by P. Dangelico
Scott––an ally? He was barely awake during the day, but whatever. I wasn’t about to quibble over details. My resolve was fading fast, however. I didn’t want much. Outside of my career, I didn’t expect anything out of life. My childhood had taught me that the hard way. Wanting led to disappointment and that I’d had plenty of. But this…this I wanted, this made my blood hot and my pulse quicken. Running Blackstone Holdings would be the crowning achievement of my life.
Sinking further into the chair, I tipped my head back and studied the original René Magritte painting on the wall. A business man with a window to a cloudy sky for a face. I was pretty sure there was heavy meaning in there somewhere. “Can I think about it?”
“Sure. You can contemplate it on the way to Wyoming. The Blackstone jet is on standby at Teterboro.”
Frank was railroading me, and I was letting him. He’d had a way of sucking me into his schemes from day one.
“But…”
“Sydney…” Frank’s expression was suddenly grave. “You’re the son I never had. I won’t rest in peace knowing anyone else will take my place.” The heartfelt sentiment wrapped its fingers around my throat and squeezed. “You’ll have status, money, the front cover of Forbes, possibly Time magazine, in exchange for a mere three years of your life.”
If I did this––and it was still a big IF––I wouldn’t be doing it for status (which I didn’t give a flip about) or the cover of Time magazine (which I did) or money (which I had already). I would do it for Frank.
“What’s in Wyoming?” I sourly muttered.
A slow smile spread across Frank’s face. “Your husband.”
“My husband…” I repeated, head shaking at the absurdity of it all. This was shaping up to be a perfectly normal Friday until this. “Does Scott know––about your illness? And this cockamamie plan?”
“Not yet.”
Weighty sigh. My eyes fell shut as I rubbed the throb developing between them. “What makes you think he’d even consider going along? He could be in a serious relationship for all we know.”
A bark of dry laughter shot out of him. “Scott? In a serious relationship?” It was more than a reach. It was a last-ditch attempt to derail this runaway train. “He’ll go along with it or I’ll cut him off without a red cent to his name.”
Scott was married to money. How else could he live the life of a profligate wastrel. The only hope I had of disentangling myself from this arranged fake marriage was if Scott flat-out refused, but under that threat of disinheritance there was no question he’d capitulate––and quickly.
“What about the Wilson & Bosch deal?” I was stalling and we both knew it. Still, I had to try. Every bone in my lawyer’s body told me so. For the first time in my life I felt in over my head.
“Hastings can handle it,” Frank casually replied, not knowing it was anything but casual to me. Damon Hastings was my “arch nemesis” in the company if you will. The one person who had been actively campaigning to steal my job the moment I got it. “You won’t be gone more than a few days anyway. By the time you get to Wyoming, I’ll have everything worked out with Scott.”
“Then why am I going?” I said, already stewing over the Wilson & Bosch deal.
“Proof. Otherwise he’ll think this is one of my pranks.” I had to agree with his logic. “And, Syd?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t mention the cancer. I don’t want him to do this out of some misplaced sense of duty.”
I had no clue what Frank meant by that. And I’d given up trying to make sense of the off-beaten paths his mind took a long time ago. He seemed to think extorting his son was fine but having him act out of duty wasn’t. Whatever. Who was I to argue?
“Anything you want, Frank.”
Chapter Two
Scott
“Scott! Phone call for you!” Laurel screamed at the top of her lungs.
Squinting, I glanced up from the injured calf one of my guys had brought in to be patched up and watched her approach. The sun was out today, and even though winter had set in, on a day like this it could cook you to well-done.
You could see the scowl she was wearing from a mile away. She’d hauled her tiny butt all the way across the football field–sized parking lot to get to the round pen near the stables and looked none too happy about it. Throwing the reins of my buckskin mare to one of my ranch hands, I went to meet her halfway. The farther she had to walk the more she’d complain about it later.
“Are your fingers broken?” she barked. I was almost one hundred percent certain it was a rhetorical question, but one never knew with her.
Laurel Robinson was a large, loud person stuffed into a pint-sized female body, petite all over with the exception of her double Ds. Top heavy would be the best way to describe her. Also, the best office manager anyone could wish for. Without Laurel walking me through the day-to-day of running a cattle ranch when I first bought this place, I wouldn’t have lasted a New York minute.
“…well, are they?”
The shell-covered snaps of her flannel shirt were in imminent danger of bursting wide open. Behind me, I heard some of the ranch hands taking bets on exactly when that would be.
“No, ma’am,” I replied with a half-cocked grin. I’d learned early that a well-placed “ma’am” in addition to one of my dimpled grins went a long way to smoothing her ruffled feminine nerves.
Jogging ahead of her, Romeo and Juliet greeted me with a tail wag, their wet noses nudging my hands. As much as I loved Laurel, having her work for me was sometimes a fate worse than having to work for my old man. She’d raised five boys, the last two still living at home, so maybe that had something to do with her attitude. It was also probably why she ran such a tight ship.
“Then why aren’t you answering your cell? Your father’s on the landline again.”
