Website Migration Update
I moved the website to a new host, which I think will be more tolerant of the content this website hosts. Nevertheless, I do want to take a moment to remind everyone that the stories and content posted here MUST follow website rules, as it it not only my policy, but it is the policy of the hosts that permit our website to run on their servers. We WILL continue to enforce the rules, especially critical rules that, if broken, put this sites livelihood in jeapordy.
*CALLING FOR MORE PARTICIPATION*
JUST A SMALL ANNOUNCEMENT TO REMIND EVERYONE (GUESTS AND REGISTERED USERS ALIKE) THAT THIS FORUM IS BUILT AROUND USER PARTICIPATION AND PUBLIC INTERACTIONS. IF YOU SEE A THREAD YOU LIKE, PARTICIPATE! IF YOU ENJOYED READING A STORY, POST A COMMENT TO LET THE AUTHOR KNOW! TAKING A FEW EXTRA SECONDS TO LET AN AUTHOR KNOW YOU ENJOYED HIS OR HER WORK IS THE BEST WAY TO ENSURE THAT MORE SIMILAR STORIES ARE POSTED. KEEPING THE COMMUNITY ALIVE IS A GROUP EFFORT. LET'S ALL MAKE AN EFFORT TO PARTICIPATE.
JUST A SMALL ANNOUNCEMENT TO REMIND EVERYONE (GUESTS AND REGISTERED USERS ALIKE) THAT THIS FORUM IS BUILT AROUND USER PARTICIPATION AND PUBLIC INTERACTIONS. IF YOU SEE A THREAD YOU LIKE, PARTICIPATE! IF YOU ENJOYED READING A STORY, POST A COMMENT TO LET THE AUTHOR KNOW! TAKING A FEW EXTRA SECONDS TO LET AN AUTHOR KNOW YOU ENJOYED HIS OR HER WORK IS THE BEST WAY TO ENSURE THAT MORE SIMILAR STORIES ARE POSTED. KEEPING THE COMMUNITY ALIVE IS A GROUP EFFORT. LET'S ALL MAKE AN EFFORT TO PARTICIPATE.
Erica Sinclair - The Range War (M/F)
Dear @Caesar73, with Horatio Hornblower indirectly being part of the Ericaverse, that's fine with me.
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
Holding her access card against the sleek reader, Erica hears the soft click of the door unlocking. She pushes it open and steps inside, pausing just long enough to take in the quiet luxury of her suite.
The air inside is crisp, the faintest hint of mint and cedar lingering from whatever scent-diffusing system the resort employs. The room itself is an exercise in understated modern country-style opulence - polished hardwood floors, modern furnishings in neutral tones, and a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows that frame the rolling hills beyond.
She exhales slowly. Control the space, control the mindset.
Unpacking is a ritual for her. It always has been. Just as methodically as she had packed at home, she now moves through the practiced motions: hanging what needs to be hung, folding the rest with precision, arranging toiletries in the marble-drenched bathroom.
And what a bathroom it is.
The space is practically a personal spa, every inch gleaming with tasteful extravagance - veined marble countertops, dual sinks, a rainfall shower, a deep soaking tub that could probably fit two. There’s even a bidet, because of course there is.
Nothing at Stone Ridge is ever just adequate.
With everything in place, Erica takes out her phone and downloads the Stone Ridge Equestrian app. A quick scan of her access card imprints her ID, and she immediately changes her login code. It won’t do much in terms of security, but still - it’s second nature by now.
Once inside the app, she’s struck by its efficiency. The interface is sleek, intuitive. She navigates through the features, quickly locating the real-time status of Lea.
Location: Main Paddock.
A security camera feed confirms it - Lea’s stall is empty, but a few taps later, she’s looking at a crisp, live-streamed image of the paddock. It’s more surveillance than she’s used to for equestrian facilities, but the undeniable convenience makes her begrudgingly impressed.
She flicks off the screen and moves to the full-length mirror embedded in the dresser’s door.
With practiced efficiency, she changes into her riding gear - form-fitting breeches, a moisture-wicking top, well broken-in, tall riding boots.
The reflection staring back at her is exactly as it should be: poised, polished, and effortlessly blending in. She smirks slightly, adjusting the zipper on her vest. The uniform of someone who belongs. Or, at the very least, someone who knows how to look the part.
Time to observe. Time to integrate.
Before leaving, she locks her purse and keys inside the suite’s compact safe, pocketing only her phone and access card.
Stepping outside, she takes in the fresh spring air as she crosses the manicured courtyard toward the main building. Sunlight glances off the pristine glass windows, and the faint scent of hay and leather drifts from the stables. Everything here is pristine, curated. A high-gloss world built for high-paying clients.
