Chapter 8

Westin hesitated before he touched the intercom button, a part of him convinced they were never going to let him into this house. Rocking D was the biggest ranch in Colorado, one of the most respected ranches in the country. The Mollohan family had been such a huge part of this state, of this industry, that just the name itself opened doors. It was like visiting the home of Michelangelo or the Pope. Yet it wasn't that reverence that was making Westin hesitate.

He'd waited nearly ten years for this moment. He'd known it would happen, knew that he would one day sit here, ready to confront a past that begged to be confronted. He was savoring the moment, wanted to take a few seconds to drink it all in.

"This is it," he said as much to himself as to the world around him. "This is the moment."

He pushed the button, and a disembodied male voice asked him what his business was.

"This is Westin Clark. I was invited to dinner by Rena Mollohan."

"Drive up to the main house."

The gates slowly began to slide apart, allowing space for his truck to slip through. Westin eased his foot onto the accelerator, his heart in his throat as he drove the quarter-mile or so up into the circle drive. He knew every inch of this house. He knew the main staircase was decorated with carvings that depicted the family crest; he knew the chandelier in the dining room was purchased in France in the late 1870s. He knew there was a dumb waiter in the butler's pantry, and a hidden door behind the laundry room that used to go down into the root cellar. He knew more about this house than he knew about the main house back at Golden Sphinx—and he'd never set foot in it a day in his life.

He was about to. He was about to step through those stately doors for the first time.

Almost on cue, Rena came out the front door dressed in a pretty flowered dress, her hair done up in one of those neat, wide buns. He lifted a hand to her, glancing at himself in the mirror before he got out of the truck. He straightened the thin bolo tie Clint had allowed him to borrow, tugging at the sleeves of his white shirt, making sure everything was straight and still wrinkle-free. He'd ironed his own shirt for the first time in nearly a decade, and it was stiff with the liquid starch he'd used too liberally. But it looked good. He could see that when he stepped out and checked again in the side mirror. He looked like a cowboy ready to head off to church, which was the best compliment he could think of.

He took off his hat as he approached the front steps, brushing his fingers through his carefully washed and brushed hair, aware that he probably now had hat lines. He shouldn't have put the hat on, but some habits couldn't be broken quite that easily.

Rena practically jumped into his arms as he approached her. He turned his head when she reached up to plant a kiss, accepting it chastely on his cheek rather than her originally intended destination. Her slight body was warm, but she was already shivering in the cold air.

"We should go inside."

"Yes, yes, we should." She backed away, blushing as she smiled at him, her hand slipping into his. "Come on. Momma was about to ring the dinner bell."

Westin followed her into the house, not disappointed by the gorgeous marble floors that he knew had been built with marble shipped over specially from Italy. The walls were a darker color than he'd expected, but he realized he should have expected they would have been painted a few times over the years. Rena helped him out of his coat and hung it in the closet, smiling again as she gestured for him to follow her into the sitting room.

It was a massive room, decorated in furniture that was both fashionable and functional. Dominic Mollohan was sitting in a wide, straight-backed chair, an iPad on his knee. Mrs. Mollohan was on the couch, a glass of wine clutched between both her hands. She smiled as she watched them come into the room, her eyes moving over the pleasure in her daughter's eyes before moving to Westin. He recognized Rena in her features—the same wide-set eyes, the same perky little nose. And that smile. It was obvious where Rena got her good looks.

"Momma. Daddy. This is Westin Clark, my friend I was telling you about."

Mrs. Mollohan was the first to stand, her glass left on a low table as she approached, offering a quick hand. "It's lovely to meet you, Mr. Clark."

"You, too, Mrs. Mollohan. Rena speaks very highly of you."

The older woman winked at her daughter. "That's what I taught her to do."

But it was Dominic Mollohan who drew Westin's attention. He was slow to stand, seemingly reluctant to greet his daughter and her latest conquest. When he finally turned his attention to the younger man, Westin found himself studying his features, looking for something familiar. He found it, or thought he did, just as he thought he'd seen it in photographs that were decades old. He was just as he'd expected to find him—tall and dark and arrogant. The kind of man who thought he ruled the world, because he did. At least, his little part of it.

