Chapter 13: Plane Problems
The limo cut through the rainy streets, a silent capsule in the snarled evening traffic. Inside, Bethany traced a finger over the cool glass, watching the neon streaks smear and dissolve. The familiar scent of the car—leather, her perfume, a faint hint of ozone—couldn’t quite mask the phantom smell of bergamot that seemed woven into her clothes now.
Snakes on the porch.
Dove’s words circled like crows. She leaned her head back, closing her eyes against the pulse of the city, and for a moment, she wasn't in a limo. She was standing on the wide, weathered porch of the main house at Montgomery Ranch, the Montana air so dry and sharp it hurt to breathe.
She was nineteen. They still called her Bell-Elise then.
The screen door slapped shut behind her with a sound like a gunshot. The argument with Uncle Earl still rang in her ears, his voice a low, gravelly storm.
“It’s in your blood, girl. You think clearer under pressure than anyone I’ve ever seen. That’s not something you walk away from. It’s a responsibility.”
She’d stood her ground, the acceptance letter from Columbia folded tight in the back pocket of her jeans, feeling like it was burning a hole through the denim. “It’s your responsibility, Earl. Not mine. I don’t want it.”
“Want’s got nothing to do with it,” he’d said, finally, turning away to stare at the endless, tawny fields. The dismissal was worse than the anger.
Dove found her by the old tire swing, the one their dad had hung from the massive cottonwood before he vanished. Dove was chewing on a stalk of grass, her boots kicking up little puffs of dust. “Heard the hollering.”
“Wasn’t hollering. Was a negotiation.” Bell-Elise’s voice was tight.
“Sounded like a losing battle for someone.”
“I’m going.” The statement was defiant, aimed at the distant mountains.
“I know you are.” Dove’s voice was quiet.
Bell-Elise looked at her then, really looked. Eleven months apart, they could have been twins, but the sun and the work had already begun etching different maps onto their faces. Dove’s eyes held the same green fire, but it was a steady burn, like a pilot light. Hers felt like a wildfire, seeking escape.
“You’re okay with it?” Bell-Elise asked, the question fragile.
Dove spat out the grass. “No. But I get it.” She nudged a rock with her boot. “You look at those account books, at the safe, at the names in the ledger… and you see a cage. All I see is the land it protects.”
That was the chasm, right there. For Bell-Elise, the family business—the “fixing,” the quiet movements of money and influence, the sudden, intense visits from men with scared eyes—was a net. It was the thing that had swallowed their mother whole, leaving behind nothing but a headstone and a reputation. For Dove, it was the fence that kept the wolves from the door. The necessary shadow that let the sun shine on the cattle, the crops, the people who depended on them.
“He’s afraid,” Dove said, her gaze following a hawk’s lazy circle. “Earl. Clyde, too. You’re the smart one. The planner. I’m the muscle. They were counting on your mind to steer the ship.”
“They’ve got your mind.”
“It’s different.” Dove looked at her, and for a flash, Bell-Elise saw the weight her sister was already carrying, so easily, so willingly. “You see five moves ahead. I see the move right in front of me that needs doing. For this work, we need both. Without you…” She shrugged. “Makes the future look a little more blunt.”
Guilt, cold and oily, slithered in Bell-Elise’s gut. She was leaving Dove with the ledger, the safe, the midnight phone calls. She was passing the baton to her little sister and running for the horizon.
“If I stay,” Bell-Elise whispered, the truth clawing its way out, “I’ll disappear. I’ll become one of the ghosts in that house. The kind that just handles problems. There’ll be nothing left of me.”
Dove was silent for a long time. The wind whispered through the cottonwood leaves.
“Then go,” she said finally, her voice rough. “Go be Bethany in New York. But you remember something.” She turned, her eyes now sharp as flint. “Wherever you go, you’re still a Montgomery. That means two things. You never break a promise. And you never, ever let anyone see you flinch.” She reached out and punched Bell-Elise’s shoulder, a hard, sisterly knock. “So don’t you dare flinch out there. You make them see you.”
The limo glided to a smooth halt. Bethany’s eyes snapped open. The rain had softened to a mist, blurring the glowing facade of Le Jardin des Sens.
She hadn’t flinched. She’d built an empire on that principle. She’d carved Bethany from the bedrock of Bell-Elise’s fear and Dove’s mandate.
The driver opened her door. The damp, fragrant air of the street washed in. For a second, she hesitated, her hand on the cool leather seat beside her. Her fingers brushed against the seamless edge of the hidden compartment. Inside was the diamond bracelet, a cold weapon of dazzle. The gun, a brutal piece of finality. The champagne, a celebration she couldn’t yet allow herself.
She thought of the safe under the west pasture, its contents a different kind of arsenal. She thought of Dove, right now, probably boots up on the kitchen table, solving a problem with a quiet phone call.
Bethany stepped out onto the pavement. The satin dress clung, a second skin of defiant elegance. She didn’t look at the restaurant doors. She looked at her reflection in the limo’s dark window—a poised, untouchable silhouette against the city’ chaos.
She was Bethany Montgomery. She was Bell-Elise Montgomery. She was a woman who knew how to handle snakes, whether they sunned themselves on a Montana porch or waited at a candlelit table.
She turned. Her heels clicked a decisive rhythm on the wet stone as she walked toward the entrance, not a single step of hesitation in her stride. The memory of dry Montana dust was now a foundation, not an anchor. She carried it all with her.