NATASHA DROVE BACK to Palm Desert. She had an early afternoon meeting with Sharon. They were going to do this in person.
And as quickly as possible.
The Thanksgiving show was only weeks away. She needed time to rescript it without the engagement, to rescript the coming year’s themes and content.
To rescript her life.
But after no more than a cursory glance-over, she didn’t think about any of that as she drove for endless miles in what was seemingly the middle of nowhere.
Everywhere she looked, she saw Spencer as a little boy, alone in the desert. As a teenager, learning to drive and seeing beyond the ranch. As a college boy, traveling this very road. He’d lost so much. Starting with his mother at birth.
He’d never known the nurturing love of a mother.
Then, at six, to lose both men who were father figures to him.
To be raised by a woman who, no matter her motivation, had been cruel to him. Withholding the one thing he’d needed most—love and affection.
And shortly after her death, his young wife had left him—letting him believe his country ways were an embarrassment to her elite and powerful family.
Somewhere along the way, tears appeared on her cheeks.
No wonder Spencer wasn’t open to love again.
In so many ways, he was like the woman who’d raised him. Striving for the things that had seemed forever out of his reach—acceptance, belonging. Security.
And, like her, he’d prevented the possibility of further hurt by refusing to love again. The only difference between him and Sadie—and it was a huge one—was that he loved his kids. With every ounce of love inside of him.
It was no wonder to her now why he clung so tightly to his ranch. To the legacy he would pass on to his children. No wonder he got antsy in the city—or anytime he was away from the ranch overnight.
It was also no wonder why he’d had only a loveless marriage to offer Jolene. Or any woman. Except for with his kids, Spencer Barber Longfellow wasn’t capable of giving his heart away.
* * *
NATASHA HAD SAID she’d call as soon as she knew anything. Spencer spent all day Wednesday out working fences. With more than two thousand acres to cover, there was always fence line needing repair or adjustment. Parts of the property still had Gerald Longfellow’s old wooden fence posts. Spencer wasn’t going to tear them down until he had to. So he painted them when necessary, treating them with waterproofing so that they’d last another lifetime. And he restrung the fencing that ran between them.
Mostly, those jobs he did himself.
As a penance. And a reminder.
He wasn’t sorry for what he’d done. Wasn’t sorry he’d kept up the lie after Sadie died. The ranch had been trusted to him. He only had to work hard and make it pay for it to be his solely and completely. If not for him, Longfellow Ranch would have fallen out of the hands of anyone who loved it, knew its history or cared about its heritage.
He’d done it for Gerald as much as anyone. For the man who’d saved his father from jail, and in so doing had given Spencer not only a home but also a father. Gerald had made a decent man out of Frank by staying by his side, taking away all the means by which he could feed his gambling addiction, being the friend who had his back. Because Frank had been willing to do the work. To earn the second chance.
Gerald had made an honest man of Frank. He’d helped him buy back his soul.
Spencer was a couple of miles from the compound, painting a post in the cool November sun, when his cell phone buzzed just before two.
“The agreement between Gerald and Frank was null and void upon Sadie’s death.”
She didn’t even say hello.
He appreciated her more in that moment than ever before.
“And there is nothing overtly illegal in what you’ve done. You have the legal right to represent Longfellow Ranch in business dealings. Which is what you’re doing. Your name is legally Longfellow.”
She was confirming what he already knew.
“Our problem isn’t a legal one,” she continued without giving him a chance to speak. “It’s a public-relations land mine.”
He’d known that, too. When it came to selling beef, reputation was everything. A hit, even a temporary one, could render him destitute—one year’s lack of profit was all it would take.
And if he had no home, no job… Claire would swoop in and take his kids.
The thoughts had been pounding him down all afternoon.
He stroked his brush against the wood his father’s hands had cut. Standing on the ground his father had dug to bury the pole. And looked at the hundreds of others just like them, neatly aligned for as far as he could see.