"Daddy, come say hi," Rena pouted.

"Hello," Mollohan said, lowering his head slightly as though in a bow that felt more condescending than welcoming.

"Daddy!" Rena shot a look at her mother who gently grasped her husband's arm and drew him closer to the small party. "Be polite, Dom," the older woman said.

"You work at the Golden Sphinx, don't you?"

Westin lowered his head just slightly. "I do. Have for three years."

"You knew Asa Howard, then."

"I did."

"Man was an ass. Stole three hundred acres of the Rocking D and refused to give them back." Mollohan shook his head before skirting Westin and his own daughter in favor of the bar. He poured himself something dark, a brandy maybe, and swallowed a generous slug before topping it off. "Isn't dinner ready, Carolyn?"

Mrs. Mollohan blushed with what Westin could only imagine was embarrassment, but nodded. "It is. We should go in."

"Sorry," Rena whispered near Westin's ear. "He can be difficult sometimes."

"It's all right. He'll warm to me. Everyone does eventually."

"I'm sure he will," Rena said with a bright smile. She tucked her arm into Westin's and paraded into the dining room like it was the first time she'd been escorted by a gentleman. Westin wondered if it was. If that didn't make a man feel like an ass, he wasn't sure what would.

The four of them settled on opposite sides of the table, forced to stare at one another as a member of the kitchen staff delivered their salads on beautiful white china plates. Westin glanced at Rena, watching which fork she picked up, not ready to look completely like an uncouth fool.

"Westin, you said you've worked for Golden Sphinx for three years? What did you do before that?" Mrs. Mollohan asked.

"I worked the oil fields in Texas for a few years after high school, before settling back in Denver to attend college."

"You have a degree?" she asked, the surprise not completely hidden.

"Yes, ma'am. I have a bachelor's in philosophy."

There was no hiding the surprise on Mrs. Mollohan's face this time. She stared openly at Westin like she couldn't quite believe what he'd said. "Philosophy? As in ethics and critical thinking?"

"Yes, ma'am. We studied many things in depth, such as history and ethics in the law as well as society. In several classes we had very heated discussions over human rights and the legality of a government deciding whether women should be forced to carry an unwanted child." He rolled his head slightly on his shoulders. "It was quite interesting listening to opinions from such a diverse group of people as those who were in my classes."

"And what was your opinion? On the whole abortion thing?" Rena asked, smiling sweetly at him, her hand sneaking onto his thigh. Westin quickly arrested her hand, keeping it closer to his knee than anywhere else.

"Well, that's a complicated subject." Westin stole a glance at Dominic Mollohan. He was studying his phone, clearly more interested in something on the screen than the conversation or even the food. "I believe a woman has a right to do whatever she wants with her body. Men shouldn't tell a woman what to do with her body. A man shouldn't have an opinion until that child is born." Westin stared at Mollohan as he spoke those words, willing him to look up, to listen. Willing him to recognize his own actions in those words.

He didn't.

"That's very enlightened, Westin," Mrs. Mollohan said. "What other things did you discuss in your classes?"

He rolled his shoulders, falling back a little as Mollohan continued to stare at his phone. "We discussed all the good oldies—Plato and Locke and Nietzsche."

"Nietzsche?" Mrs. Mollohan looked impressed. "I read some of his work when I was in school, but I'm afraid it was a little over my head."

Westin tilted his head to one side, adopting a thoughtful expression. "‘Happiness is the feeling that power increases—that resistance is being overcome.' Or something like that."

Mrs. Mollohan clapped. "Very good. I always wanted to be the kind of person who could quote a Nietzsche or even JFK, but I could never remember those sorts of things very well."

"You underestimate yourself, Momma," Rena said. "You can remember who's feuding with who, and who just filed for divorce so probably shouldn't sit together at a dinner party."

"Oh, that's just silly stuff. I mean the important things."

"I think even Nietzsche would agree that people getting along at a dinner party is very important," Westin argued, earning a smile from Rena.

Their salad plates were taken away and replaced by bigger plates covered with a generous cut of prime rib and a creamy dollop of potatoes. Rena leaned close as they waited for the kitchen help to leave the room and whispered in his ear, "You're charming the pants off her."

