by North, Lena
Wilder
Lena North
Copyright © 2016 by Lena North
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Cover design: Copyright © 2016 by FAB Publishing.
Illustrations & Cover: Copyright © 2016 by Lena North
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Discover other titles by Lena North:
The Dreughan series:
Courage
Reason
Joy
47 Sweet Street
Sissa Raudulfsdatter:
Runes of Fate
My thanks
As always, to my family.
This one is also for you, Amanda, with my thanks for general counsel as well as for sorting out all my funky grammar and misplaced commas – but mostly because you got what Vilda, Sannah and Troy was all about, long before most others did.
Prologue
I’m flying, gliding across the sky, twisting and turning with the winds. The last rays of the evening sun slide over me, and I scream loudly, with pure happiness because I am complete. I am at peace. There’s someone next to me, and I hear a deep chuckle, so I turn, knowing that I will see my love. I’m smiling because I know that his beautiful eyes will smile back.
Then my tears wake me up, and I remember. I have nothing. I am alone.
Chapter One
What?
I think I almost gave the lady filling up gas at the pump next to mine a heart attack when I without any kind of warning gave up a loud shout.
A few drops of gas had escaped the nozzle, and I watched how they fell, like in slow motion, toward the ground. My foot remained frozen and then the drops hit my white sneaker. My favorite white sneakers that I got from Gramps for my birthday almost a year ago. That's when I screamed, releasing my frustration and anger, letting a few translucent drops and a pair of cheap sneakers be the outlet. It made the older woman jump, and she backed away, looking at me like I was deranged. I did not give a shit, not in the least. Grandpa Willy was dead, I was on my way back home from the funeral, and I was way beyond caring about anything.
Earlier that day, I'd stood there, alone in front of the coffins, without feeling anything except the tickle from a few drops of rain slowly making their way over my bent neck and into the neckline of the god-awful, white, flowing dress I was wearing. Willy would have laughed at the whole spectacle, and he would’ve hated that I'd been wussy enough to put the traditional funeral clothes on. He knew I hated dresses, and he wasn't much for fashion, but even he knew that white was totally not my color. My white hair and skin seemed to blend into the dress, giving me a ghostly look where the only thing breaking the whiteness was my eyes.
When people are nice to me, they tell me that my eyes are the color of amber, but in reality, they are mostly yellow, which isn't even remotely close to the more common shades of brown or pale, grayish blue. Freaky eyes, my classmates told me when I was younger, before I found out just how useful skills in martial arts were. Gramps enrolled me in classes when I was six, saying it was to teach me self-defense. I quickly decided that beating up bullies was defending myself, which justified using my newfound skills.
I also wear sunglasses whenever I can get away with it without looking like a celebrity wannabe. Due to some weird weather phenomenon involving how clouds move between the mountains and winds gush over the open sea, we mostly have fantastic weather in our little country, so I get away with my dark shades often.
When they'd lowered the coffins into the ground, the huge gathering passed by me to press my hand, give me awkward hugs or kiss the air close to my cheek. Everyone told me how brave I was. How strong. The truth was that since my father's assistant, Bethany, called to tell me that Gramps had been in a car accident, I'd felt nothing. Nothing, except for an awful icy ball of fear that settled firmly in the pit of my stomach. Bethany had continued to murmur soft nonsense, likely thinking that she was comforting me and probably hoping that this would give her brownie points with my father. Somewhere in the middle of her inane murmurs I cut off the call and started running, desperately hoping that it was all a sick joke.
When I got to the hospital, they ushered me into a large, sterile room and there he was. Willy. My wonderful grandfather. My family. He was laying on a bed, with a sheet pulled up over his chest, and it looked almost like he was sleeping. No injuries were visible, and his eyes were closed, his face relaxed. A strange vibration in the room hit me as soon as I entered, or perhaps it was a lack of vibration, I couldn’t tell, but either way, I knew instantly that Bethany had told the truth. He was gone. Dead.
I gripped the bed frame so hard my knuckles were white and tried to focus on pushing air in and out of my lungs. I couldn’t move, couldn’t talk, and I remained frozen at the foot of his bed until one of the nurses pried my fingers off the steel frame and gently pushed me out of the room. Then they gave me hot, sweet blackcurrant tea, and told me that Willy's heart had given up on him. Massive coronary were the words they used, and I blinked. My grandfather had the biggest heart I knew, and I'd been firmly lodged in it, felt safe there. It felt surreal when they calmly told me that it had suddenly stopped working, and I wondered if I'd ever feel safe again.
They also explained that there had been a passenger in the car as it swerved over the road and straight into the mountainside.
My mother.
I stared at them, not knowing what to say and wondering what they were talking about. My mother never went anywhere with Willy. I couldn't even remember if I'd ever seen them together. Growing up, I spent the weeks in my parent's house, of course. It wouldn't look good if people knew how little they actually saw of their only child. They had an image to uphold, and schools in our swanky suburb to Prosper City were considered excellent.
