven't you?

Gigi:

He has a TAIL, and he knows how to use it.??

Me:

Well, when you put it that way... Send me the link.

A book link came through point two seconds later, followed by another text.

Gigi:

So, how's the cowboy life? Bear said you're stuck there.

Me:

The view is nice. The company is... icy.

Gigi:

Icy can be fun. We love a reason to bundle or cozy up in front of the fireplace.

I rolled my eyes. Despite her rather disastrous love life, Gigi was a hopeless romantic and unapologetic about it. I loved that about her, but she saw love where it wasn't more often than not. The last blind date she sent me on ended in misery because of her terrible matchmaking skills.

Me:

Not when he's so cold he gives me frostbite.

Gigi:

Yeah, that's less hot. No one needs frosty flaps.

I snorted and shook my head, her texts making me more homesick by the second.

Me:

Anyway, enough about he who shall not be acknowledged. Senior left me a whole house and a lot of his businesses. I need to work on getting things in order.

Gigi:

If anyone can make those books her bitch, it's you! You'll be done before you know it and back here where you belong.

I didn't have the heart, or stomach really, to mention the one-year shackle holding me hostage. Seemed like a conversation best had over wine. Or maybe a bottle of tequila.

Me:

Miss you, G.

Gigi:

I know. Talk soon.

After draining my mug, I placed it in the sink and brushed my hands together, the universal sign for let's get this show on the road .

The house was... fucking huge. At least five thousand square feet and a sprawling U shape. One thing about the Cross family was they liked to ensure everyone had their own space. Even the ranch foreman had his own room in the house if he wanted it. The interior design said rustic but richer than God. Antler chandeliers, stonework fireplaces that rarely got used because this was Texas and it was hot as balls, and high-end artisan furniture I was pretty sure no one ever sat on. My dad once told me the leather for the couches was sourced from Twisted Cross Ranch's own cows.

I shook my head, overwhelmed by the excess that surrounded me. Excess that was technically now mine. I wondered if I looked as out of place as I felt. Because while I grew up in this world, it was nothing like my life back in Alaska. I'd had to fight tooth and nail for everything I had. I'd earned my sweet little house with literal blood, sweat, and tears. Bear had helped me at first, but over time I'd learned how to do the repairs myself. I spent weekends combing through antique shops, building bookshelves, or upcycling my new coffee table until I finally had my sanctuary exactly how I wanted it.

In fact, my house could probably fit inside the Cross's formal living room. Of course there was more than one. There were actually three, if we were getting precious about it.

A couple of cowboys stood around the island in the kitchen at the far end of the house, helpfully labeled Cowboy Kitchen . I gave them a little wave and continued on my exploration mission. I needed to get reacquainted with this home if I was going to get any information. That note I'd received directed me here, encouraging me to stay and solve the mystery of my parents' deaths. So I would go through every book, every drawer and closet, and search for any scrap of evidence I could find that might lead me to answers.

Three hours, two additional cups of coffee, and countless dead ends later, I finally stumbled across something that seemed promising. I sequestered myself in Senior's office, though I supposed it was my office now. With rich hunter-green walls, dark mahogany bookcases, and a cowskin rug on the floor, I could practically smell the spice of Senior's cologne in here. It was almost like any minute he'd walk in the room and catch me going through his stuff.

Maybe it felt that way because I felt like I was snooping. It didn't matter how many times I told myself I had every right to look through the reports and files regarding my new businesses, or that this was no different than what I did for the companies I worked for back home. It still felt shady. Probably because I had an ulterior motive.

Logically, I knew I wasn't going to open up a desk drawer and find a literal smoking gun. But I knew enough from working with Bear, whose colorful past taught me that companies have as much to hide as individuals. And that no one was squeaky clean. So there should be something in here to lead me in the right direction. Otherwise, what was the point of sending me those pictures?

Without access to the password that would unlock the laptop and the multitude of data it contained, I was limited to hard copies only. Unfortunately, rifling through the desk drawers only gave me access to generic, uninteresting things like business cards, pens, and other office supplies. I did find a bottle of top-shelf whiskey in the bottom drawer, three-quarters full even.