Westin glanced over at Mrs. Mollohan and caught her shooting her husband an irritated glance as the man continued to scroll through something on his phone. It wasn't as satisfying to Westin to see the unhappy state of the Mollohan marriage as he might have thought it would be. He felt sorry for Mrs. Mollohan. She seemed like a perfectly reasonable woman, patient and kind. She didn't deserve to be ignored and talked down to the way Mollohan had done since the moment Westin had walked into this fabled home.

"Dominic, darling," Mrs. Mollohan said, "why don't you put your phone away."

"It's important. A text from Petey." Mollohan shot his wife a dirty look. "One of us has to work around here to keep you in all your finery."

Mrs. Mollohan blushed, her eyes falling to her plate. After a moment, she carefully picked up her fork and touched it to her potatoes, but it was quite clear she wasn't much in the mood to eat.

"Where did you go to college, Mrs. Mollohan?" Westin asked after a few heavy, silent moments.

She looked up, her eyes telling him without words how grateful she was for a man to take notice of her. She smiled much like her daughter, tilting her head slightly, her dark hair falling over her shoulder like he imagined it must have done when she was Rena's age and flirting with all the boys who must have orbited around her.

"Northwestern," she said with some pride. "I have a bachelor's in literature with a minor in creative writing."

"Really? Did you want to be a novelist?"

She blushed. "Once. When I was very young and na?ve. But your dreams tend to change when life happens."

"I understand that. I was never really sure what I wanted to do with my life. I was just going from one thing to another, doing what felt good at the time. I'm still not really sure this is what I'll be doing ten years from now."

"With a degree in philosophy, I imagine you must not be as challenged as you could be on the ranch."

"Oh, I don't know. Some of the boys on Golden Sphinx are actually quite intellectual. One of our guys has a master's in mathematics."

"No kidding?"

"He taught at the university level for a short time, intending to get his PhD. But he changed his mind, decided he wasn't cut out for the academic life."

"Well, you're just a bunch of Rhodes Scholars over there, aren't you?"

Westin smiled, his eyes jumping to Mollohan once more. The man was still glued to his phone like the only thing in the world that mattered to him was written on that screen.

"This is a lovely meal, Mrs. Mollohan."

She smiled again. "I can't take all the credit for it, but I'll pass your compliments along to our cook."

"I'm sure you had more to do with it than you're implying."

"Momma is very hands-on around here," Rena agreed. "Nothing happens in this house that she doesn't know about and didn't put her stamp of approval on."

"It's all just part of running a proper home."

Mollohan grunted. "It's all just fluff. Women's work."

Without looking up, with just those meanly uttered words, Mollohan deflated his wife just like he'd pricked a balloon with a needle. The light left her eyes, the smile leapt from her mouth, and her whole body seemed to cave in right in front of Westin. His hands curled into fists, the urge to jump over that table almost too much to ignore.

Silence fell heavy over the room, both of the Mollohan women silent as they picked at their food. Westin touched Rena's cheek lightly, just trying to draw that smile back out. She looked up, a sadness that was old and familiar filling her pretty eyes. She mouthed the word sorry , a blush burning across her cheeks.

"Don't. Don't apologize for his rude behavior," he said low enough that she didn't have to worry about her dad hearing. "It's not your fault."

She kissed his cheek lightly. "Thank you."

"Tell us about your family, Westin," Mrs. Mollohan said a bit later as the dinner dishes were exchanged for dessert, a lovely fruit tort with a single scoop of ice cream.

"My mother's from this area, actually," he said around a bite of the sweet vanilla ice cream. "The other side of Milsap."

"Is that right?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Is that how you ended up here?"

"Yes. She talked about the ranches out here so often that I just felt like I wanted to see them for myself."

"Your mother must be so proud."

"She would be, but she passed away a few years ago." Westin set down his fork as his eyes moved over Mollohan again. "Cancer."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

Westin lowered his head slightly. "It was difficult to watch someone who'd worked so hard and so selflessly all my life to take care of me waste away as she did. I'd promised her the world, you know? When I made my fortune, I was going to set her up in a big, beautiful house, give her everything she might have had if I hadn't ruined her dreams. But the cancer had other ideas."