Descending into the basement gym, she isn’t surprised by what she finds.
A fitness palace.
The space is massive, nearly clinical in its perfection. Rows of cutting-edge machines gleam under bright LED lighting. Everything is state-of-the-art - top-tier treadmills, sleek weightlifting stations, racks of free weights polished to a shine. A low hum of machinery fills the space, punctuated by the rhythmic clink of weights being re-racked. Somewhere in the background, an instrumental track pulses through hidden speakers, just loud enough to add energy without distraction. The air is crisp, tinged with the faint metallic scent of equipment and the subtle eucalyptus from the nearby sauna."
A young male employee in corporate workout gear catches sight of her, his movements smooth and confident as he approaches.
“Can I help you, ma’am?”
He’s tall, maybe thirty, and built like a Greek sculpture - broad shoulders, defined arms, the kind of physique that makes his fitted tank top and running shorts look practically painted on.
Erica takes her time giving the gym another once-over before meeting his gaze.
“Just getting a feel for the place. I’m a five-at-five runner.”
The trainer - Eric, according to the embroidered name on his shirt - grins, displaying his straight white teeth as if they were made for a dentist’s website.
“We don’t get many of your kind,” he remarks, the admiration in his tone clear. Looking at her toned physique he knows that Erica is not the type who just sits on a weight machine to take selfies. “You’ll have the place to yourself that early.”
He gestures toward the row of treadmills.
“All our machines are integrated with the app,” he explains. “You can track your stats, choose a pre-set route, or design your own to match the terrain you’re used to. Just tap in with your access card, and it syncs automatically.”
Erica nods, filing the information away. “I’ll try it out tomorrow morning.”
Eric’s smile lingers. “I’ll be expecting you, ma’am.”
He steps back slightly, making way for someone else who has been waiting just long enough to be noticed.
Patrick Gibbon.
He leans casually against a rack of dumbbells, arms folded, watching her with the kind of relaxed confidence that demands attention without asking for it.
Erica doesn’t need to turn to know it’s him - she senses it first. The subtle shift in the air, the quiet weight of someone too self-assured to announce themselves outright.
“Mrs. Sinclair,” he drawls, his voice smooth as polished glass. “I didn’t want to interrupt, but I haven’t forgotten our lunch date…”
“Neither have I,” Erica says smoothly as she falls into step beside Gibbon, matching his pace toward the grand staircase leading to the ground floor.
~~~
By noon, the restaurant is alive with conversation, the soft chime of cutlery against fine china, and the occasional burst of quiet laughter. The clientele is exactly as expected - affluent, poised, utterly at ease in their exclusivity.
Gibbon guides her to what is unmistakably his preferred table - marked “Reserved” and positioned by the wide glass front overlooking the main paddock. A vantage point. Whether for business or pleasure, he likes to observe.
“How do you like our… establishment, Mrs. Sinclair?” he asks, handing her the menu with an easy flick of his wrist.
“It’s very impressive, Mr. Gibbon.” She accepts the menu, but her eyes are directed toward the paddock, scanning for Lea. The space is vast, well-maintained - but empty at this distance. She keeps her expression neutral. “I’m very happy so far.”
Gibbon acknowledges the compliment with a polished, professional smile - one that doesn’t quite touch his eyes.
A waitress arrives, her movements efficient but discreet. “What can I bring you to drink?”
“Water. Still.” Erica doesn’t look up, still paging through the gourmet selection. Gibbon orders “the usual,” whatever that entails.
The moment the waitress disappears, he leans back slightly, resting an arm against the table’s edge. “Did the transport of your mount go as expected?” he asks, tone casual but eyes sharp. “My men mentioned some… tension between you and Mrs. Henshaw. You said you have history.”
Gibbon is dropping all pretense.
Erica sets her menu down with measured precision. She allows a flicker of something - something contained but heavy - to shadow her expression, just enough to be read as reluctant emotion. Then she exhales, slow and deliberate, like she’s weighing whether to say anything at all.
“Well, Mr. Gibbon,” she begins, voice low, controlled, feigning restraint. “Mrs. Henshaw may not connect me to the incident due to different names, but back in the day, my father loaned her a sizable sum of money - money that allowed her to buy the land that is now Ironwood Pastures.”
She lets that settle, her fingers tracing the rim of her water glass. “The loan was built on mutual trust. Friendship.”
A quiet, bitter exhale. “My father, being the good-natured, trusting man he was… didn’t insist on anything in writing. It was sealed with a handshake.”
Across the table, Gibbon watches her, unreadable. But she notices the small things - the fractional tilt of his head, the way his fingers tap once against the tabletop before stilling.
