“No way would you figure out my full name without checking out the family history.”

She rolled her eyes. “I was making sure you weren’t descended from plantation owners.”

His fingers tightened on the wheel. “Thankfully my ancestors made their money from lumber, not from the soulless enslavement of others. However, destroying the environment isn’t exactly something to be proud of either.”

“Pretty sure most old money was earned from the exploitation of something or someone.”

He grunted. “I didn’t grow up with a silver spoon in my mouth if that’s what you’re thinking. My dad’s father gambled most of his inheritance away after my grandmother died. He spent the rest on women and booze, much to my mother’s disappointment.”

She blinked at him in surprise. “That must have been hard for your family.”

He shrugged. “Not really. Wasn’t my money. And I loved the old goat.” His throat squeezed shut at the reminder of another big loss in his life. His grandfather had loved Shane’s grandmother and hadn’t been able to cope with her death. Cowboy reminded him of the old man in that regard. “Being named Shannon Marcus Livingstone III is a bit of a mouthful, but I kind of like the fact I have that permanent connection to him, you know?”

Yael frowned. “I guess. How’d you end up being called Shane?”

“My mom wasn’t big on the family naming tradition. Didn’t want her son to have the same name as her husband.” Which he totally understood. “One of my sisters began calling me Shane. And I preferred that to junior.” He gave a mock shudder. “Shane stuck. You named after anyone?”

“Me?” She folded her arms over her chest then looked out of the window. Her family seemed like a sore point. “My maternal great-grandmother. She was a Polish Jew who came to the States with her parents in 1923.”

“Between the wars.”

Yael nodded. “She was lucky they left when they did. Congress passed laws in 1924 that made it much more difficult for ‘undesirables’ to immigrate to the US. Then the Great Depression hit, followed by the rise of the Nazis.”

“Fucking Nazis.”

“Yeah,” she nodded. “Fucking Nazis.”

After a few pensive moments of silence she continued, “I met her when I was a little girl—my great grandma. I don’t remember much about her, except she gave the sweetest hugs and smelled funny.” A sad smile lit her features. “We were never a particularly religious family. My dad was raised Catholic, my mom was fiercely atheist. But we’d light a candle to all those who came before us around the holidays.”

“Are your parents still alive?”

She shook her head and crossed her arms as she turned to stare out of the window again.