My smile moved aside for a grimace. My father had been blowing up my phone for days and that was never a good thing. Which was why I wasn’t answering.
“I got bad knees. I can’t be chasin’ you around this property because you’re a sullen boy with daddy issues.”
At the ripe old age of thirty-eight, I was neither a boy nor did I have “daddy issues.” The sullen part was debatable, but I wasn’t in the mood to debate Laurel. Not when I had one waiting for me on the phone in my office. It would go better for me if I kept my trap shut anyway. I’d learned that early too.
“Didn’t I say that if he calls to tell him I’m out checking the fence line?” The question came out harsher than I’d intended, the impending phone call making me irritable.
“I told him that the last three times he called. He’s no fool, Scott, and I don’t like to lie. He’s your father. Just speak to him. Swallow your medicine and be done with it.” Laurel loved nothing more than to dispense wisdom that I had no use for. Regardless, I’d swallow my medicine.
The sound of jeans-clad thighs rubbing together told me she was struggling to keep up. I slowed down to let her catch me. There would be hell to pay if I got to the office before she did. Then I’d really never hear the end of it.
* * *
The hold button on the phone that sat on my desk flashed. Looking over my shoulder, I glared at Laurel who was watching me with her hands on her hips and her mommy face on. I kicked the door shut.
Things had been strained between me and my old man for a while. Basically, since I’d cleaned up my act, bought the Lazy S Ranch, and turned it into a profitable investment. Which was weird. We’d gotten along perfectly well when I was partying my life away. And yet lately, we could barely exchange two words without arguing. I’d become the man my father wanted me to be, had pushed me to be, and then it had gone to shit between us. Go figure.
He was pissed that I hadn’t come home and taken my rightful place working beside him at Blackstone Holdings––everyone in the family knew it––but he’d never come out and said it. And knowing my father, it was his pride that wouldn’t allow it. I was under no false illusions, ho
wever. It was only a matter of time before that showdown happened, and it would be an ugly one because I wasn’t going back to New York––not ever if I could help it.
I hit the button I’d been staring at for a full minute. “What’s up, Dad?”
“I don’t know what’s more surprising, the fact that you finally took my call or that you remembered you have a father.”
Gritting my teeth, I answered with the truth. “I’ve been busy.”
“Still carousing? I had my share of fun before I married your mother, but this is shameful. Even for you.”
“Carousing? Is that old-timey speak? Next you’ll accuse me of chasing skirt.”
“Quit the shit, Scott. I’m being serious.”
“What do you want, Dad?” I asked, exhaling tiredly. I could sense the conversation was going to quickly escalate into yet another argument. “I’m working. I’ve got my hands full day and night managing thirty thousand head of cattle. I wish I had time to chase skirt. Now, unless it’s important I need to get back to it.”
“It’s important.”
There was no escape. If I brushed him off, he’d only get more persistent and my father could throw his weight around better than any prized Angus bull. Putting my feet up on the corner of my desk, I tipped back my chair and hunkered down for a longer conversation than I’d hoped for. “I’m listening.”
“It’s far past time you came home.”
And there it was…
“I am home. Going on eight years now.” I glanced out the picture window, at the Grand Tetons. At the powdered sugar-capped peaks. At the miles of open snow-covered land. It was winter now, but in the summer the mountains would grow brilliant green, and in the fall the autumn aspens would turn every shade of gold.
I’d made mistakes in the past, paid the price, and found my feet again. This place had given me a second chance. An opportunity to redeem myself. And I had.
Wyoming had saved me. It had sunk its claws into my bones and leaving would be like ripping out what held me together. Nothing and no one could pry me away from this place.
“I’m not getting any younger and neither is your mother.”
My father’s voice trembled, and the first pang of guilt made its presence felt. In truth, it was always there, eating away at the lining of my stomach. This conversation was inevitable. My parents were in their seventies. And although Dad was built like a brick shit house and had an army of people working for him, it was only a matter of time before his age finally caught up to him. I couldn’t ask Devyn, my sister who lived in California, to uproot her family and move back east. Which left me––the bachelor son.
“I know.”
“I’m retiring…” Part of me breathed a sigh of relief––he couldn’t go on dominating the world forever without it taking a toll on his health. The rest of me was in a state of high anxiety for what came next. “I’m going to hand the reins over to Sydney.”
I sat up abruptly, the heels of my boots hitting the wide plank flooring with a loud thud.
Sydney Evans…
I’d met her over a decade ago––at the height of my party days––and vaguely recalled kissing her at my sister’s wedding. I also recalled it being pretty damn good before she kneed me in the nuts. I was trashed out of my mind that night, but no man forgets a woman that almost made a eunuch out of him. Yeah, I remembered her. She was a cold, uptight bitch. Pretty if you liked nondescript vanilla blondes. Which I didn’t. Curvy brunettes were more my style. Ones with blood rather than antifreeze in their veins. Ones that enjoyed sex as much as I did.
My father had sung her praises for years. She had a head for business and a thirst for blood equal to his. I never cared for it––the blood, the kill. The art of the deal. I preferred open land and clean air.
