Braving The Storm: An Age Gap, Cowboy Romance (Crimson Ridge Book 2)
Braving The Storm: Chapter 41

Sitting across from the attorney dressed in a peacock blue blazer and skirt, I brace my head in my hands. Clara is patient and seems sympathetic to my predicament—or at the very least, she’s paid enough that she puts on a good performance.

We’ve been going through the contents of my father’s estate, his will, and all the papers I have privy to as one of his designated Lane Enterprises heirs. It’s been weeks now of sitting amongst the sea of documents looking for something, but I’m not sure exactly what it is we’re looking for.

All I know is that when I replace it, I’ll know.

“Briar, why don’t you head home… take a break?” Her heels clack as she gets up from the office chair on the other side of the conference table we’ve covered with stacks of folders and box files.

There’s also what seems to be an endless supply of electronic documents that we need to turn our attention to if this search proves to be unfruitful, but I’ve got a gut feeling we need to begin with the reams of printed paperwork. If there is anything worth my while, it’s going to be buried inside files like these, rather than in an easily searchable digital filing system.

My father was intelligent like that.

“Clara, be real. You know I’d rather sleep here than go back there.”

She grimaces. “God, I wish I could hit that son of a bitch with some sort of legal punch to the balls for you.”

“Pity he’s got more connections and media strings to pull than we’ve had hot dinners combined.”

“Ain’t that the truth… but please know I wouldn’t hesitate to spread some grotesque rumors about him and a weekend with a cheap hooker and a confirmed case of syphilis.”

I snort and shake my head. “Does it make it better or worse that I’m almost certain that kind of thing isn’t actually a rumor where Antoine is concerned?”

As I reach for my glass of water, my phone starts vibrating on the table.

While every cell in my body perks up in hope the name on the screen will be my cowboy, I’m greeted by the sour taste of Crispin flashing across the display instead.

“Go ahead, get some fresh air and touch some grass while you deal with that.” Clara nods in the direction of my phone. “Unless you want me to bear witness to her bullshit?”

I hit the green button and wave her off, pushing out of my seat as I bring the phone to my ear.

“Where are you?” My sister demands.

“Hi, Cris.”

“Cut the shit, Briar.”

“You know where I am, or is the tracking in my phone not performing adequately this evening?” I hope she can hear the extra helping of sugar dumped into my words.

“I know what you’re doing.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt that for a second.” Hitting the elevator button, I watch the light begin to climb to meet me here on the tenth floor.

“You create shit and be prepared to lose it all.” Her voice shakes. “You won’t get a cent of Lane Enterprises… none of the shares, none of the property portfolio… I will make sure you are left with nothing.”

“Do your worst, Cris. I really don’t care.”

It’s the truth, I have no interest in my father’s business, or inheriting a dime from his empire.

What I care about is the man I love, and protecting him from these venomous creatures.

“It’s pathetic… whatever you’re trying to look for… you won’t replace anything, and all you’ll have done is waste years of your life sitting on your ass in a lawyer’s office.”

Stepping onto the elevator, I pinch the bridge of my nose. At least the offices are quiet at this time of evening, and I’ve got a smooth trip to the ground floor all to myself.

“What would you rather I do? Sit on my ass in that house listening to Antoine fuck his latest bimbo just down the hall? Wait for him to force himself on me one night when he’s coked up and drunk as hell?”

My jaw clenches. Cris is miserable and bitter, and I don’t need to contend with her anger.

“You deserve it.” She bites at me down the phone. “It would serve you right if he did.”

Oh. She. Did. Not.

“What the hell is your problem?” It takes everything to stop myself from outright yelling as the elevator dings, doors swishing open, and the empty lobby greets me.

My entire body trembles with rage.

I quickly cross the marble floor, making a dash for what might not exactly be fresh air here in this godforsaken city, but to at least be able to suck in a deep lungful of warm, evening air.

“You. You have always been the fucking problem.” That’s when I hear it. A hurt, tearful little child in her voice. While I might be speaking to my psychopath of a sibling, the truth behind her foul temper peeks out.

“Crispin, I was only a baby. They tried their hardest to stop the hemorrhaging.” There is a spacious courtyard out here, surrounded by glass and polished marble, with an ornamental fountain in the center. Lights glow at me through the bubbling water.

“You took her away. It was your fault.”