“I see,” he murmurs.
“And when the time came to repay the loan…” Erica pauses, letting the words linger just long enough. “She conveniently couldn’t remember anything about it.”
The silence between them stretches, thick with unspoken implications. Erica lets it. She watches him absorb the lie, measuring how he files the information away.
Then, with the smallest tilt of her head, she allows a quiet, almost wistful smile - one that doesn’t reach her eyes.
“You see, the money is gone, and my father deceased.” A beat. Then, just as smoothly - just as precisely as laying down a card in a high-stakes game - she delivers the final line.
“I don’t care about the money.” She lifts her gaze, meets his fully. “But I would very much like to see Margaret Henshaw on her knees.”
The implication that Stone Ridge Equestrian’s expansion program would serve as a welcome instrument of her revenge, hangs between them.
~~~
The air inside is crisp, the faintest hint of mint and cedar lingering from whatever scent-diffusing system the resort employs. The room itself is an exercise in understated modern country-style opulence - polished hardwood floors, modern furnishings in neutral tones, and a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows that frame the rolling hills beyond.
She exhales slowly. Control the space, control the mindset.
Unpacking is a ritual for her. It always has been. Just as methodically as she had packed at home, she now moves through the practiced motions: hanging what needs to be hung, folding the rest with precision, arranging toiletries in the marble-drenched bathroom.
And what a bathroom it is.
The space is practically a personal spa, every inch gleaming with tasteful extravagance - veined marble countertops, dual sinks, a rainfall shower, a deep soaking tub that could probably fit two. There’s even a bidet, because of course there is.
Nothing at Stone Ridge is ever just adequate.
With everything in place, Erica takes out her phone and downloads the Stone Ridge Equestrian app. A quick scan of her access card imprints her ID, and she immediately changes her login code. It won’t do much in terms of security, but still - it’s second nature by now.
Once inside the app, she’s struck by its efficiency. The interface is sleek, intuitive. She navigates through the features, quickly locating the real-time status of Lea.
Location: Main Paddock.
A security camera feed confirms it - Lea’s stall is empty, but a few taps later, she’s looking at a crisp, live-streamed image of the paddock. It’s more surveillance than she’s used to for equestrian facilities, but the undeniable convenience makes her begrudgingly impressed.
She flicks off the screen and moves to the full-length mirror embedded in the dresser’s door.
With practiced efficiency, she changes into her riding gear - form-fitting breeches, a moisture-wicking top, well broken-in, tall riding boots.
The reflection staring back at her is exactly as it should be: poised, polished, and effortlessly blending in. She smirks slightly, adjusting the zipper on her vest. The uniform of someone who belongs. Or, at the very least, someone who knows how to look the part.
Time to observe. Time to integrate.
Before leaving, she locks her purse and keys inside the suite’s compact safe, pocketing only her phone and access card.
Stepping outside, she takes in the fresh spring air as she crosses the manicured courtyard toward the main building. Sunlight glances off the pristine glass windows, and the faint scent of hay and leather drifts from the stables. Everything here is pristine, curated. A high-gloss world built for high-paying clients.
Descending into the basement gym, she isn’t surprised by what she finds.
A fitness palace.
The space is massive, nearly clinical in its perfection. Rows of cutting-edge machines gleam under bright LED lighting. Everything is state-of-the-art - top-tier treadmills, sleek weightlifting stations, racks of free weights polished to a shine. A low hum of machinery fills the space, punctuated by the rhythmic clink of weights being re-racked. Somewhere in the background, an instrumental track pulses through hidden speakers, just loud enough to add energy without distraction. The air is crisp, tinged with the faint metallic scent of equipment and the subtle eucalyptus from the nearby sauna."
A young male employee in corporate workout gear catches sight of her, his movements smooth and confident as he approaches.
“Can I help you, ma’am?”
He’s tall, maybe thirty, and built like a Greek sculpture - broad shoulders, defined arms, the kind of physique that makes his fitted tank top and running shorts look practically painted on.
Erica takes her time giving the gym another once-over before meeting his gaze.
“Just getting a feel for the place. I’m a five-at-five runner.”
The trainer - Eric, according to the embroidered name on his shirt - grins, displaying his straight white teeth as if they were made for a dentist’s website.
“We don’t get many of your kind,” he remarks, the admiration in his tone clear. Looking at her toned physique he knows that Erica is not the type who just sits on a weight machine to take selfies. “You’ll have the place to yourself that early.”
He gestures toward the row of treadmills.
“All our machines are integrated with the app,” he explains. “You can track your stats, choose a pre-set route, or design your own to match the terrain you’re used to. Just tap in with your access card, and it syncs automatically.”