"Thank you, Senior. Don't mind if I do." I tipped the bottle back and took a sip, shuddering at the burn of the alcohol.

When I went to put it back, my fingers brushed against something that felt like a notch in the wood. It was small, barely noticeable. I probably would have never caught it if my fingertips hadn't run against the little divot.

"What is that?" I murmured, pressing down and gasping at the soft click as a false drawer opened up and revealed a maroon leather portfolio. "Senior, you shady bastard. What are you hiding?"

Until this moment, I hadn't actually entertained the idea that Senior had been personally involved in my parent's death. But now, knowing he was hiding things in his own home, it seemed a lot more plausible.

How well did I really know Daniel Cross Senior?

Not at all, apparently.

Placing the folder on the desktop, I took a few deep breaths to steady myself before I opened it. Part of me didn't want to know if the Crosses had anything to do with my parents dying, but another begged for this to be the end of my search. I flipped the folio open with shaking hands, bracing myself for the worst. Instead I stared down at a handwritten ledger filled with expenses and income, names, and dates. A few entries were even written in some kind of code.

I sat back in the executive chair with an audible gasp. I knew what this was. I'd scrimped and saved to put myself through school so I could become an accountant. I'd also helped Bear manage more than one shady set of accounts for a hefty fee. My burly protector might be a teddy bear to me, but the club he was part of was hardly made up of a bunch of boy scouts. He took me in and taught me how to fend for myself, but some of those lessons weren't exactly legal, if you catch my drift. He thought it was important that a girl on her own learn how to recognize red flags in all their forms. His first lesson: you couldn't protect yourself if you didn't realize you were being had. That wasn't just true in business, but life in general. Which is how I scored my first bookkeeping job. The Timberline MC thought one of their affiliates was stealing from them. He asked me to follow the money and sniff the rat out.

When they realized I had a knack for numbers, they kept me on. TMC had more than its share of income streams, and someone had to keep it all clean for them. Tax evasion was one thing. Laundering was something else.

Which brought me back to what I was looking at now. This was definitely something else.

Senior had a second set of books. Twisted Cross Ranch had dipped its fingers into something dark, and I needed to know everything.

I snagged my phone and dialed Jackson McCreedy's number as I flipped through page after page of Senior's dealings. This journal was years old. Filled to nearly the last page.

"McCreedy here," Jackson answered on the second ring.

"Mr. McCreedy, this is River Adams. I need your help with something."

"Well, it'd be my pleasure, Ms. Adams. What can I do for you?" Something in his voice clued me in to the fact that it was about as far from a pleasurable task as he could imagine.

I pushed back the nerves racing through my stomach and pressed on. "I'm going to need every password, every key to the locks on this ranch, and access to all of Senior's accounts. Cross might think he can keep me in the dark about Cross Industries, but I'm not the kind of woman who buries her head in the sand."

He spluttered for a moment, then sighed. "Very well. I'll do what I can. It might take me a few?—"

"I expect them to be delivered to me by the end of the day today."

Without giving him a chance to respond, I hung up and went back to inspecting Senior's books, making notes about things to follow up on or dig into further. With each new line item I added, the ball of dread in my belly grew heavier. This was incriminating evidence, something that could land the whole family in jail. I was part owner now, and that meant my own freedom was at risk.

My blood turned to ice when I caught sight of one large transaction the day after my eighteenth birthday. The same day I left.

Casey Adams - $500,000 Security

Why was Senior paying half a million dollars to my dad? What kind of security did he need? Thinking back on it now, had my father agreed to let me go stay with my grandmother too easily? Had it even been my idea? That day was such a blur of heartbreak; I'd been so focused on the note Cross had left for me, the way he'd destroyed me without so much as a backward glance. I never stopped to consider anything other than getting as far away from him as possible.

"Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck," I whispered, slamming the ledger closed and turning the chair around to stare out the window. "Is this what got you dead, Daddy? Did you find out something you weren't supposed to know? Get into bed with a snake?" I was hardly the same na?ve eighteen-year-old girl I'd been, but I just couldn't imagine my dad willingly participating in something that would put my mama and me in harm's way.

Then again, they say you never really knew a person. Had he been a stranger all along?