“Good,” I said, a major weight being lifted off my chest. I wasn’t being asked to step up and that’s all that mattered to me. “She’s more than capable.”
“Yes, she is. Unfortunately, the board won’t see it that way. They’ve been waiting to install their person for the past decade. They’ll fight her tooth and nail.”
“You’ve never backed down from a fight.”
“I’m glad you remember that.”
The hair on the back of my neck stood up straight. I could almost underscore the pronounced evil glee in my father’s voice with a pencil and being intimately acquainted with it I knew it would only spell trouble for me.
“I need you to do something for me, Scott. I need you to marry Sydney.”
I couldn’t possibly have heard that right. My father couldn’t have asked me to marry a woman I could barely tolerate. He couldn’t have asked me to marry anyone. That only happened in bad romantic comedies and my life wasn’t fodder for anyone’s entertainment.
“I don’t have time for your jokes, Franklin. It’s been fun. Say hi to Mom for me.”
“This is no joke. The only way to ensure the board won’t tie this up in court for years is if she’s a Blackstone. And aren’t I a lucky son of a bitch––here I am with one past-his-prime son in need of a wife.”
I wasn’t buying it. My old man was a notorious prankster. “Who you calling past-his-prime, old man? And the last thing I need is a wife.”
“Frankly, I don’t care what you need, Scott. You’ll do this for me, or I’ll write you out of the will and the tap gets turned off. You get me?”
“Well played, Darth Vader, but we’re all stocked up on funds here. The ranch has been turning a nifty profit for some time now so go ahead and write me out.” Which was the absolute truth and something I was damn proud of.
“What about your pet project?”
The threat left a chilly silence in its wake. I knew that tone. It was quintessential Franklin Marshall Blackstone going for the kill. “You love that land, don’t you? All the millions and millions of acres you’ve had me buy up over the years. The ones you want turned into a national park. I’ll break it apart and sell it off.”
Adrenaline and a heap of anger burned through my veins. I shot out of my chair and marched to the window, the phone cord stretching as tight as my nerves.
Land preservation was the only thing I truly gave a shit about, and he knew it. My ranch was run responsibly in respect to the environment, an expensive endeavor that required very careful management. Most operations couldn’t afford to work that way. They encroached on federal land which forced wildlife to either retreat or be slaughtered. Buying up the land, placing it in a trust, and turning it into a national park ensured that it remained wild for generations to come.
It was the only leverage he had over me. It was the only thing I’d ever asked of him. A little at a time my father had managed to accrue more open, virgin land than cable giant John Malone, an accomplishment he loved to brag about.
“You bastard––”
“I’m only protecting what’s mine. My family. My business––”
“Do you hear yourself? C’mon, Dad! This has nothing to do with you protecting family. This is you playing God with other people’s lives to suit your needs.”
As much as my father had mellowed over the years, his first inclination was still to subjugate something or someone. It didn’t matter which or who as long as he got what he wanted. That’s who he was in essence. Despite the white hair, he would always be that man, and I didn’t hold any illusions to the contrary.
“Whatever it may be, you will marry Sydney and stay married to her for three years. That’ll give her enough time to prove to the board that she’s the right person to run this company successfully. With the Blackstone name attached and you to back her up, they won’t have a legal leg to stand on.”
Sucking in a deep breath, I exhaled slowly, an exercise I’d learned in an effort to control my emotions and “become a better person.”
“This isn’t the tenth century, Dad. I’m not marrying someone I hardly know to satisfy your hunger for world domination.”
“Have I ever asked anything of you?”
And there was the knockout punch. My parents had never asked anything of me. I’d been left to do as I pleased since graduating business school and pleased myself I had. Panic shifted into a familiar feeling of inevitability. My palms began to sweat knowing he had me by the throat. When my father set his mind to something, not even Atlas himself could move him.
“No,” I conceded, swallowing my pride. “Don’t make me do this.”
“Jesus Christ. Don’t sound so fucking devastated. Marriage is not the worst thing in the world. You might actually like it if you let yourself––”
“I’ll like it as much as I’d like getting gored by one of my prized bulls.”
I rubbed my face, trying to restore feeling. If there was one absolute truth I knew about myself, it was that I had terrible judgement in women. I’d begun to suspect it shortly after growing fuzz on my peaches, and a string of disastrous relationships in my twenties confirmed the notion. I’d pretty much accepted that I was never going to have what my parents had and I was okay with that. Then Charlie and Meghan happened, and the proverbial coffin was nailed shut.
“Do what you will in your spare time, but hear me, son––you have to sell it. All outward appearances must say you’re a happily married man. That means no skirt chasing and having the pictures end up on the cover of the New York Post.”
What the hell did that mean? That I’d have to keep all future hookups a secret? I knew for a fact that Sydney Evans would sooner see me dead than let me within arm’s reach of her, and celibacy for the next three years was out of the question. So where did that leave me?
Sitting on the window ledge, I considered begging. It’d be worth it if it meant I’d get to keep the millions of acres intact and myself free of this mess.
“Tell me this is another one of your pranks.”
“I can’t do that.”