All hand-cut, hand-placed, by his father.
“Is there anyone else who might know that Sadie told you about the agreement?”
“I have no way of knowing that.”
“But you said that no one but you and Sadie knew about it.”
“As far as I’ve ever known, that’s true. But she might have told someone when I was a kid that there was an agreement regarding my inheritance. Someone could have overheard her going on at me about it…”
He couldn’t guarantee that no one knew…
“And what about the trust? Who knows that you are only a living tenant until you’re thirty-five?”
“Again, I have no way of knowing for sure, but as far as I know, only the attorney and I. And he can’t divulge anything.”
“Sharon suggested that we just leave this alone. And hope that Claire, or anyone else, fails to find what I found.”
He could continue to live the lie. Again. For just a few more years.
Relief swept through him. He’d do anything for his kids.
He looked at the long row of perfectly straight posts. Thought about a man who’d given up his freedom to make good for his son. Frank had died an honest man.
What he’d left to his son was the example of hard work. Of giving everything you had to do the right thing. To protect and provide for your children.
“I’m not going to lie anymore,” he said. “You found it easily. I’ve had warning.”
He couldn’t read into her silence.
“I’ll get back to you,” she said.
And the line went dead.
* * *
SHE CALLED AGAIN less than an hour later.
With paintbrush in hand, he stood upright, gazing at the horizon.
“I haven’t been to my PR firm yet. I’ve been here talking to Sharon.”
Her lawyer, still.
The sun was shining so brightly it hurt. Giving way to skies perfect in their pristine blue. Together they seemed to be a spotlight on his shame.
Could he breathe easier or not?
“There is a way to make this whole thing go away.”
He froze, one hand holding his phone to his ear, the other hand dropping his paintbrush. “Legally and aboveboard? Officially go away?”
He knew her well enough to figure that was the case.
“Yes.”
“Okay. Whatever it takes. I’ll do it.”
“As a living tenant and eventual recipient of the trust, you could sell the ranch.”
The expletives springing to the fore were unspeakable. He’d thought, for a brief second there, that she’d had some hope to offer him. Something new.
“I cannot sell my ranch.”
“Actually, you can, though I understand that you don’t want to.”
He frowned. Feeling a permanent headache coming on.
“You could sell it to me, Spencer. And then I can sell it back to you. We would have to wait until you turn thirty-five so it doesn’t give the appearance of something underhanded between you and me, and we’d have to discuss sales amounts…”
He shook his head, disappointed again. She was sweet, trying so hard on his behalf. And that sweetness was actually making this all a little easier. But it didn’t solve the problem.
“If you buy the ranch, the money goes to the ranch, not…to me. I wouldn’t have the money to buy it back.”
“You’ve got the money I paid you for Family Secrets.”
“You paid the ranch.”
“I also paid you to cohost. That was for your services, Spencer, not the ranch’s.”
She was right. Both ways. He had some money of his own. It wasn’t nearly enough.
“The best solution is for me to buy the ranch. And when you turn thirty-five, I will sell it back to you.”
He was becoming his father.
Had already been his father, if he took a good hard look. By living the lie of being an owner instead of a living tenant, by pretending all these years that he was a Longfellow in more than name only. Natasha was giving him a chance to buy his soul back.
“Yes.”
“Yes?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, what?”
“I agree to sell you the ranch and then, when I turn thirty-five, to buy it back from you. Under one condition. You put the ranch in a trust with my kids as heirs and make me a living tenant.”
He was grinning. Looking at the horizon in a whole new light.
Longfellow Ranch was finally, legitimately, within the reach of his children.
Natasha talked some more. About paperwork, official hoops to jump through. He listened. Was completely amenable.
He surveyed the land with new eyes. Legitimately belonging to Tabitha and Justin. Paid for. By blood. Sweat. And hard work.
And when Natasha ended their conversation, he threw his phone into the air, dropped to his knees, kissed the ground.
And wept.