Erica nods, filing the information away. “I’ll try it out tomorrow morning.”
Eric’s smile lingers. “I’ll be expecting you, ma’am.”
He steps back slightly, making way for someone else who has been waiting just long enough to be noticed.
Patrick Gibbon.
He leans casually against a rack of dumbbells, arms folded, watching her with the kind of relaxed confidence that demands attention without asking for it.
Erica doesn’t need to turn to know it’s him - she senses it first. The subtle shift in the air, the quiet weight of someone too self-assured to announce themselves outright.
“Mrs. Sinclair,” he drawls, his voice smooth as polished glass. “I didn’t want to interrupt, but I haven’t forgotten our lunch date…”
“Neither have I,” Erica says smoothly as she falls into step beside Gibbon, matching his pace toward the grand staircase leading to the ground floor.
~~~
By noon, the restaurant is alive with conversation, the soft chime of cutlery against fine china, and the occasional burst of quiet laughter. The clientele is exactly as expected - affluent, poised, utterly at ease in their exclusivity.
Gibbon guides her to what is unmistakably his preferred table - marked “Reserved” and positioned by the wide glass front overlooking the main paddock. A vantage point. Whether for business or pleasure, he likes to observe.
“How do you like our… establishment, Mrs. Sinclair?” he asks, handing her the menu with an easy flick of his wrist.
“It’s very impressive, Mr. Gibbon.” She accepts the menu, but her eyes are directed toward the paddock, scanning for Lea. The space is vast, well-maintained - but empty at this distance. She keeps her expression neutral. “I’m very happy so far.”
Gibbon acknowledges the compliment with a polished, professional smile - one that doesn’t quite touch his eyes.
A waitress arrives, her movements efficient but discreet. “What can I bring you to drink?”
“Water. Still.” Erica doesn’t look up, still paging through the gourmet selection. Gibbon orders “the usual,” whatever that entails.
The moment the waitress disappears, he leans back slightly, resting an arm against the table’s edge. “Did the transport of your mount go as expected?” he asks, tone casual but eyes sharp. “My men mentioned some… tension between you and Mrs. Henshaw. You said you have history.”
Gibbon is dropping all pretense.
Erica sets her menu down with measured precision. She allows a flicker of something - something contained but heavy - to shadow her expression, just enough to be read as reluctant emotion. Then she exhales, slow and deliberate, like she’s weighing whether to say anything at all.
“Well, Mr. Gibbon,” she begins, voice low, controlled, feigning restraint. “Mrs. Henshaw may not connect me to the incident due to different names, but back in the day, my father loaned her a sizable sum of money - money that allowed her to buy the land that is now Ironwood Pastures.”
She lets that settle, her fingers tracing the rim of her water glass. “The loan was built on mutual trust. Friendship.”
A quiet, bitter exhale. “My father, being the good-natured, trusting man he was… didn’t insist on anything in writing. It was sealed with a handshake.”
Across the table, Gibbon watches her, unreadable. But she notices the small things - the fractional tilt of his head, the way his fingers tap once against the tabletop before stilling.
“I see,” he murmurs.
“And when the time came to repay the loan…” Erica pauses, letting the words linger just long enough. “She conveniently couldn’t remember anything about it.”
The silence between them stretches, thick with unspoken implications. Erica lets it. She watches him absorb the lie, measuring how he files the information away.
Then, with the smallest tilt of her head, she allows a quiet, almost wistful smile - one that doesn’t reach her eyes.
“You see, the money is gone, and my father deceased.” A beat. Then, just as smoothly - just as precisely as laying down a card in a high-stakes game - she delivers the final line.
“I don’t care about the money.” She lifts her gaze, meets his fully. “But I would very much like to see Margaret Henshaw on her knees.”
The implication that Stone Ridge Equestrian’s expansion program would serve as a welcome instrument of her revenge, hangs between them.
~~~
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
That's quite a gambit. Wonder how it will go down?
b.t.w. I have seen the 1951 Gregory Peck 'Horatio Hornblower' film. And i agree, they stopped the T.V. series far too early.
b.t.w. I have seen the 1951 Gregory Peck 'Horatio Hornblower' film. And i agree, they stopped the T.V. series far too early.
Dear @LunaDog, Erica has laid out her bait. I guess, we might learn later, if Gibbon bites.
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
The waitress returns with their drinks, setting Erica’s glass of cool spring water down with a quiet efficiency before placing Gibbon’s ginger ale in front of him, ice cubes clinking softly against the crystal tumbler.
Neither of them speaks as she lingers a second longer than necessary, adjusting the placement of a napkin, her posture suggesting attentiveness.
