Shankle whimpers.

A father who I never met and is dead—dead—is fucking with me and will continue to do so for an entire year. I have to go to Montana to get the money that will help my mother and save the company. But going will most likely make my mother’s symptoms worse and will definitely hurt the business since I won’t be able to fly.

“If it makes you feel any better, your brothers—”

“Half brothers.”

“—aren’t any happier. However, I was on land when I shared the news with them.”

The cove where I will land appears in the distance. I adjust the flaps to begin our descent.

“We’ll be on the ground soon, Shankle.”

Really soon since I decide to come in hot. If I’m headed to Montana, I might as well have a little fun before I’m grounded. And landlocked. And stuck with two men who share tainted blood.

“We’re the billion heirs,” I mutter.

Only a deadbeat—emphasis on dead—father would ruin it all.

2

CARLY

One month later…

There’s something soothing about grooming a horse. Something almost zen.

My father taught me how to do it when I was six years old. He wouldn’t let me learn to ride until I could take care of the animal first. I hated him for it, of course. At that age, I didn’t want to be bothered with such a mundane task. I wanted to be on horseback, riding wild and free, not brushing a horse’s hair.

But that attitude didn’t last. Grooming became a ritual for me—time getting to know the animal, time reflecting on our journey together.

Time contemplating something larger than myself.

It was my escape, and it’s where I went in my head while I was held on the island.

My safe place.

“You’re a gorgeous girl,” I say to Ivory, a beautiful cremello quarter horse, as I grab the hoof pick. The tangy scents of the stable are familiar. Oddly comforting.

I’ve never seen a cremello before—not in real life, I mean. I saw all the colors in my equine textbook back in vet school. This mare has a creamy pale coat, pink skin, and blue eyes. Her mane and tale are a shade lighter than the rest of her. I run my hand down her flank, her hair soft and her body warm.

She’s a gentle soul. One of my professors at school said blue-eyed horses were long thought to be wilder than their brown-eyed counterparts. As I work on Ivory, I can’t help but wonder how that myth arose. Her temperament is more composed than any other horse I’ve known. I’m a stranger to her, yet she’s giving me no trouble at all as I run my hand down her left foreleg.

“Up,” I say softly.

Her ear twitches and she lifts her foot. Excellent. No rocks. A little dirt, which I brush away with the pick. Her hoof looks healthy. She’s been well cared for.