But when school was out on Friday afternoons, that's when I went home. Until I was old enough to drive myself, someone picked me up and took me to Double H, Willy's ranch up in the foothills. I didn't return to my parents' house until Monday evening, and by then they were usually gone, leaving me with one of the many housekeepers we've had over the years. Father had to go on business trips, or to his family in Marshes, a small, secluded village by the sea. My mother always went with Father. I never did.
When I started college, I asked Mother if I could spend some of the weeknights at Double H and she'd agreed, reluctantly. Since then, months could pass and I didn't see or hear from them. Maybe I should have resented that, but I’d given up on them a long time ago, and the thought of having any kind of relationship seemed preposterous. I mostly felt relief.
I declined to look at my mother's mangled body, and since my father had identified her already, there was no need. Then there had been arrangements to make, details to handle, people to deal with. I'd done it all, calmly and efficiently, and they'd told me how strong I was, how brave. I hadn't felt brave. I hadn't felt anything. It was as if it was a dream, all of it, and when I lay in bed at night, I tried to pretend that it was.
Father had disappeared, but when I walked into the dining room to have breakfast just hours before the funeral, he was there. One look on his face told me that he didn't want to talk, so I didn't. In a weird way, it felt good to see his grief for Mother, since I felt very little myself.
Now we were in separate cars, on our way to the lawyers' office, to hear both Willy's and Mother's last wills. What was in Mother's I didn't know, and I di
dn't care. I expected her to pass everything she owned to Father and that was all right with me. I knew exactly what Willy's will would say. We'd talked about it several times over the years, and he'd explained what he'd do and why.
Mickey waited on the curb when I got to the offices of Brentford-Suthermoore Attorneys at Law, and when I saw the warm compassion in his eyes, I clenched my jaws. To my horror, I felt how my eyes started to sting, and I breathed slowly through my nose. God, I thought, not now. I couldn't allow myself to feel anything, not just yet. I really didn't want to have a meltdown outside an office building in downtown Prosper.
“Do you think Willy picked them because of the name?” Mickey asked lazily, and added, “Would have been just like the old coot.”
“What?” I breathed.
“Yeah, but Wilder, think about it. BS Attorneys at Law?”
A startled giggle bubbled up my throat, pushing back the tears that had threatened to spill over. As we walked into the building, I took hold of his hand and held it in a firm grip. I'd forgotten that I still had a safe place. Mickey and his parents would still be there for me. Andrew Farnham, Uncle Andy, was the foreman on Double H and his wife Gwendolyn ran the kitchens. I'd grown up with them around me, and they were in so many ways my family too.
Gramps' attorney was an elderly gentleman with dark skin and sharp eyes who introduced himself as Douglas Suthermoore Senior. Without further small talk, he moved us gently in front of him into a large conference room. Father was already there, sitting stiffly at one end of the long, oval table, glaring at Uncle Andy who sat at the other end with a small, relaxed smile on his lips.
“We have a minor problem,” Mr. Suthermoore Sr. started, and made a pause, shuffling a bunch of papers around in front of him. “Mrs. Fratinelli's will is in perfect order, and there are no questions around that,” he stated, gave me a small embarrassed smile, and continued, “It's short and quite simple. She passes all her belongings on to her husband, Paolo Fratinelli.”
I heard Uncle Andy make a small annoyed sound, so I slowly moved my foot to nudge his shin gently.
“I am aware that this would have been my mother's wish, and I will not contest her will in any way,” I said calmly.
Mr. Suthermoore Sr. straightened a little and I could see a faint flicker of annoyance pass over his face before he continued, “Very well. It is most unusual, and considering the magnitude of her estate -”
“I will not contest her will in any way,” I repeated forcefully, interrupting him rather rudely. I didn't look at my father, and he didn't say anything although I could hear him move slightly.
“Very well,” the attorney repeated. “The problem at hand is with Mr. Callaghan's last wishes. Willy made a...” He trailed off, moved a hand over his brow slowly and then he cleared his throat loudly. I realized that he was Gramps' age, and I wondered how close they had been. I'd never met him, but then again, I hadn't met many of Gramps' friends. A few had visited Double H, but mostly it had been just him and me.
“Mr. Callaghan made a stipulation in his will and neither of us took precautions for a situation where he and his daughter died at the same time. I'm afraid that the thought never occurred -”
“What stipulation?” Father asked. He sounded almost angry, and I turned to look at him.
My father had always been a stranger. He rarely said more than one word at the time to me, and it was usually a curt command. The rare weeks he was at home he ate dinner alone and spent the evenings in his office. Mother was always nervous, and she used to flutter around, whispering to me to be quiet and not disturb him. It had always felt as if she was afraid, but I'd never understood why. Father had never been anything but sweet and gentle toward her, and the love he felt for her was evident.
Paolo Fratinelli was a handsome man, wearing his age well. He was tall, heavily built and had thick white hair that he kept short, and immaculately groomed in an elegant backswept style. It looked like he used products on it, and I'd heard the hairdryer from their rooms many times, so I was fairly sure he did. I'd always found this vanity slightly ridiculous, but I'd never told anyone. He tanned easily, and his pale, icy blue eyes were piercing over a long, sharp nose. I looked nothing like him, except that I had the same white hair.