Gibbon leans back slightly, his professional smile never wavering. “I think we should sample the Chef’s Choice today,” he says smoothly, as if their conversation moments ago had never happened. He flicks a glance toward the menu in Erica’s hands. “Crème of crab soup, chicken fillets on a vegetable bed, and mousse au chocolat.”
He makes it sound like a suggestion, but it isn’t.
Erica tilts her head, as if considering. In truth, she knows the game they’re playing - pausing the real discussion while unwanted ears are near, slipping seamlessly into pleasantries as if nothing had been said at all. She meets Gibbon’s gaze, her expression one of effortless compliance. “Sounds excellent.”
The waitress, satisfied, collects their menus and disappears into the softly lit hum of the restaurant.
Waiting for another moment till his employee is truly out of earshot, Gibbon takes his glass, swirling it once before raising it slightly in her direction, the faintest smirk playing at the corner of his lips. “I might be able to oblige you in your goal… sooner rather than later.”
Erica mirrors the movement, lifting her own glass but pausing just before taking a sip. Her expression remains neutral, but her eyes sharpen. “Oh,” she murmurs, her tone light. “You’d do what I haven’t managed yet?” she asks, tilting her glass slightly. “Now, that I’d like to hear.”
Before he can answer, the waitress reappears, balancing two elegantly arranged bowls of steaming crab soup. The rich aroma of the sea and cream fills the space between them as she carefully places each dish down, adjusting the silverware.
Gibbon doesn’t acknowledge her presence beyond a brief nod, waiting until she steps away before flashing Erica an amused glance.
“Let’s not spoil a wonderful meal with shop talk,” he says smoothly, reaching for his spoon. “But I’d love to regale you over a drink after hours.”
Erica allows the briefest of smiles to curve her lips as she lifts her glass once more, meeting his gaze across the table. “I’m looking forward to it.”
She takes a slow sip, masking the quiet anticipation that hums beneath her calm exterior. The game is moving forward, and so far, everything seems to be going as planned.
~~~
The meal arrives exactly as advertised - exquisite, precise, and fully in line with the flawless execution that defines every corner of Stone Ridge Equestrian. The crème of crab soup is velvety, delicately seasoned, the kind of dish that speaks of a chef who values subtlety over showmanship. The chicken fillets rest on a meticulously arranged bed of seasonal vegetables, each cut with near-mechanical precision, the sauce just the right balance of richness and restraint. And the mousse au chocolat? A whisper of indulgence, dark and smooth, a perfect crescendo to the symphony of courses.
Patrick Gibbon plays the role of a consummate host, guiding the meal with the same effortless confidence with which he seems to command everything else in his orbit. Between bites, he launches into the story of Stone Ridge, an intricate narrative woven from vision, determination, and an obsessive attention to detail.
“It was nothing but old farmland when I first set foot here,” he muses, swirling his ginger ale over ice. “A relic of an era that had long since faded. But I saw what it could be.”
His gaze sweeps across the pristine view of the paddock, as if reliving the moment of transformation in his mind. “Luxury and equestrian sport - two worlds that should have always been one. And now, they finally are.”
Erica listens, nodding at the right moments, offering just enough engagement to keep him talking. But her focus is on more than his words - it’s on what lies beneath them. Ambition, strategy, the carefully curated version of himself that he’s presenting. He’s giving her the official narrative, the glossy brochure version of events. She files it away, mentally cross-referencing every detail for later.
“You built something extraordinary,” she acknowledges smoothly, setting down her spoon. “A place where owners and horses are given nothing but the best. That kind of vision takes more than just business acumen - it takes instinct.”
Gibbon accepts the compliment with a practiced smile, one that suggests that he’s used to hearing such praise. He enjoys it.
By the time dessert plates are cleared, the conversation has danced between expansion plans, exclusive clientele, and the lengths to which Stone Ridge goes to ensure its elite reputation.
The waitress returns with two small cups of Italian roast espresso, the aroma rich and sharp, cutting through the lingering sweetness of the mousse. She places them down with a smile before retreating, leaving the two of them in the warm hush of post-meal satisfaction.
Erica lifts her cup, letting the steam curl up toward her face before taking a measured sip. “Thank you for a wonderful meal,” she says, her voice smooth but cool.
Gibbon rests an elbow on the table, casually but deliberately adjusting his cuffs. “No need to thank me, Mrs. Sinclair. After all…” He glances at her, something unreadable flickering behind his gaze. “I’d certainly like to discuss that last remaining fence over a drink tonight.”
Erica holds his gaze over the rim of her cup, her expression unreadable, letting Gibbon wonder if she’s going to accept or reject his invitation. The smile that curves her lips is subtle, measured. It doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
“I keep my evenings open for interesting conversations, Mr Gibbon.” She sets her cup down with slow precision, tilting her head just slightly. “Just tell me where and I’ll be there.”