"I'm sure your mother wasn't expecting anything from you. She did it because she loved you."

Westin smiled. "I know she did. Worked three jobs sometimes just to give me every opportunity. I went to a good school, played sports, had everything I could have ever wanted. I didn't even know we were poor until some kid told me, and I asked my mother about it. But she, like everything else she always did, told me that we were rich in love and that was all that mattered."

Mollohan snorted. "Sounds like something someone who didn't have anything would say."

Westin's fists clenched again. "She worked here, you know. Years ago."

"Did she?" Mrs. Mollohan asked, curiosity written all over her face. "When?"

"Back in the early nineties. She was a ranch hand, one of only three women who got jobs on the ranches out here back then. She was proud of that fact."

"What was her name?" Mollohan demanded, finally paying attention.

"Heidi," Westin said, watching the older man's face closely for any sign of recognition. "Heidi Clark."

Something slipped across his face, a ghost of comprehension. But it was gone almost before it arrived, his mask of disinterest still firmly in place.

"She mentioned you a time or two, sir," Westin added. "Said you worked alongside the ranch hands at the time, learning the business from the ground up."

Mollohan didn't comment, but his wife nodded. "Dominic did do that. His father wanted his sons to know what it was like to run the cattle. Said it was important they knew every job on the ranch before they took it over." She glanced at her husband. "You told me once about the woman you worked with. Said she was surprisingly good at the job."

"Yeah, well, she took off, left Father high and dry during the mating season. You can't just be good; you have to be reliable, too."

"She had good reason for leaving," Westin said, his jaw clenched. "Really good reason."

"Oh?" Mrs. Mollohan asked as her husband glared across the table at Westin. "What was that?"

Mollohan slapped his hand on the table, forcing all eyes to jump to him. There was a storm brewing on his face, lightning burning in his eyes as he stared at Westin. "I think Mr. Clark and I would like to retire to the study for some brandy. If you ladies will excuse us."

He stood before his wife or daughter could protest. Rena reached for Westin's hand as he set his napkin on the table and began to stand.

"It's all right," she said, patting her knee lightly before he stood and rounded the table, more than ready to follow Mollohan. He'd been waiting for this moment for a very long time. All his life, maybe.

Mollohan led the way down a long corridor, pushing open double doors that revealed a dark room filled with expensive furniture all in wood and dark fabric, a room designed for a CEO. There were shelves covered in books on one wall, trophies in cases on another. A portrait of the family graced the space above the fireplace, a cliché if Westin had ever seen one. He had to admit, though, it was a beautiful rendition of Rena and her mother.

Westin stood before the fireplace, his hands in his pockets as he studied the crackling fire that burned there. The words he'd practiced since the moment he'd decided he would one day stand in this room ran through his mind, so well-practiced that he couldn't imagine they wouldn't come out perfectly.

"What did she tell you about me?"

That, however, was not the first question he had anticipated Mollohan asking.

He turned, found Mollohan pouring two glasses of brandy as promised. He crossed the room, holding one out to Westin. He took it more out of a momentary sense of confusion than anything else.

"I'm sure she told you all about me, about this house, about the fortune she missed out on having."

"Missed out on?"

"She was a beautiful woman, your mother." Mollohan took a deep swallow of the brandy. "Those blue eyes… a man could get lost in them for days."

"She believed you loved her."

"I think I believed it at the time. But don't we all? That first big romance, the first summer fling that you want to last forever but know can't?" Mollohan tilted his head to one side. "She tell you I was your father?"

Again, Mollohan had blown Westin's script out of the water. He was supposed to deny it, pretend he hadn't known. He was supposed to argue so that Westin could get all righteous, tell him exactly where he could go. He wasn't supposed to admit it.

Mollohan strolled over to the couch and took a seat, crossing one leg over the other with a sigh. "We were both young. I was twenty-four, just home from college, sowing my oats. My father sends me out to the bunkhouse, tells me to live with this group of sweaty ranch hands and this one beautiful, blue-eyed beauty. It was like giving Rena a credit card and telling her to go to town. I couldn't resist." He even smiled this self-satisfied smile, like an older generation telling themselves that boys will be boys. "But I wasn't the only one. She tell you that, too?"

