Total pages in book: 43
Estimated words: 40966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 205(@200wpm)___ 164(@250wpm)___ 137(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 40966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 205(@200wpm)___ 164(@250wpm)___ 137(@300wpm)
She looks around the kitchen again, touching the edge of the counter like it might disappear. "What if I break it?"
"Then we'll fix it."
"What if I can't?"
"Then I will."
She takes a deep breath. "What if you leave again?"
The question hangs between us, heavy with all the promises I've already broken. I could lie. Tell her I never will. But we both know better.
"If I leave," I say slowly, "it won't be because I want to. And it won't be forever."
She nods, like this is an answer she can live with. Not perfect, but honest.
"The world's been trying to bury the Kanes for generations," I tell her. "Our grandpa died in a mine. Our mama died bringing you into the world. Destiny's out there somewhere, probably scared and alone. But we're still here. Still standing. And that means somethin’."
I reach out and brush a strand of hair from her face. "Home isn't just a place, Merce. It's having someone who looks for you when you're lost. Someone who fights for you when you can't fight for yourself."
"Is that what you do?" she asks.
"It's what I'm tryin’ to do," I admit. "I'm not perfect at it. But I'm not stoppin’ either."
She looks at me for a long moment, then walks to the refrigerator and opens it. Empty shelves gleam back at us.
"We need food," she says simply.
And just like that, we're moving forward.
One small step at a time.
"Yeah," I say, relief washing through me. "We do."
CHAPTER 10
I wake to the soft glow of dawn seeping through the wooden shutters. The light stretches across the ceiling in pale gold bands. Below, voices rise through the floorboards—sharp, insistent, unwelcome.
Marcus.
I roll onto my side, pressing my face into the cool pillow. The sage-colored sheets twist around my legs, evidence of another restless night. I haven't slept much after Legion.
The argument downstairs grows louder. Colt's voice cuts through, defensive and firm. They're discussing me, of course. Marcus wants to come up here, Cash is tellin’ him no. Marcus has a hard time with rules. But here in the Ashby house, we have a pretty hard and fast one.
No one but family comes upstairs. Ever.
This bedroom might’ve been a stage all growing up, but these days it is mine, and mine alone. No photographs allowed. No social media tours. No carefully staged moments for followers to dissect. After twenty-three years of performin’—and the death of my mother—I carved out this one private corner.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, my bare feet meeting the wide-plank floor as the memory of Legion's hands on my skin lingers from the dream Marcus just pulled me out of, and I head to the closet.
The door opens silently. I walk in, scanning the rows of hanging clothes—endless skirts and prairie dresses, boots lined up like soldiers. The uniform of the Ashby heiress, curated for maximum engagement. Hashtag AuthenticRanchLife.
But I’m not in here lookin’ for clothes. I’m lookin’ for secrets.
At the back of the closet, behind winter coats and formal gowns, sits a small panel. I slide the pocket door open, revealing the elevator door. It opens when I use my mother’s code and inside there is a single button to press. The doors close and the elevator descends smoothly. Forty feet down, past foundation and earth, into solid rock.
It's been a while since the overwhelmin’ urge to see the treasures down here were strong enough to make me actually descend, but today, I crave these secrets like they are life itself.
The safe room is exactly as I saw it last. Temperature-controlled. Enough airflow to create a wind. Windowless, with dim lightin’ that won't damage the hundreds of thousands of photographs that live here in negative form. All cataloged, preserved, and protected.
There are thousands more on contact sheets and archival paper.
I walk between the shelves, past boxes labeled with dates and subjects. Twenty-three years of my childhood, all neatly archived. Every milestone, every "candid" moment, every outfit change.
Sometimes I do look at them—not recently. But sometimes.
Today, though, all I want is what’s in the safe.
It stands against the far wall, ancient and imposing. Eight feet tall, six feet wide, the combination dial is worn smooth from decades of use. It’s been here since before the house was built on top of it. A relic from the early 1900s, something that belongs in a black-and-white bank-heist film.
I stand before it, turning the dial with practiced precision. The mechanisms inside click and shift. It’s filled with private treasures. But I'm not here for those, either.
I'm here for The Book.
I lift it carefully, lovin’ the weight of it in my hands. The red leather cover is soft from handling, the pages thick and heavy.
Then I take it over to the velvet couch in the corner, lower myself down, and open it up.
The first page stares back at me like it always does—a single black and white image of a dust-streaked toddler squattin’ in the dirt. Blond hair catches the sunlight, standing up in wild tufts. His small hands grip a matchbox car, but his eyes—those impossibly blue eyes when not dulled to monochrome—look directly at the camera.