Gibbon’s smile lingers as he leans back slightly, considering her response. The game is in motion.
As he moves to stand, Erica allows herself the faintest of smiles. She is exactly where she wants to be.
“How does eight sound?”
Erica nods gracefully. Eight sounds perfect.
~~~
Neither of them speaks as she lingers a second longer than necessary, adjusting the placement of a napkin, her posture suggesting attentiveness.
Gibbon leans back slightly, his professional smile never wavering. “I think we should sample the Chef’s Choice today,” he says smoothly, as if their conversation moments ago had never happened. He flicks a glance toward the menu in Erica’s hands. “Crème of crab soup, chicken fillets on a vegetable bed, and mousse au chocolat.”
He makes it sound like a suggestion, but it isn’t.
Erica tilts her head, as if considering. In truth, she knows the game they’re playing - pausing the real discussion while unwanted ears are near, slipping seamlessly into pleasantries as if nothing had been said at all. She meets Gibbon’s gaze, her expression one of effortless compliance. “Sounds excellent.”
The waitress, satisfied, collects their menus and disappears into the softly lit hum of the restaurant.
Waiting for another moment till his employee is truly out of earshot, Gibbon takes his glass, swirling it once before raising it slightly in her direction, the faintest smirk playing at the corner of his lips. “I might be able to oblige you in your goal… sooner rather than later.”
Erica mirrors the movement, lifting her own glass but pausing just before taking a sip. Her expression remains neutral, but her eyes sharpen. “Oh,” she murmurs, her tone light. “You’d do what I haven’t managed yet?” she asks, tilting her glass slightly. “Now, that I’d like to hear.”
Before he can answer, the waitress reappears, balancing two elegantly arranged bowls of steaming crab soup. The rich aroma of the sea and cream fills the space between them as she carefully places each dish down, adjusting the silverware.
Gibbon doesn’t acknowledge her presence beyond a brief nod, waiting until she steps away before flashing Erica an amused glance.
“Let’s not spoil a wonderful meal with shop talk,” he says smoothly, reaching for his spoon. “But I’d love to regale you over a drink after hours.”
Erica allows the briefest of smiles to curve her lips as she lifts her glass once more, meeting his gaze across the table. “I’m looking forward to it.”
She takes a slow sip, masking the quiet anticipation that hums beneath her calm exterior. The game is moving forward, and so far, everything seems to be going as planned.
~~~
The meal arrives exactly as advertised - exquisite, precise, and fully in line with the flawless execution that defines every corner of Stone Ridge Equestrian. The crème of crab soup is velvety, delicately seasoned, the kind of dish that speaks of a chef who values subtlety over showmanship. The chicken fillets rest on a meticulously arranged bed of seasonal vegetables, each cut with near-mechanical precision, the sauce just the right balance of richness and restraint. And the mousse au chocolat? A whisper of indulgence, dark and smooth, a perfect crescendo to the symphony of courses.
Patrick Gibbon plays the role of a consummate host, guiding the meal with the same effortless confidence with which he seems to command everything else in his orbit. Between bites, he launches into the story of Stone Ridge, an intricate narrative woven from vision, determination, and an obsessive attention to detail.
“It was nothing but old farmland when I first set foot here,” he muses, swirling his ginger ale over ice. “A relic of an era that had long since faded. But I saw what it could be.”
His gaze sweeps across the pristine view of the paddock, as if reliving the moment of transformation in his mind. “Luxury and equestrian sport - two worlds that should have always been one. And now, they finally are.”
Erica listens, nodding at the right moments, offering just enough engagement to keep him talking. But her focus is on more than his words - it’s on what lies beneath them. Ambition, strategy, the carefully curated version of himself that he’s presenting. He’s giving her the official narrative, the glossy brochure version of events. She files it away, mentally cross-referencing every detail for later.
“You built something extraordinary,” she acknowledges smoothly, setting down her spoon. “A place where owners and horses are given nothing but the best. That kind of vision takes more than just business acumen - it takes instinct.”
Gibbon accepts the compliment with a practiced smile, one that suggests that he’s used to hearing such praise. He enjoys it.
By the time dessert plates are cleared, the conversation has danced between expansion plans, exclusive clientele, and the lengths to which Stone Ridge goes to ensure its elite reputation.
The waitress returns with two small cups of Italian roast espresso, the aroma rich and sharp, cutting through the lingering sweetness of the mousse. She places them down with a smile before retreating, leaving the two of them in the warm hush of post-meal satisfaction.
