Scarred
Scarred
The Billion Heirs
Book 1
Helen Hardt
Vanessa Vale
Scarred by Helen Hardt and Vanessa Vale
Copyright © 2022 by Bridger Media and Helen Hardt, LLC
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author's imagination and used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from both authors, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover design: Bridger Media
Cover graphic: Deposit Photos: SimpleLine, Scrudje, 4solidwork.gmail.com
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Epilogue
A Note From Helen
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He’s inherited billions, but he must leave his home and family to claim it.
She’s no longer a captive, yet will she ever be free?
Austin Bridger is struggling to keep his seaplane business afloat and help his ailing mother. When his father, who never acknowledged his existence, dies, he leaves his billions to Austin and his two half brothers. The catch? To receive the inheritance, they must all live on his father’s Montana ranch for a year. To Austin, the money’s tainted, but because he desperately needs every dime, he has no choice but to leave Seattle.
Carly Vance was a student in veterinary school when her dream was shattered. Abducted from a diner in her small town, she was held captive on a South Pacific island for three years. Now she’s home, but her scars run deep. Trying to reclaim her life, she bravely takes a job in Bridger Ranch’s stables.
Despite Carly's painful past and Austin's responsibilities, sparks fly when they cross paths. But Bridger Ranch holds secrets—secrets that may threaten their happiness...and their lives.
1
AUSTIN
“Who’d you piss off?”
I glance up at Ed, the dock guy helping me load the coolers of fresh oysters into the cargo area of the seaplane. My back is to the shore and I don’t dare turn around. Not yet.
Ed looks down the length of the dock to someone I assume is heading our way. It’s probably Cara—or Tara—from Saturday. After our night together, she somehow found out about my business—because we didn’t do much talking—and has been calling around the clock. Showing up takes stalker to a new level because I am always straight with a woman. One night. A hell of a lot of fun, but no strings. All the orgasms she can take but nothing more.
“Fuck,” I say under my breath. I take a second to close my eyes. Just what I need. Baggage besides the seafood I am about to shuttle to the resort up in the San Juans. “Redhead? Legs for miles?” I ask.
Ed’s bushy eyebrows head north. “I wish. How about male, fifty and balding. I’d peg him as IRS except the guy’s wearing a bolo tie.”
I turn on the worn dock, the water lapping at the side. I catch a whiff of the briny tang of the outgoing tide. The man, who appears to be in his fifties, is headed our way and he’s definitely not Cara. Or Tara. Ed’s guess is pretty good, but as far as I know, the tax man is the one guy who doesn’t have an issue with me.
“Mr. Bridger!” The man raises his hand as if to hail a cab. He wears a bolo tie along with a white shirt and crisp jeans. And he holds a square leather briefcase. Definitely a creditor.
Just what I need. I have enough issues dealing with the healthcare system on the phone about my mother’s bills. In-person is a whole new level of pressure I don’t want.
I set my hands on my hips and prepare for a battle. “If you want money, it’ll only happen if I get these oysters in the air. They’re not the paying customers you probably want to see, but they are alive. For now.”
He stops in front of me and wipes his brow. For the Northwest, the weather is warm. Almost hot, even for summer. Another reason to get the plane in the air instead of lingering. Oysters and heat aren’t a good combo.
He glances at the plane and then back to me. “I’m not here to take money from you, Mr. Bridger. I’m Tom Shankle, lawyer from Shankle, Smith, and Brazee.”
Great. A lawyer. “I’m being sued.” I turn my back on him, grab another cooler, and pass it to Ed. “Even better.”
“You’re not being sued.”
With a quick glance, I see Shankle smile.
“You make visits to everyone who owes you money?” I stop mid-reach and stand upright. At six-two, I have five inches or more on the man. “If you bothered my mother with your money-grubbing shit—”
He holds up a hand. “I assure you I didn’t bother her. She’s not the reason for this visit. I hope her current treatments for multiple sclerosis are going well.”
I frown. What’s his angle?