We’ve been here what feels like a thousand times over the years, yet she’s always refused to take responsibility for her own trauma caused by the simultaneous events of my birth and the subsequent loss of our mother.

The woman I never met.

“I’ve told you so many times, I wish there was a way to undo what happened, but holding me responsible is shitty behavior, not to mention unhealthy.”

“Fuck you, Briar.”

Blowing out a breath, I dip my fingers into the tumbling water. “Get yourself a therapist, babe. Better yet, go and get yourself laid. That’s probably ten times more useful, might dislodge that pole up your ass.”

With that, I hang up and shake the water off my other hand. I’m not continuing to put myself in the firing line to receive more of her venom. It’s been her default setting for twenty-six years, and I’m done being her emotional punching bag. She’s an adult, and screw her; I’m not going to be held responsible for whatever toxic cloud my sister is determined to carry around, and willingly allow to poison herself over and over.

Some people just don’t want to see things differently, no matter how many opportunities you extend them to get help or replace a way out, and Crispin Lane is absolutely one of those kinds of people.

“Briar?” I spin around at the sound of the breathless voice calling my name.

Clara looks as if she just sprinted down the stairs, her eyes wide and cheeks pink.

“What’s the matter?” My grip tightens around my phone. God, I hope this isn’t going to be another kick to the shins, because after suffering the sting of that verbal slap from Crispin, I don’t know how much more I can take tonight.

“I think you’ll want to come and see this.”

I triple-check the address on my phone before finally gathering the courage to ring the doorbell to the suburban bungalow with butterfly ornaments scattered through the front garden.

My heart hasn’t stopped pounding during the entire drive over here.

I lay awake all night rehearsing what to say.

What if no one is home?

What if they’ve moved house? Or cities?

This could all be for nothing, and I’ll be back to having nothing but hope and desperate prayers to carry me through however long I end up stuck here for.

This has been the longest stretch of torture, and my fingers feel like they’re numb from clinging to the edge all these weeks upon weeks.

Just as I consider ringing the bell again, I hear movement inside.

The door cracks open on a security chain, and a woman with a gray bobbed haircut and pale blue eyes hidden behind reading glasses peers at me.

“Are you Mrs. Mitchell?”

“Who’s asking?” She looks me up and down cautiously.

“My name is Briar, I’m so sorry to turn up unannounced, but I was hoping you might have a few minutes?” My palms are sweating.

“What’s this about?”

“I’m here to talk about your daughter, Tegan,” I watch her features soften as I say her youngest’s name. “I also believe you know my father, Erik Lane.”

The woman standing before me goes still, and for a moment, it seems like she might slam the door in my face, before she relents.

“Graham, we’ve got company.” She calls over her shoulder as she closes the door just enough, and the metallic scrape of the chain sliding free announces my entrance.

“Thank you. I’m so sorry to put you out like this.”

“Briar, was it?”

I nod as I step inside, instantly catching sight of the high school senior portrait of a young girl with bouncing blonde curls, a brilliant smile, and a distinctive beauty mark on her upper lip.

“If you had to endure a man like Erik Lane as a father, then it seems the least we can do is offer you a soda… unless you want something stronger?” Mrs. Mitchell leads me along the hall to the quaint kitchen, as we pass the lounge, a man gets to his feet out of a recliner.

“This here is Erik Lane’s kid.”

The man with a full head of white hair studies me quizzically, as if I’ve got a tail, or horns. Pretty sure he’ll consider me devil spawn.

“Our condolences, we read about Erik’s passing in the news.” His voice is cautious, and I don’t blame him. If the papers burning a hole in my handbag are true, there are no prizes for guessing that he wouldn’t exactly be over the moon to have someone bearing the last name of Lane under his roof.

“You want a cookie, honey?” God, this woman seems so lovely and it breaks my heart knowing what they’ve been through.

“Just the soda is fine, thank you.” I take the offered glass and follow to where she pulls out a chair at their round dining table.

“If this is about the NDA, I can assure you we have kept our mouths shut all these years. No different now that your father has passed.” Mr. Mitchell sits beside his wife on the opposite side of the table to me.

There is a flash of worry that catches in her eyes as she hastily meets my gaze and then turns to scold her husband, her mouth opening with words poised.

“It’s fine, Mrs. Mitchell.” I interrupt and reach a hand in their direction. “Please, I’m not here about that—well, I sort of am, but not in the way you might think.”