“I have written statements from the police and from the hospital that Mr. Callaghan passed away just before his daughter, so she should inherit him as per his wishes. The problem is that he made a request which Mrs. Fratinelli had to fulfill to claim her inheritance,” the attorney replied, and I jerked around to look at him. This was news to me.
“What happens if this request isn't fulfilled?” Uncle Andy asked slowly.
“I've consulted with my partners, and the only interpretation that can be made is the same as if she refused to fulfill the request,” Mr. Suthermoore Sr. replied. “Miss Fratinelli-Callaghan will inherit his full estate then,” he added.
“What?” Paolo barked, and the word echoed in the big room.
“Can someone else fulfill the request?” I asked quickly.
I didn't want to battle this out in court, and I knew that my father would take me there. My mother's money would not be enough, not when Gramps' estate was so much bigger, and that I'd be the one to inherit would anger him. Willy and I had talked about this, so I knew what would happen, and how ugly it would be.
“Wilder,” Uncle Andrew said warningly, but I continued speaking.
“I want Grandfather's wishes to be honored if it's possible.”
“It's somewhat irregular, but we could, of course, draw up papers where you state that you waive any claim to further inheritance than your Grandfather wished and that you accept the fulfillment of the request from Mr. Paolo Fratinelli instead,” Mr. Suthermoore Sr. said calmly, and our eyes met.
I realized that the old attorney also knew what would be in store for me if we didn't solve this. I nodded, once, and Mr. Suthermoore got to his feet.
“This should not take long. I will organize refreshments,” he said and walked away.
We didn't speak as we waited and no one touched the tea and cookies a pretty, dark-skinned girl brought for us. I got even more convinced that Mr. Suthermoore Sr. had prepared for this when he returned not more than ten minutes later with papers that he put in front of me. I skimmed through the text, and signed them quickly.
“There, done,” I said brusquely as I pushed the papers toward the attorney.
“Very well,” he stated in a voice slightly tinged with relief, and then he looked directly at me. “I can read the will out loud, and you will get a copy of it, of course, but it's quite long and full of legal terms. Perhaps you'd like me to give you a summary instead?”
“Yes, please,” I replied.
“Mr. Callaghan wished for you, his beloved granddaughter, to have the Double H ranch, including the land and everything on it, as well as the company associated with running the ranch. He also left you a house located in the mountains, in the village called Norton.” Then he pushed a small box toward me.
“All you need is in there.”
I nodded slowly. The ranch I'd known Gramps planned to leave to me, but the house in the mountains was news. We'd been skiing as often as we could in the winter, but we'd always stayed at one of the bigger resorts on the side of the mountains open to tourism. I wondered why we'd never gone to this house.
“Mr. Fratinelli,” the attorney continued, interrupting my thoughts. “With a few exceptions that I'm sure you'd consider minor, Mr. Callaghan wanted his daughter to inherit everything else, which she did upon his death. This means that as per your wife's last wishes, the main part of Mr. Callaghan's estate is about to become yours. As you know, this includes considerable parts of several companies, some of which you manage already. There are also various funds, as well as his priceless art collections. I have all details documented for your -”
“What are the exceptions?” Father interrupted tersely.
“Two plots of l
and adjoining the Double H ranch that he bestowed upon Mr. Andrew Farnham and Mr. Michael Farnham, and monetary settlements on some of the people working for him. The value amounts to less than one percent of his total estate,” Mr. Suthermoore Sr. replied promptly as if he'd expected the question.
“The request?” Father asked after a short silence.
“Yes, of course. Mr. Callaghan wanted his daughter to tell Wilder the truth.”
“Finally,” Uncle Andy murmured.
I turned to stare at him, then at my father, who looked grim, and then back at the attorney.
“Fine,” I heard my father snap, and I turned back to look at him. “It doesn't matter anymore, and if it had been up to me we'd have told you a long time ago,” he said sourly.
“Told me what, Father?” I asked, completely bewildered.
“Oh, but I'm not your father,” he replied instantly, and I blinked.
“Wh-”
“You were an unfortunate mistake in your mother's youth before she met me. I am not your father,” he interrupted.
His voice was full of calm superiority, and I stared at him as he leaned back. To my surprise, the skin at the corners of his eyes crinkled a little, as if he enjoyed the situation.
“It can't come as a surprise that I don't like you very much, Wilder. Now you know why,” he said calmly.
“You are a complete shithead,” Mickey growled suddenly, ignoring his father's quiet voice telling him to calm down.
“If you say so,” Paolo murmured with a small smile playing on his lips.
I couldn’t stop staring at him, wondering if I was dreaming.
“An asshat,” Mickey hissed then, as he leaned forward over the table. Then he pulled in a deep breath. “No. You are a dick faced shitgibbon of a fucknugget,” he finished loudly and succinctly.