Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 73664 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 368(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73664 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 368(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
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.
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.