Looking at him now, I’d say the only difference between him and Owen, obviously other than age, is that my brother has tattoos. Otherwise, they’re like carbon copies of each other.

After moving around the island, I step into his arms, and the moment I breathe in the smell of his Brute cologne, my composure shatters. Making fists in his shirt, I cry against him.

“I know, sweet girl,” he sympathizes with a softness in his rough voice meant only for his children. “Your daddy’s got big shoulders, London. Why don’t you let me carry some of that weight you’ve been holding?”

Looking up at him, I feel so guilty for the time with my family my ambition has cost me.

“At least for a little while.” He winks.

After throwing my arms up around his neck, I squeeze him as hard as I can without hurting myself. “I love you.”

“Love you too,” he says back, his jaw tight. Daddy’s never been good with crying daughters.

“Can we eat already?” Owen whines.

I turn just in time to see Aurora whack him in the back of the head with her oven mitt.

“They were having a moment, you ass clown.”

I’m home.

Edmonton, Alberta

“DO I SOUND LIKE I give a shit?” I bark into the receiver.

“It’s illegal.”

After turning the phone on speaker, I toss it onto the bathroom counter. “Quit pretending you have a moral compass, Francis,” I huff, sliding my dress shirt up my back, leaving it unbuttoned in the front. “I want the accident to run in this week’s Sunday paper.”

“It’s going to cost you, Tucker.”

Angling my chin to the side, I eye the two-day-old stubble shadowing my jaw in the mirror. “Whatever it costs, get it done.”

“Do you want any”—he hesitates, clearing his throat—“casualties?”

As I grab the edge of my marble counter, my knuckles turn white. “Not a hair harmed, Francis.” My voice is heavy with barely harnessed fury at the mere suggestion. “You’d do well to pass that down the line, as I’ll no doubt seek retribution for any losses I incur.”

“Yes, sir.”

After ending the call, I snag the tie on the counter and hang it over the back of my neck. I’m so distracted these days that I can barely get anything done. The least of which seems to be dressing myself.

Grabbing my Armani suit coat off the edge of my bed, I eye the newspaper article beside it. For two weeks, I’ve carried the catastrophe with me everywhere. Looking at it now overwhelms me with equal parts anger and lust. The absurdity of its claims is absolute bullshit, but the underlying depth of beauty still manages to overshadow it. Nonetheless, I’ll have his head on a platter in due time, even if I have to pay someone to cut it off and serve it to me.

“Breakfast, sir?” my housekeeper offers when the heels of my cowboy boots ring out on the kitchen tile.

“No, thank you, Sarah.”

The older woman scowls at me, never happy when I skip breakfast.

“I’ll be out of town for the remainder of the week. Go spend some time with your family.”

“I couldn’t hardly. There’s so much to do—”

“Your son is here.” Looking up from working the knot on my tie, I can see the confusion on her face. “His visa has been pushed through. In fact”—I lift my sleeve to check the time on my watch—“his flight’s arriving in less than an hour.” Stepping forward, I lean down, kissing her once on the cheek. “There’s a car waiting outside to take you to the airport. I’ll see you in a few weeks’ time.”

Sarah has been my housekeeper, cook, and friend for the last nine years. Her son has been unsuccessfully trying to immigrate from Greece on a student visa. So I had a friend of a friend push the paperwork through as a favor.

“Come back here, you rascal!” she shrieks, all five-foot-one of her scurrying up behind me. “Eat,” she demands, shoving a bagel into the outside pocket of my briefcase. “And thank you.” Her bottom lip wobbles as tears pool in her eyes.

I kiss her once more on the top of her head. “It’s my pleasure. If you need more time to get him settled, let me know,” I say before stepping around her and opening the door to my attached garage.

Some might think it’s particularly odd that I have a four-car garage but only two vehicles. However, my architect would hear of nothing smaller during the design of the house. I believe he said it was imperative that someone of my wealth and subsequent status have more than two doors. I came close to kicking his mouthy, money-grubbing ass off my property, but he managed to save himself. Selling me on the idea when he asked where my wife would park if I only had two. Do I have a wife? No. Nonetheless, the point was a solid one.

After rounding the front of my red convertible Corvette, I slide onto the tan leather seat and toss my briefcase onto the passenger’s seat. After pressing the garage door opener on my visor, I roll the engine over while the morning light floods the room. It’s been a particularly hot summer in Alberta, wildfires clearing out massive areas at a time without much warning. I can feel the strength behind the sun as I pull out into the driveway.

The car I sent for Sarah is gone, so I take a minute to admire the home I had built nearly ten years ago. In fact, it’ll be ten years come October, the same month as my thirty-third birthday. If anything, I’ve grown to love it more every day.

The roughly eight-thousand-square-foot log home sits on nearly three hundred acres of farmland. The entire house is encased in floor-to-ceiling windows that run in line with the triangle-shaped roof. The red front door was my mother’s idea, as was the fountain in the middle of the circular driveway. While I’ll admit I balked at the idea at first, the result is gorgeous. The stone fountain is a roughly eight-foot-high horse rearing onto its back legs, and water cascades around it into the pool below during the summer. Either that or the deck running the expanse of the house is my favorite feature.

I let the vehicle pick up speed as I drive through the tree clearing towards the stables. While real estate may be what made me what’s considered a tycoon around these parts, my passion for horses keeps me sane. My parents still live on the ranch I grew up on in Coal Hill, approximately an hour’s drive from Edmonton, and although my property is much larger than theirs now, I work tirelessly to keep the same family atmosphere among the men and women under my employment.

As of today, I own thirty-seven thoroughbred racehorses in various stages of their careers. Ten are currently racing and boarded at Hastings Racetrack. While the other twenty-seven remain on my personal grounds, some are too young to race, and others have long since seen their name in lights. However, unlike most of the rich jerk-offs at the track, I don’t sell my older horses to the highest bidder without giving a shit where they’ll go—a glue factory specifically being of concern. I keep them, all of my horses. When their racing days are over, they’re put out to pasture and ridden by my nieces and nephews, but never once are they sold.

Horses are family.

You don’t sell family.

Charlotte, the barn manager, waves from her office window as I pass. Sliding my black Ray-Bans down over my nose, I nod once at her before turning left out towards the highway, no doubt to her dismay. We spent one night together a few years back, and sometimes, she wishes it were more than that. She’s a lovely woman, and while most men would love to bed or wed her, the case for me is neither. Frankly, she caught me on a bad night after one-too-many glasses of bourbon and the loss of one of my oldest horses. I was broken and lonely, welcoming the comfort of an old friend, although it became more than old friends that night.