The Tycoon

I stopped myself. I’d wasted years of my life writing blistering, scathing speeches to give Clayton that I’d never had the chance to deliver. It had been my nighttime ritual for years.

Pat the dogs. Turn off the light. Drift to sleep thinking of different ways to tell Clayton to suck it.

And then I’d realized the only person it was hurting was me. So I stopped.

If it weren’t for my sisters I wouldn’t go, either, I wrote back to Dylan.

And then I closed up my laptop. Gave Thelma a pat. Turned off my light.

Clayton, you self-righteous, overprivileged, overreaching…

Stop, Ronnie, I told myself. He deserved no more of my energy. Not one minute more of my time.

But that night I dreamed of him. Of the first date he took me on. The one I hadn’t realized was a date. He wore a suit. I wore jeans. Dessert and coffee, and I’d been so nervous, so unsure of myself and what was happening, that I talked nonstop. Literally opened my mouth at the beginning of the date and didn’t close it until he shook my hand good-night. I remember I spent, like, ten minutes on hummingbirds. Longer on asset management.

“I’m so sorry,” I’d blurted at the end of that night.

“For what?” he’d asked.

“For talking for two hours straight. For not letting you get a word in edgewise. For…”

“Being utterly charming and delightful, start to finish?”

“Well…” I’d been able to feel every ounce of blood in my body rushing to my face. “I’m not sure about that.”

“I am.” He’d kissed my cheek and opened my car door for me.

Liar, I said in my dream. You’re such a fucking liar.

I woke up with my heart racing, my skin hot.

Tears burning in my eyes.

4

VERONICA

It was January, but the weather hadn’t gotten the memo. The sun was white in the endless blue sky. Dazzling and familiar. But not in a good way. In a blinding way. A duel at high noon, one of us wasn’t going to make it out of here alive, kind of way.

Going back to the ranch was like going back to the scene of a crime.

“What are you doing?” Bea asked.

I stopped fanning my armpits. But the flop sweat was real.

“Are you okay?” Bea asked.

Fuck, no!

“I’m fine…I just…I never loved the ranch.”

“Really?” Bea asked, looking out the window, like the landscape was filled with magic and puppies and not terrifying memories of abject humiliation around every corner. “I did.”

“What?” I yelled, turning to face her as best I could while still driving. “You’re joking. Jennifer and Sabrina and all that stuff with Dad—”

“And Trudy and Oscar and the guys from the stable and our friends in Dusty Creek.” She shrugged. “It…just wasn’t that bad. Look,” she said, pointing out the window at the horses that raced along the fence line.

Not that bad? She was delusional.

When Bea and I stepped out of the car onto the familiar circular driveway of The King’s Land, Oscar and Trudy were there to greet us. And I was so thankful to see them, I practically collapsed into their arms.

It was bright out, but there was a cold wind blowing.

“How is everyone doing?” I asked Trudy, thinking of all the staff who had lived their lives out here.

“They’re okay,” she said with a smile and stroked my cheeks. “They’ll be glad to see you.”

I gave her a weak smile.

“He’s here,” she said, because she knew me so well. “In your father’s office. Meeting with lawyers.”

“I don’t care,” I said.

Trudy didn’t believe me but she had the grace not to call me on my bullshit.

Oscar and Bea were laughing and already walking toward the stables. Thelma and Louise followed Bea, like she had treats in her pockets. Which she probably did.

“Where are you going?” I asked Bea. “We have a funeral—”

“Not for another hour,” she yelled at me over her shoulder.

Trudy and I stepped through the front door of the house and it was all so familiar. All so the same. The animal heads on the walls, my father’s gruesome trophies. Jennifer’s efforts to class up the place, with the grand piano and white carpeting in the sitting room. The glass shelves full of abstract glass art. It was as ridiculous now as it had been then.

“Sabrina?” I asked.

“In town. She has managed the details of the funeral beautifully.”

Of course she had.

“You’re here.”

And at the sound of Clayton’s voice my laughter dried right up.

He was standing in the hallway that led to the back of the house. Wearing a dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a red tie pulled loose at his neck.

He was smiling.

It hurt to look at him, so I stared at his knees for a moment. Getting my bearings, reminding myself that I was not the child I had been. That he couldn’t actually hurt me. Not ever again.