“You know a lot about the health of a woman who’s not the reason for your visit.”
Mom’s latest meds are part of a trial and aren’t covered by insurance. Expensive. But working. She currently only has mild symptoms and I want it to stay that way, although she can no longer pilot trips for the business she founded. If Shankle wants to pull the plug on the treatment, that’s a no-fucking-go.
Shankle rubs his jawline. “I’ve kept tabs on you.”
Ed loads the last cooler and shuts the cargo door with a hearty slam that shakes the plane. He nods and ducks around the two of us as best he can for a guy his size. I can’t blame him for steering clear of my shit, whatever the hell it is. Going to the back rope line, he waits for me to climb in and do my pre-flight checks. That’s right, time to go. He’ll help other planes that use this dock.
“Why the hell would you do that?” I growl, not liking anyone to keep tabs on me. Especially a lawyer.
“I’ve tried to reach you for the past three weeks.” Shankle follows me to the front of the plane.
“Sorry, been busy running a business here. But you know that, since you’re keeping those tabs and all.” I climb onto the runner and reach to open the door, ready to get the hell out of here.
“I represent your father. Jonathan Bridger.”
I freeze for a second and then turn, bobbing up and down along with the plane on the water.
“I’m not sure which is worse. Creditors or my fucking sperm donor,” I grumble and glare. “Or a lawyer representing him.”
“I assure you, I bear good news.” Shankle offers a shaky smile.
“I don’t give a shit about the man, just as he’s never given one about me. Good news? The only good news you could bear is that he’s dead.”
He huffs out a laugh. “It seems I may have made your day then. He is, in fact, dead.”
I blink, processing what he just said. “Holy shit.” Then I grin.
The fucker married my mother and then divorced her before I was even born. Left her with nothing. Sure, he paid the obligatory child support, but that wasn’t what she wanted from him. She expected love from a spouse. Not to be abandoned and for him to move on to another woman. Or two. Or fucking more for all I know.
My father was never a part of my life. Hell, I never even met him. Just hated his guts for what he did to my mom.
“How?” Yeah, I want to know what finally brought the man down.
“Brain aneurysm.”
Instant and painless. Too bad.
“Thanks for letting me know.” I open the cockpit door, ready to climb in and leave the bastard behind, just like always.
“There’s more,” Shankle adds.
I glance up at the sky. “That’s enough for me. He’s dead. Good riddance.”
“I need fifteen minutes of your time.”
“So do those oysters in the back.” I point to the rear of the plane.
“Fine. I’ll ride with you.”
I glare again. Not what I expected. He steps down onto the runner behind me and opens the rear door, the one for passengers. The plane’s small enough that it bobs from the shift in weight.
Lovering Seaplane usually takes passengers, but for supplemental income, we run supplies and various cargo. Like oysters. I’m used to customers, but not ones who climb aboard last-minute for a chat. In Shankle’s case, it’s to talk to me about my father, and most likely piss me off.
He can go along for the ride, but I don’t have to make it easy on him.
I hold the door open as graciously as I possibly can. He tosses in his briefcase and awkwardly climbs up and into the back seat.
“Ever flown in a seaplane before?” I ask casually.
“Nothing smaller than the commuter jet from Missoula,” he replies.
I smirk and glance at Ed, who shrugs. I climb into the pilot’s seat and begin my pre-flight checklist.
“Mr. Bridger. Jonathan Bridger had a sizeable estate in Montana and—”
I hold up a hand to stop him. “I need to complete my checks, Shankle. In silence, unless you want me to miss something and risk us taking a two-thousand-foot swan dive into the Sound.”
Shankle remains silent as I strap in and work through the list I have memorized, getting the engines on. I give Ed a thumbs up, and we’re untied and airborne quickly, headed north. I adjust the yoke as we’re buffeted by the high-level winds. Nothing too strong, but I don’t fight them.
“As I was saying,” Shankle shouts over the noise of the engines.
Out of the corner of my eye I see him trying to get his balance. I can barely hear him with my headset on so I tap my ear and glance back at him.