They both look back at me with furrowed brows.

“Can you tell me, is this your bank account?” I pull out the highlighted papers from my bag and slide them across the wood.

Mrs. Mitchell pushes her glasses up her nose and barely glances at the paper before looking back at me.

“Well, of course it is. That’s the agreed-upon sum your father offered us, and where it’s always been directly deposited into.”

“Erik Lane?” I press.

“Yes, of course, Erik Lane, who sat in that very same seat as you’re in now and gave us his whole spiel about non-disclosure and the consequences for Lane Enterprises if anything about this was to get out, and then offered us an annual lump sum… as if it would bring Tegan back.”

The voice of the man across from me shakes a fraction upon speaking his daughter’s name.

“We give most of it away each year.” His wife offers me a tight smile. “Try to make sure it gets to agencies who help other girls who need the kind of support Tegan might have benefited from.”

Swallowing heavily, I feel the prick of heat behind my eyes. It’s so unfair that the selfishness of my father has wreaked such devastation on good people.

“I can’t imagine what you’ve been through.” My words seem pathetic, a measly gesture.

“Honey, it’s been a long time. We made our peace with her decisions. While we didn’t support the way she behaved in the years she was with your father, she was our daughter all the same.”

My clammy palms rub up and down the fabric of my jeans.

“Must have been quite a shock to you and your sister.” Her kindly eyes hold mine.

This woman has no idea how true that statement is right now for me, evidently not my sister, but that’s my next bridge to cross after this one.

“That’s actually part of the reason I’m here.” My mouth feels like it has been stuffed with cotton. “Now that our father has passed on, my sister and I want to make right some of his less-than-ideal actions.”

The couple seated across from me exchange a quick glance.

“We would like to formally acknowledge Tegan’s child, our brother, but in order to do so, you can appreciate the delicate nature of us being directly in contact with the adoptive parents. I know all about the lies my father spread to make it seem as if she was still pregnant when… when…” I trail off, unable to say the words or put a voice to how despicable his actions were.

Mrs. Mitchell’s eyes glaze over, and her husband conjures a tissue to hand to her within a second from out of thin air.

“We write to them. They send us photos. He just turned eleven and is madly obsessed with baseball. He plays Little League like it’s his only job on this earth.”

Another magical tissue appears and is slid across the table to me because I’m also leaking tears now.

“Your father never wanted the paperwork.” The man shrugs and takes his wife’s hand, rubbing circles over her palm with his thumb.

“I’m hoping it’s not too much to ask, or to presume that you might have kept it?”

“Probably could have landed us in a lot of shit with your father if it ever got found, but I had a secure spot for it all.”

“Graham, a shoebox on top of the closet is not a secure location, don’t go trying to lead this girl down the garden path.” Beside him, his wife sniffles and tuts disapprovingly.

“Would you mind if I took some photos of whatever documents you have, just so I’ve got a copy I can take with me back to our lawyers? You’ll keep the originals here, of course.” I hastily tack on.

Mr. Mitchell hoists himself to his feet, then stops to look at me with a decade’s worth of distrust.

“How do we know you really are Erik’s daughter? You could be a journalist for all we know, and in that case, I’ve already told you more than I’m supposed to say out loud.”

Tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, I quickly grab my wallet and pull out my driver’s license, and hand it over. As he quietly takes it, studies it, eyes flitting between the photo and my face, I use my phone to bring up an internet search; within a couple of clicks, I replace a photo online that shows my sister, myself, and my father from a few years ago attending some corporate schmooze fest.

“Here.” I slide the phone his way. “There are a million reasons for you not to trust anyone or anything to do with Lane Enterprises, and I completely understand your hesitation. I can only hope this will go some small way toward rectifying things.”

Mr. Mitchell grunts, and hands the phone to his wife, who readjusts her glasses as she dabs the damp corners of her eyes.

“Thank you for coming today, Briar.”

I reach across the dining table and as she returns my phone, I take the opportunity to give her hand a squeeze.

“I’m sorry it took so long for me to get here.”

“Don’t be sorry, kiddo. Your father went to a lot of effort to keep things quiet, so I can’t imagine you would have had a hope in hell of coming to visit us while he was still alive.” The man gives his wife a kiss on the top of her head. “Now let me get you that paternity test… and I’m guessing you might be interested in the letter she left behind for us, too?”