Eight

Lincoln

Present day

From the windows of my office, I stare down the river as it runs fast through the gorge with the runoff from the mountain snow melt. Massive trees block my view of much else. It’s those massive trees that created my family’s legacy after the Gables jumped the claim to our gold mine in 1851.

That didn’t work out so well for the Gables, though, because the mine petered out long before they learned to make good business decisions or save a dime. My forefathers left fools’ dreams of gold behind and went to the woods, building the country’s largest timber company and lodging themselves firmly into history as lumber barons. Or as some called them after they added railroads to family business—robber barons.

Riscoff Holdings still takes a top spot on the list of largest privately held companies in the country. But it’s not just a company; it’s a family dynasty. This town may bear the Gable name, but we own damn near every inch of it. Nothing happens in Gable that we don’t have a hand in.

I have to wonder if that includes Whitney Gable’s return, especially since Commodore knew she was coming.

Now I need to decide how I’m going to handle it. I’ve seen her. I want her.

If she were anyone else, she’d be in my bed tonight. Women hear the Riscoff name and see dollar signs instead of a man. Whitney Gable is the only woman who has had the exact opposite reaction, and that’s only one piece of what set her apart from all the rest.

My need to see her again drives me just as hard as the knowledge that I should stay away. I already publicly humiliated myself once for her, and that’s not an experience I’m eager to repeat.

Then again, maybe I shouldn’t have objected at her wedding.

But she didn’t love Ricky Rango. She couldn’t have. I didn’t believe it then, and I don’t believe it now. Not after those months she spent with me.

Could I have handled it better? Absolutely. I should have skipped the two fifths of Scotch before I walked into that church. Even though I was drunk, I still remember what she said to me that day. “You can’t buy me.”

I’ve spent a decade waiting for my second chance. Now that it’s here, I’m not going to fuck it up again. If this were a business deal, I’d identify weaknesses, exploit them, and win. I should apply the same strategy to Whitney.

Should.

But for some goddamned reason, I want her to come to me of her own free will—totally and completely.

I won’t settle for scraps this time. I don’t want stolen nights and hidden meetings. I want her out in the open. In front of God and the entire world.

And that will never happen with Whitney.

Bullshit. I refuse to believe it. I’ve worked myself to the bone over the last decade, punishing myself for my stupidity and obsession as I added million after million to the Riscoff bank accounts.