Chapter 88 The Scottish Stranger
The rain-slicked cobbles gleamed under the amber glow of gas lamps as Sierra stepped out of her flat, the chill air biting at her cheeks. Her heels clicked too loudly against the pavement, each step a countdown. Fifteen minutes. That’s all she had between the unknown text and the moment her life tilted off its axis again.
The second message from the unknown caller had arrived only moments after the first:
The Crooked Post, back booth. Don’t be seen.
She pulled her coat tighter, the silk lining whispering against her skin like secrets. She’d passed the Crooked Post a dozen times: a dim, narrow pub tucked between a shuttered bookstore and a dry cleaner, its windows fogged, its sign hanging slightly askew, just as the name promised. A place for ghosts and deals made in shadows.
It appeared that noone on the street was watching her or even seemed to regard her in any way. A grim smile came to her lips as she considered her conversation with Sylvia earlier. Great time to be invisible, she told herself.
When she pushed the door open, the warmth inside was thick with the smell of roasted meat, old wood, and whiskey. A few patrons murmured over pints, their faces half-hidden in the low light. No one looked up. No one cared. She moved along the wall, shoulders tense, eyes fixed on the booth in the rear corner, exactly as instructed.
She slid into the cracked vinyl-covered seat, her back to the wall. From here, she could watch the door. Instinct. Survival. Her fingers trembled slightly as she wrapped them around the untouched pint of water the barman had silently delivered.
Five minutes passed. Then ten.
Then the man arrived.
He wasn’t tall, but he carried himself like he took up more space than he should. Wiry frame, worn leather jacket, a scar cutting through his left eyebrow like a fault line. His hair was steel-gray and cropped close, his face weathered by wind and years under open skies.
“Ye’re smaller than I expected,” he said, sliding in across from her. His voice revealed a Scottish heritage.
Sierra didn’t flinch. “I wasn’t sure what to expect.”
A ghost of a smile as he studied her wide eyes, a dead giveaway that she was afraid. “Good. Fear keeps a person sharp.” He studied her, his pale blue eyes sharp as flint. “The man I work for,” he said, “is interested in knowing about your connection with Mr. Rossi. More specifically, his presence in Kingman, Arizona, and his plans there.”
Her throat tightened. Kingman, pronounced in his Scottish brogue hit her like a fist to the chest.
Sierra swallowed. “I’ll tell you the truth,” she said, voice low. “Because lies will only make things worse.”
The Scot nodded once. Encouragement, not mercy.
She exhaled. “Julian and I had a fling. Still having it, technically, since I haven’t broken things off with him. He took me back to Kingman on his private jet when I got the call about my father. He stayed at Sage Ranch until the day after my father passed. Gave me space. Pretended to understand.”
The man’s gaze didn’t waver. “And now?”
“Now he’s invested in my firm, Sterling, Quinn & Spencer. He’s pushing the London expansion. Wants to rebrand everything. Make it sleek. Global. Profitable.” She almost spat the last word. “But that’s not what the firm is. Not what it was built to be.”
The Scot leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Are you aware that he’s buying land around Kingman?”
Sierra’s breath caught. “Yes.” Her voice cracked, but she pressed on. “I am aware. And I’ve been trying to screw up the courage to convince him not to. The ranchers, the families who’ve lived on that land for generations, are being squeezed out. Bullied by someone they can’t afford to fight. He talks about ‘development,’ ‘economic growth,’ but it’s just greed wearing lipstick.” She thought of her father’s old saying about putting lipstick on a pig.
The man watched her, silent, measuring. Then, slowly, he reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded photograph. Slid it across the table.
Sierra unfolded it.
Her breath stopped.
It was an aerial view of Kingman. Red circles marked parcels of land. Most of them clustered near Sage Ranch. Near the old trailhead where she had bumped into Ryder before returning to Manhattan several weeks, nearly a month before.
In the center, superimposed on the photograph was a rendering of what looked like a high-end resort, complete with glass towers, solar farms, and a helipad.
“Rossi’s plan,” the man said. “He is calling it ‘Kingman Ridge Estates.’ Luxury eco-resorts for the elite. Carbon-neutral branding, of course. All greenwashing and gloss.”
Sierra’s hands trembled. “He’s never told me anything about it, though I’ve been suspicious of what he was up to.”
“Did you ask him about it?”
She had not. Cody was the one who discovered that Julian was buying up land and those closest to the parcels he’d bought speculated as to what he was up to, but she had nothing concrete regarding his plans. “I knew he was buying up land. I initially thought he was buying up the land to expand Sage Ranch. He talked about buying us out and letting Cody continue to run the place.”
The mysterious Scot leaned in again. “Here’s what you’re going to do,” he said. “You continue your fling with Julian. You smile. You play the part of the devoted girlfriend. You do not confront him about Kingman. You do not mention this meeting. To anyone.”
Sierra’s pulse roared in her ears. “And if I refuse?”
“Then people start asking questions. About your father’s debts. About how things suddenly turned around. About the exact timeline of Julian’s arrival and stay. About whether a billionaire just happened to be in the right place at the right time… or if he was sent.”
Her blood turned to ice. “I got the ranch back on track financially with a direct-to-consumer contract.”
“There will be questions about that, too.” He paused, studying her face. “The questions will extend to you and to Sterling, Quinn & Spencer. Very messy, I’m afraid.”
“That sounds a lot like blackmail,” she responded, some of her father’s stubbornness suddenly kicking in.
“I’m protecting my employer,” the man said flatly. “And you’d do well to remember that you’re not the only one watching, Miss Quinn. The man I work for is everywhere.”
“And when do I stop?” Sierra whispered. “When do I get to choose what I'm going to do about this problem?”
The Scot stood, adjusting his jacket. “You don’t. Not yet. You follow the plan. You gather what information you can. And when the time comes? I’ll contact you.”
Sierra’s chest ached. She wanted to ask a hundred questions, but the Scot was already walking away, vanishing into the dim light of the pub like smoke.
She sat there, the photograph still in her hand, the weight of the moment pressing down on her.
She had been living in two worlds, Manhattan and Kingman, Julian and Ryder, power and peace. But now, the boundaries had blurred. The fight had come to her. And for the first time, she realized: her fight wasn’t for love or concern for the well-being of her friends and neighbors.
It was about loyalty.
About legacy.
About a ranch that had raised her.
And a man who had loved her unconditionally.
Her phone buzzed again, startling her. A message from Julian:
Can’t sleep. Miss you. I’m in London. Come over?
She stared at the words. The charming, seductive pull of his world, soft sheets, fine wine, the illusion of control.
She typed back slowly:
Not tonight. I have a lot on my plate for tomorrow.
His response came quickly:
Maybe we can work on your presentation to the team together, then?
The presentation she planned for the meeting with the team in the morning was to be a rebellion against what Julian wanted the firm to become. He was the last person she wanted to discuss it with. She considered what the Scot had just instructed her to do and the consequences of going against them.
She typed out her quick reply:
Be there in a few, but no talking shop.