Erica lifts her cup, letting the steam curl up toward her face before taking a measured sip. “Thank you for a wonderful meal,” she says, her voice smooth but cool.
Gibbon rests an elbow on the table, casually but deliberately adjusting his cuffs. “No need to thank me, Mrs. Sinclair. After all…” He glances at her, something unreadable flickering behind his gaze. “I’d certainly like to discuss that last remaining fence over a drink tonight.”
Erica holds his gaze over the rim of her cup, her expression unreadable, letting Gibbon wonder if she’s going to accept or reject his invitation. The smile that curves her lips is subtle, measured. It doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
“I keep my evenings open for interesting conversations, Mr Gibbon.” She sets her cup down with slow precision, tilting her head just slightly. “Just tell me where and I’ll be there.”
Gibbon’s smile lingers as he leans back slightly, considering her response. The game is in motion.
As he moves to stand, Erica allows herself the faintest of smiles. She is exactly where she wants to be.
“How does eight sound?”
Erica nods gracefully. Eight sounds perfect.
~~~
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
Cards on the table time?
Dear @LunaDog, could well be.
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
@Jenny_S
Erica is playing the Game - and she plays it well. It is a thin Line though between Sucess and Failure .....
Erica is playing the Game - and she plays it well. It is a thin Line though between Sucess and Failure .....
Dear @Caesar73, Erica might be walking a tightrope at Stone Ridge Equestrian. Let's see what's brewing there...
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
After lunch, Erica steps out into the golden warmth of early afternoon. The crisp mountain air carries the scent of fresh hay and the faintest trace of pine drifting in from the tree line beyond the property. It’s the kind of day that makes everything feel sharp, alive. But Erica isn’t here to admire the weather.
She walks toward the stable building, its polished wood and steel accents exuding the same curated elegance as the rest of Stone Ridge. Inside, the earthy scent of horses and saddle soap greets her like an old friend. The rhythmic sound of hooves shifting in straw, the occasional low whicker - there’s a quiet, steady energy in the air.
Lea stands in her stall, chomping methodically on a mouthful of hay. As Erica approaches, the mare lifts her head, ears pricking forward in recognition before nudging against Erica’s outstretched hand.
“Hey, girl,” Erica murmurs, running her fingers along the sleek line of Lea’s cheek. “How’s your day?”
A voice answers from the neighboring stall before Lea even has the chance to snort.
“She’s adjusting remarkably well, Mrs. Sinclair.”
Kelly Garner steps into view, wiping her hands on the thighs of her breeches. She’s followed by a stable hand leading a thick-set bay gelding out of the next stall. The animal moves sluggishly, his belly drooping under his weight. Kelly watches him go, shaking her head in mild disapproval.
“Those who come from Ironwood are all in top shape,” she continues, casting a pointed glance at the gelding. “Unlike some others - like Fandango here. Horribly overweight. His owner did well putting him in our care.”
She nods toward the stable hand in a silent dismissal. He gives a brief, wordless nod before leading the horse away, leaving the two women alone in the corridor.
Kelly crosses her arms, leaning casually against the wooden divider. “Some people own their horses like they own any other luxury item, you see. Difference is, these are living beings, not just another sports car in their garage.”
There’s no hesitation in her tone, no filter. The woman clearly isn’t afraid to speak her mind.
“I hope that’s not your impression of me,” Erica replies smoothly, her voice low as she strokes Lea’s soft muzzle. “She had a wonderful home in the Hamptons, but when I got her, I knew I couldn’t keep her in the city. She’d have missed galloping and jumping.”
Kelly studies her for a beat, then gives a short nod, running a hand down Lea’s powerful neck. “You made the right decision bringing her here.”
Something about the way she says it makes Erica take a closer look at her. There’s a quiet honesty in Kelly’s words, but also a guardedness, like someone who’s learned to be careful about where her loyalties lie.
“How long have you been working here?” Erica asks, tilting her head slightly. “Seems like you’ve been around horses all your life.”
Kelly gives a small, knowing smile. “Eight months at Stone Ridge. Before that, I worked across the fence.”
“Ironwood Pastures?” Erica keeps her tone neutral, but the air between them shifts.
Kelly nods.
“Why did you leave?”
“Margaret couldn’t match the offer Mr. Gibbon made me,” she says simply, as if that’s all there is to it. “When it comes to paying bills, money talks.”
“I see.” Erica watches her carefully. “If she could have, would you have stayed?”
Kelly’s gaze lingers on Erica for just a fraction too long. It’s not an easy question, and she seems to know better than to answer it outright. Instead, she exhales slowly, then straightens up.
