Millionaire in a Stetson. Barbara Dunlop

here,” Niki returned. “Your sisters and brothers are here.”

      “So are yours.”

      “It’s not the same thing.”

      The idea that Katrina could ever be considered a stranger to the Jacobs and Terrell families was preposterous. Even if she had spent many years at boarding school in New York City, Katrina had been the youngest Jacobs daughter her entire life. Everybody knew her. Everybody loved her.

      “I spend most of my life away from here,” said Katrina, continuing to sip her way through the glass of wine.

      Niki was grateful, but she wasn’t buying it. “I appreciate you trying to make me feel better.”

      “That’s not what I’m doing. Well, maybe a little bit. It’s obvious something’s wrong. Are you feeling bad because you don’t know much about Wilton?”

      “I don’t need to know much.” Niki downplayed her curiosity. She desperately wished she knew more about her father, good or bad.

      “The negativity and complexity have nothing to do with you.”

      “Whatever it is, I can handle it.” The assertion was out of Niki’s mouth before she realized it put Katrina in an awkward position.

      “I’m sorry,” she quickly added. “I didn’t mean—”

      “He was a cold, brutal man,” Katrina told her. Her expression somber.

      Brutal? “He beat them?”

      “By today’s standards, absolutely. But mostly, he was just plain nasty. He worked them into the ground, no empathy, no sympathy. Because of his temper, their mother died of pneumonia.”

      Niki had learned earlier that Sasha had died when Reed and Caleb were seventeen.

      “The poor woman was so utterly afraid of Wilton, that she never told anyone how sick she was feeling.”

      Niki swallowed.

      “Reed and Caleb both blamed Wilton for her death. To this day, they say he killed her. Back then, Caleb walked out, while Reed stayed to fight.”

      “I had no idea,” Niki whispered, feeling a little numb.

      Katrina topped up their glasses. “Of course you didn’t.”

      Niki gazed at the dark liquid. She couldn’t help thinking about her own mother, Gabriella’s rather calculating, manipulative character. “Nice genetics I’ve got going here.”

      Katrina tossed her blond hair. “The genetics haven’t done Reed any harm, nor Caleb, nor you.”

      Niki fought against the urge to confess who she was and what she was doing here. She might not beat anyone, but she certainly wasn’t a very good person.

      “My opinion,” said Katrina. “Wilton was a phenomenon. All that bad blood running through his system, but he produced terrific kids. And you’re part of the living proof.”

      “I wish I was,” said Niki, her stomach cramping with guilt.

      Katrina touched her hand. “You’re looking like Reed again.”

      Niki struggled to smooth out her features, but the compassion in Katrina’s eyes was more than she could bear. She had to tell her. She opened her mouth to speak.

      “I’m going to make it better,” Katrina vowed, carrying on before Niki had a chance to explain. “Here’s what we’re going to do. I was planning to go through the attic soon, to pick out some of Reed’s things for the new house. You can help me. Who knows what we’ll find out about your heritage up there.”

      Niki closed her mouth. It was tempting, so incredibly tempting to learn more about her biological family. But to do that, she’d have to postpone her confession. And that meant Gabriella won again—always a dangerous thing.

      Niki gave her better principles one final effort. “I don’t want to invade Reed and Caleb’s privacy. If they’d rather I didn’t—”

      “That’s not going to be a problem.” Katrina waved a dismissive hand.

      “They don’t seem to want me to know,” Niki added.

      “They don’t want to talk about it,” said Katrina. “That doesn’t mean they don’t want you to know. Trust me on this.”

      “Trust you on what?” came Reed’s voice as he opened the sliding door.

      “Girl talk,” Katrina responded easily. “Niki’s going to help me in the attic.”

      “Yeah?” asked Reed. “You got an extra glass with that bottle of wine?”

      “Absolutely,” said Katrina with a broad, rather satisfied smile, gesturing to one of the tables. Then she gave a conspiratorial wink in Niki’s direction.

      Reed hadn’t said no, Niki told herself. He’d barely reacted at all. Basically, he’d given her permission to snoop in his attic.

      She took another sip of her wine, knowing she couldn’t bring herself to turn down the opportunity. The truth would have to wait a couple more days. What could it hurt?

      Three

      Sawyer’s Uncle Charles was chomping at the bit. A four-term senator, he’d had people snapping to attention for so many years, he’d long since lost any ability to summon patience.

      In the ranch yard, Sawyer’s tone was laced with disgust as he said as much to Dylan. “He doesn’t see why I can’t march across the highway, slam Niki up against a wall and demand she hand over the diary.”

      The mere thought of anyone putting a hand on Niki or any woman in anger, infuriated Sawyer.

      “Subtlety was never his strong suit,” Dylan responded, tightening the cinch on a bay gelding. The two men were outside the main barn, where Dylan was gearing up for a ride to survey the upper pastures. “But I do agree with the part where you march across the highway. You’re not going to learn anything hangin’ around here with me.”

      “I was over there just yesterday. I’m trying to play it cool.”

      “There are a million excuses you can use to go back.”

      “Like what? Borrow a cup of sugar?”

      Dylan grinned. “Sometimes, I don’t get why people pay you to investigate for them.”

      He freed the reins from the saddle horn. “Tell the Terrells you have a horse with a hot hock. Borrow some antibiotics until you can get into the vet’s office. Or ask for the name of their vet. Or, hey, if you want to actually be useful, then find out where they hire their hands. Maybe they know of somebody who could be an assistant manager, help me out here.” He mounted his horse.

      Sawyer had to admit, those were all good suggestions.

      “Or,” Dylan finished, reining the gelding in a circle. “Pretend you like the woman. A lovesick calf would be expected to turn up all the time, on the flimsiest of excuses.”

      “I’m not going to do that,” said Sawyer.

      Niki might be a conniving little liar, but that didn’t give Sawyer the right to behave like a jerk.

      Dylan shrugged. “Good luck, then.” He pressed his heels against the animal’s flanks.

      “Thanks.” Sawyer stepped back, out of the path of the horse’s dust.

      Admitting he’d much rather spend his time trying to learn more about Niki than explaining himself to Uncle Charles or anyone else in D.C., Sawyer took part of Dylan’s advice. He fired up a pickup truck and bumped his way down the ranch road, across the highway and up the winding stretch of the Terrells’ driveway.

      He debated whether to take the turnoff to the main house or carry on to Reed’s