He grabs the headset in the back for passengers and puts it on. “Can you hear me now?”
His voice comes through all too clearly, annoying me, so I tip the yoke, dipping the right wing. The plane plunges a hundred feet or so and I pull up. When the guy reaches out to keep from flying across the cabin, I can’t help a slight smile.
“Might want to strap in,” I say. “Could get bumpy up here with choppy air and all.”
It isn’t all that rough. Low wind, clear visibility. A little bit of chop, just like the water below, but doable, if you’re not prone to motion sickness.
His seatbelt clinks. “You have two half brothers.”
My smile slips. I know about them. Both younger and from the women who took my mom’s place. I turn the yoke again, dropping the right wing once more. Shankle gasps.
“The three of us aren’t going to make a fort in the backyard and take blood oaths, Shankle. Get to the point.”
I tap my sunglasses up my nose and straighten the plane. There is no autopilot, so I keep my gaze on the tree-covered rolling hills of the Pacific Northwest on the horizon.
“You and your brothers are heirs to his estate.”
The man—our father—was rich. Obscenely so, and since I turned eighteen, I haven’t seen a dime of it. Before then, I didn’t get much. Enough for clothes and extra food. He moved on and so did my mom. She started the seaplane company from the ground—or in her case, the Puget Sound—up.
“Great. Mail the china and stamp collection to the company address. You didn’t need to come all the way to Seattle.” I don’t raise my voice. I don’t have to. I’m sure he can tell how much I hate my father through the headset loud and clear.
His laugh comes through just as clearly. “I assure you, Mr. Bridger, you’ll receive more than a stamp collection. That’s why I’ve been trying to reach you. Jonathan Bridger’s fortune is estimated at over three billion dollars. You, along with your half brothers, Miles and Chance, are the sole inheritors.”
The plane takes a nosedive. I’m not fucking with Shankle this time. I just can’t believe what I’m hearing. The engine noise changes and my seat rattles.
“I’m a…what? A fucking billionaire?” I ask, righting the plane.
We’re now a few hundred feet lower and Shankle’s stomach is probably in his throat. Mine is too, for a completely different reason.
Money like that means no more oyster runs to ensure Mom’s medicine is paid for this month. Mom can go to that specialist in Chile we read up on. Hell, she can buy Chile. No more creditors or business problems because she’s sick. It means a second… or even a third seaplane. A freaking fleet of seaplanes. The charter business she started thirty years ago won’t fold.
I go numb with sheer surprise of this information for only a moment. Piloting requires focus, and damn…this is good news.
I pull back on the yoke and aim for the stars. I can’t help a grin and a whoop of happiness. Dear old Dad can rot in hell while Mom gets well and flies again.
“I’ll give you my bank account information when we land.” I strum the yoke with my fingers, feeling fucking great for the first time in months. “You’re right, Shankle. You do have good news.”
Shankle is quiet, and I glance over my shoulder at him. He has his briefcase in his lap and a small stack of papers in his hands. “There is a catch.”
I glance out the front window again and adjust course slightly. I’ve flown the area enough to recognize the sea and land below. Which island is which. There’s no radar. No complex instrumentation.
“A catch,” I echo.
Of course there is.
“You must return to Bridger Ranch in Montana.”
Return? I’ve never been there. A few days away may impact flights. But if I have a billion dollars, what does it matter?
“I can swing a week off.”
“You’ll need a little more than a week.” Shankle clears his throat. “The will clearly stipulates that all three Bridger sons must live and work at Bridger Ranch for the duration of one year to receive a dime.”
“What the fuck?” I shout. “A year? I can’t live in Montana for a year. My mother is sick and on special experimental drugs. If I don’t get the money for a year, I can’t stop working. The company will go under, and Mom—”
“It was your father’s last wish.”
“That I live in bumfuck Montana for a year? Give up my life, my business, risk my mother’s health, all because some asshole is making me jump through hoops?”
As punishment, I dip the plane again, feel the pull against my harness.