Westin stood very still, that sniffer of brandy between both his hands. He stared into the dark liquid, but saw only his mother's face, her tired smile as she lay in that hospital bed, ready to go wherever it is the terminally ill go when their bodies can't fight any longer.

Don't be angry with him, Westin. He meant well.

He didn't mean well. He was just a rich boy who thought he could have anything he wanted.

"You gave her a thousand dollars and told her to take care of it."

"What was that?" Mollohan asked, tilting his head slightly. "Speak up, boy."

"You gave her a thousand dollars and told her to take care of it," he repeated, his eyes coming up slowly from the rim of that glass. "You told her I was an inconvenience because you were already engaged to another woman. Told her it was out of your control, that your father had set it up and you had to do what your father said or he'd give the ranch to your younger brother. Right?"

Mollohan had the nerve to chuckle. "Is that what I told her? I told so many lies to so many girls back then, I couldn't keep them all straight."

"Do you remember telling her you loved her? That she was the only woman you'd ever loved and would ever love?"

Mollohan leaned forward and set his drink on the small coffee table in front of him before twisting his head to look at Westin. "You're a young man. Surely you've told a woman lies to get her into bed."

"No, I haven't. I haven't needed to."

"Well, good for you." Mollohan chuckled softly. "Those of us here in the real world sometimes have to use a little charm, some white lies, to get what we want. You use what works, you know?"

"Which is it, then? You had to lie to my mother to get her into bed? Or she was so easy that every man on the ranch had her, so you just jumped into line?"

Mollohan sat back again, rolling his shoulders with such nonchalance that it physically hurt Westin to see it, to realize just how callous this man really was.

"A little bit of both, I suppose."

Westin nodded slowly. "That's not how she told it to me. Her story was more of a romance, a young man whose future was out of his hands because of his father's money and power. A young girl who took what she could from the only man she'd ever love. Hell, to hear her tell it, she was happy to take that money and leave town, because that huge sum you offered her proved that you loved her, that you would have run off with her if you could have." Westin grunted softly. "She made every excuse she could for you, building you up for me like it was some sort of fairy tale. And maybe it was. Maybe she was just so good she couldn't see how truly rotten you really were."

Mollohan didn't seem fazed by anything Westin had to say. "I think we all want to believe our mothers are angels. Doesn't make it true."

Westin turned back to the fire and set the glass he'd been holding on the mantel, afraid he'd break it between his hands because he could no longer deny his fingers the desire to curl into tight fists. He shoved his hands into his pockets to keep them to himself, afraid if he didn't, he might throw a punch he'd regret.

"She used to tell me stories about the Mollohan family, like the one about the man who started this ranch before the Civil War, or the one about the tradition of passing the ranch down to the firstborn son."

"All things she picked up working here. All common knowledge."

"You didn't tell her any of that?"

"Why would I?"

"Because you told her you wanted to marry her."

"Kind of hard to do when I was already engaged to another woman."

Westin shook his head. "She didn't know that until it was too late—because you waited until it was too late, until she had already given in to you."

"Look, boy, our mothers all tell us stories to make them look like fairy-tale princesses in our eyes. No parent wants his or her kid to know the truth about their past, especially when that past involves a few indiscretions. It's nothing to be ashamed of."

"Why would I be ashamed of my mother falling in love with a man who promised her the world?"

"I told you; she got around. Any of the men on the ranch back in those days could be your father. Just because I spent a few nights rolling in the hay with her, doesn't mean a thing."

"Except that you are my father."

"There's no proof of that."

Now they were back on script. Westin was prepared for that argument. He tugged a narrow box out of his back pocket and tossed it onto the coffee table, knocking over the sniffer that held the remnants of Mollohan's brandy.

"DNA test. All you have to do is swab the inside of your cheek."

Mollohan pulled back from the narrow box like it was a snake that might bite him. "You've thought of everything, haven't you?"

"My mother wasn't a liar. She said you were the only man she'd been with, the only man she cared about. Hell, it was you she was thinking of as she lay dying in the hospital. Told me not to be angry with you. That you'd only done what you had to do." Westin snorted. "She died of uterine cancer, you know. I always kind of thought it was you, the seed you'd planted inside her that just kept rotting until it destroyed her. Her refusal to see you for what you really were."

