Westin by Camilla Blake

Author:Camilla Blake [Blake, Camilla]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2024-07-21T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 8

Westin hesitated before he touched the intercom button, a part of him convinced they were never going to let him into this house. Rocking D was the biggest ranch in Colorado, one of the most respected ranches in the country. The Mollohan family had been such a huge part of this state, of this industry, that just the name itself opened doors. It was like visiting the home of Michelangelo or the Pope. Yet it wasn’t that reverence that was making Westin hesitate.

He’d waited nearly ten years for this moment. He’d known it would happen, knew that he would one day sit here, ready to confront a past that begged to be confronted. He was savoring the moment, wanted to take a few seconds to drink it all in.

“This is it,” he said as much to himself as to the world around him. “This is the moment.”

He pushed the button, and a disembodied male voice asked him what his business was.

“This is Westin Clark. I was invited to dinner by Rena Mollohan.”

“Drive up to the main house.”

The gates slowly began to slide apart, allowing space for his truck to slip through. Westin eased his foot onto the accelerator, his heart in his throat as he drove the quarter-mile or so up into the circle drive. He knew every inch of this house. He knew the main staircase was decorated with carvings that depicted the family crest; he knew the chandelier in the dining room was purchased in France in the late 1870s. He knew there was a dumb waiter in the butler’s pantry, and a hidden door behind the laundry room that used to go down into the root cellar. He knew more about this house than he knew about the main house back at Golden Sphinx—and he’d never set foot in it a day in his life.

He was about to. He was about to step through those stately doors for the first time.

Almost on cue, Rena came out the front door dressed in a pretty flowered dress, her hair done up in one of those neat, wide buns. He lifted a hand to her, glancing at himself in the mirror before he got out of the truck. He straightened the thin bolo tie Clint had allowed him to borrow, tugging at the sleeves of his white shirt, making sure everything was straight and still wrinkle-free. He’d ironed his own shirt for the first time in nearly a decade, and it was stiff with the liquid starch he’d used too liberally. But it looked good. He could see that when he stepped out and checked again in the side mirror. He looked like a cowboy ready to head off to church, which was the best compliment he could think of.

He took off his hat as he approached the front steps, brushing his fingers through his carefully washed and brushed hair, aware that he probably now had hat lines. He shouldn’t have put the hat on, but some habits couldn’t be broken quite that easily.

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