Page 44 of Old Money, Deadly Secrets

As they reached the outskirts of town, Margaret slowed the truck. The site where the charred remains of the original Highland Clinic had once sat was now a hive of activity.

Dog’s breath caught, a sharp, audible hitch.

The building rising from the lot wasn’t the modest consultation office he had planned. It was a state-of-the-art medical hub, the result of a well-planned combination of insurance payouts and jewels Margaret had sold to supplement it. Above the entrance, bold copper letters announced the new name: The Monterey Family Clinic.

“Stop the truck,” Dog whispered.

Margaret pulled over and killed the engine. She watched as Dog reached for his cane and pushed the door open. He moved with focused intensity, his gait uneven but determined. He walked toward the main entrance, his eyes tracking the expansive ambulance bay and the reinforced framing of the new surgical suite.

“The blueprints on the tablet…” Dog started, his voice barely audible. “The trauma bays. The diagnostic suite. Will said he was funding it. Why didn’t you use his funding instead of selling your jewels?”

Margaret's eyes flashed with anger. “He promised not to tell you! I can’t believe he broke that trust.”

“Will didn’t break the promise,” Dog shot back, feeling the weight of the moment. “Jake did, to get me to get my head out of my ass.”

“Will managed the logistics,” Margaret corrected gently, stepping up beside him, though her jaw remained clenched. “But he didn’t provide the capital. I thought I could make a difference without dragging everyone into it. This was my way of taking control, not relying on anyone else. But now it feels like everything’s falling apart.”

Her frustration mixed with a hint of vulnerability. Dog could see the conflict in her eyes, the resolve to stand strong while also grappling with the consequences of her choices.

She pointed to the lettering above the specialized emergency entrance. The Doc Miller Memorial Trauma Wing.

Dog turned to her, his brows furrowed. “Doc Miller? The old GP who lived over the pharmacy?”

“He delivered half the babies in this county for fifty years, Barkley. When he passed away last year, the town lost its only lifeline. I figured if we were going to build an ER, it should belong to the people who needed him most.”

Dog finally turned to look at her, his expression a mix of shock and dawning realization. “Then where is⁠—”

“The Tank Memorial Wing is up the mountain,” Margaret said, her voice softening. “Where it belongs. At the Blue Ridge Center, among his brothers. I didn’t think the town needed to see his name, but I knew you did.”

Dog’s mask finally cracked. The aristocratic distance and the soldier’s stoicism crumbled as he looked at the woman standing before him, no longer a socialite in silk, but a builder in denim.

“I sold my Nonna’s jewelry, Barkley,” she said, her voice clear and unyielding. She squared her shoulders and met his gaze steadily. “The sapphires, the rubies, the diamonds that were never part of the Winslow estate. They were the only things I had that were truly mine, and I couldn’t think of a better way to use them than to ensure this town and you never have to feel broken again.”

Dog ran a hand through his hair, his gaze dropping for a moment before meeting hers again. His voice was rough, edged with vulnerability. “Margaret, that jewelry was your security.”

“It was decorative,” she said. “This? This is a legacy. While you were in Boston convinced you were done, I decided I wasn’t going to let your dream die with a Molotov cocktail. I organized the chaos, Barkley. Just like you told me I could.”

He leaned his forehead against hers, a long, shattering breath escaping him. For the first time in two months, the man looking back at her wasn’t just a patient. Tears welled in his eyes and spilled over despite his gruff exterior.

“Emery,” she whispered, her voice a soft plea for the man she had met in the meadow.

“I’m sorry,” he rasped, his hand finding hers and a tremor in his voice betraying his vulnerability. “For everything I said. For thinking you weren’t strong enough to handle this.”

Margaret’s eyes softened as she replied, “Don’t be sorry. Just come inside. There’s a surgical layout that needs approval from a Chief of Medicine. And I suspect the electricians are tired of hearing my ‘decorative’ opinions on outlet placement.”

She took his hand and led him toward the front doors. As the sensors triggered and the glass slid open, the smell of fresh paint and new beginnings welcomed them.

Margaret Fletcher had spent fifteen years organizing galas that meant nothing. Today, she was opening a door that meant everything.

31- DOG

The silver-handled cane leaned against the heavy oak dresser in the guest suite, a silent witness to a day of physical reckoning.

Dog sat on the edge of the bed, his left leg extended. He had spent Saturday touring the Monterey Family Clinic with Margaret, and his body was reminding him of the toll. Walking on uneven gravel and climbing over unfinished thresholds with a brand-new prosthetic had stirred up lingering soreness in his pelvis, a stubborn side effect of the hairline fracture from months before. It was a tactical error in judgment.

But as he reached for a clean flannel shirt, he knew it was a mission he’d fly ten times over just to see the fire in Margaret’s eyes again.

He took a slow, steadying breath and stood up. He centered his weight, feeling the familiar, artificial pressure of the socket against his limb. The mechanical recoil of the carbon fiber was more pronounced when he was tired, but he ignored the jarring vibration. He had used Kenzi as a messenger an hour ago, sending the young girl over to Moose’s house with a folded note that felt more like a peace treaty than an invitation.