Mollohan got to his feet and snatched up the DNA test, tossing it into the fire as though that would end the discussion. "You didn't know your mother the way I did, boy. She slept with every man on this ranch." Mollohan snickered, the sound like nails on a chalkboard. "Hell," he said with a slow drawl, "she might even have done my father for all I know! There were quite a few times when I found them alone in this very room. Maybe you were conceived right there on that desk. He liked to bend his women over that thing; said it was—"

That was all Westin could take. He spun on Mollohan and threw a punch, catching the older man across the jaw, sending him stumbling backward. Mollohan touched his jaw once his momentum had stopped, glaring at Westin as he checked his fingers for blood.

"That's the difference between me and you, boy. I can control my temper."

"Can you?" Westin rubbed his hand as he stared at Mollohan. "I told her what kind of man you were. Told her a real man doesn't get a woman pregnant and then hand her money to take care of the problem. But she refused to see you the way I did, the way I do. She kept those rose-colored glasses on until the day she died."

"If she could see us now, she'd been ashamed of you."

"No. She'd be shocked by you ." Westin took a step toward Mollohan and the older man moved backward, clearly not anxious to get into Westin's personal space again. "She always thought that all I'd have to do was show up, tell you I was your son, and you'd welcome me with open arms. She thought you'd hand me the keys to Rocking D, teach me the ropes the same way your father taught you. It was this image of the two of us running the cows together that she was talking about the day she died."

"The keys to Rocking D?" Mollohan spat, a thick glob of spittle flying across the room and landing on the glass of the fireplace screen. "I don't fucking care who your father is. No bastard is getting his hands on my ranch."

"That's what I told her you'd say." Westin shook his head as he shoved his hands in his pockets again. "She told me to come up to the front door and knock, like I had every right to be here. You know what? I applied for a fucking job here and you never even called me. So, I studied you, tried to figure out the best way to get close to you. Three years I've worked at Golden Sphinx, learning about you, trying to figure you out. And then Rena just stumbled into my path one day, and I knew she was the best way in." Westin looked down his nose at Mollohan even as the man's face turned a dangerous shade of crimson. "All that time studying you and I realized there are only two things you give a damn about: this ranch and that girl."

"Stay away from my daughter!" Mollohan cried, finally showing some life as he charged Westin. It was a fool's errand, of course, since Westin was half Mollohan's age, and more agile than he probably ever had been. Westin stepped easily out of his path, and Mollohan nearly charged right into the fire. He caught himself and turned, throwing a blind punch that connected with Westin's shoulder. The impact wasn't half as intense, however, as the impact of the blow Westin threw that caught Mollohan in the stomach. He fell forward, bent over. Westin caught his head and punched him again, twice more, in the breadbasket before he stepped back and allowed the older man to fall to the floor.

"You know what, old man?" Westin asked as he bent low, using the toe of his boot to lift Mollohan's face just enough to see his eyes. "I came here for my mother. I came here because she believed in you so much that I wanted to give you a chance. But the more I learned about you, the more I knew you were just another spoiled rich boy who thought he could have whatever he wanted no matter the cost to anyone else. My mother thought I deserved this place, your money and your legacy, but I don't. My mother gave me more than enough. She raised me to be a better man than you will ever be."

There was fear in Mollohan's eyes. Westin thought he'd feel some sort of satisfaction if and when he saw that, but he didn't. All he felt was tired, and damned disappointed. But he wasn't disappointed for himself. He was disappointed for his mother. All that time she'd truly believed Dominic Mollohan was a good man, a caring man. But he was just a user, just like every other man who'd ever used and abused a good woman.

"I'm better than you," Westin repeated as he jerked his foot away, causing Mollohan's head to bounce onto the floor.

Westin stormed out of the house, barely remembering to snag his jacket as he passed through the entry hall. He heard Rena call after him, but he didn't stop to acknowledge her. How could he? The poor girl believed she was in love with him, and here he was, her half-brother.

Shameless. He'd wanted so desperately to get close to Mollohan that he'd used his innocent daughter. What did that make him?

Maybe he was wrong. Maybe he wasn't any better than his father.