I could imagine. A teenager’s dick got hard all the time, and around a pretty, young North, it would be impossible to keep it down. Except for what Macon had done.

So North’s words at the wake had been tossed out in anger. In self-defense?

“Now that I’m older, I have to wonder if he was using reverse psychology or some shit like that.”

No. I doubted that. Macon had wanted Jock to have sex with North.

If he wasn’t dead, I’d want to beat the shit out of him, because I had a feeling the reason why was going to piss me off. The only one alive to know the answer was North.

“She break up with you because you couldn’t perform?” What little I knew of her, I doubted that was the case.

“I never took it that far. Like I said, all I could see was her dad. She was sweet. Her laugh was… infectious. Besides her being gorgeous, I just liked her. Then one day, she came over and broke up with me. This was after the condom thing, not that she knew about it. She was upset but wouldn’t tell me why. Said we were going away to college and that it wasn’t going to work out.”

“That’s it? She gave you the ‘It’s not you, it’s me?’” I stared blankly at the road out the window.

“I guess, but I remember clearly the next day the deal for the ranch fell through.”

I slowed for the metal cattle guard that went across the dirt road. “You remember that?”

“Oh yeah. We were headed to San Diego to celebrate, using some of the money. Mom canceled the trip.”

I remembered that. The phone call with my dad telling me they’d decided not to sell the ranch after all. I’d been busy with work, putting in tons of hours out of Quantico, and hadn’t asked too many questions. They hadn’t tried to sell it to anyone else after that. Then they’d died, leaving the property to me and Jock. He’d gotten married the next year I’d bought him out of his half. He’d gone and bought a place in Bozeman near his wife’s family.

I’d come home for vacations, only returning permanently as part of my cover. In my down time, I was fixing the place up.

I slowed when I came upon the huge wooden arch with Wainright Ranch carved into it. The place had been nicknamed Billionaire Ranch for as long as I could remember. No one called it by anything else.

The drive was paved and meandered across the rolling landscape. The house sat back almost a mile from the road.

“Thanks, Jock. Tell Ellen hi for me and kiss the kids.”

“Come down soon and do it yourself,” he countered.

“Will do.”