“Listen, Mrs. Sinclair,” she says, her tone quieter now, almost reluctant. “Word of mouth is that you have an axe to grind with Margaret. I have no quarrel with her, and I don’t want to get dragged into your in-fighting.” She pauses, as if considering her next words carefully. “I care about the horses. That’s all. But if you’re smart, you’ll be careful who you trust, okay?”
She gives Lea another firm pat, then turns away without waiting for a response, striding toward her small office at the end of the stable.
Erica watches her go, thoughtful. The warning is unexpected - but not unwelcome.
And it only makes her more curious.
The urge to follow Kelly lingers, to call after her and explain - I’m not who you think I am. I’m playing a role. I’m trying to help Margaret Henshaw.
But she doesn’t. She can’t.
And no matter how trustworthy the stablemistress seems, no matter how much Erica would rather have an ally at Stone Ridge than another set of wary eyes watching her, she knows that she’s on her own in this. For now.
And one thing is clear: word that the new client has history with Ironwood’s owner has already spread. Fast. A little too fast for her taste maybe.
Erica exhales, pushing the thoughts aside as she turns back to Lea. The mare watches her expectantly, ears flicking forward as if she understands the weight of Erica’s silence.
“I’ll see you later, girl.” Erica’s voice is barely above a whisper as she smooths her hand over Lea’s forehead, feeling the warmth of her coat beneath her fingers. “You’ll keep my secret, don’t you?”
Lea exhales softly, the warm breath ghosting over Erica’s cheek. It’s answer enough.
Pressing a quick kiss between her mare’s eyes, Erica steps back, letting Lea return to the simple pleasure of her mountain hay.
~~~
With each step toward the suite, her mind sharpens, the warmth of the stable giving way to the cool, calculated purpose that brought her here in the first place. Reaching into her pocket, she pulls out her phone and dials.
The line buzzes.
Erica slows her pace, gaze flicking around as she walks. The yard is quiet. A couple of grooms lead horses toward the turnout paddocks, but they’re too away far to overhear anything. The pathway toward the guest suites is empty. Still, she moves carefully, watching, listening.
Finally, the call connects.
Margaret Henshaw’s voice is strained, edged with frustration and no small amount of worry. “Erica, what in God’s name…”
“Please…” Erica interrupts, keeping her own low and even. “Look, I was only playing a role. I told them we have a history - one that you’re not even aware of. Something’s going on here, but I haven’t figured out exactly what yet. I’ll keep you in the loop, but you will have to be careful. Please!”
There’s a pause, a long, shaky exhale from Margaret’s end.
“Damn it, Erica…” Another breath. Then, quieter, “I’ll try my best. But please, you be careful, too.”
“I will.”
She means it, but in her own mind isn’t sure about the risks she might have to take.
As she nears the entrance to the suites, a group of riders emerges from the building. Dressed in crisp breeches and tailored jackets, helmets tucked under their arms, riding crops dangling from gloved hands, they move with the easy confidence of people who belong here.
Their conversation slows as Erica approaches. Just slightly. Just enough that they might hear what they shouldn’t.
She doesn’t hesitate.
“I’ll call back later,” she murmurs, ending the call and slipping her phone away as she strides past, her expression smooth, unreadable.
By the time she reaches her door, her heartbeat has steadied. Her mind, however, is already spinning.
Careful who you trust.
Kelly’s warning echoes in her head. And she’s starting to think it wasn’t just about Margaret.
~~~
She walks toward the stable building, its polished wood and steel accents exuding the same curated elegance as the rest of Stone Ridge. Inside, the earthy scent of horses and saddle soap greets her like an old friend. The rhythmic sound of hooves shifting in straw, the occasional low whicker - there’s a quiet, steady energy in the air.
Lea stands in her stall, chomping methodically on a mouthful of hay. As Erica approaches, the mare lifts her head, ears pricking forward in recognition before nudging against Erica’s outstretched hand.
“Hey, girl,” Erica murmurs, running her fingers along the sleek line of Lea’s cheek. “How’s your day?”
A voice answers from the neighboring stall before Lea even has the chance to snort.
“She’s adjusting remarkably well, Mrs. Sinclair.”
Kelly Garner steps into view, wiping her hands on the thighs of her breeches. She’s followed by a stable hand leading a thick-set bay gelding out of the next stall. The animal moves sluggishly, his belly drooping under his weight. Kelly watches him go, shaking her head in mild disapproval.
“Those who come from Ironwood are all in top shape,” she continues, casting a pointed glance at the gelding. “Unlike some others - like Fandango here. Horribly overweight. His owner did well putting him in our care.”
She nods toward the stable hand in a silent dismissal. He gives a brief, wordless nod before leading the horse away, leaving the two women alone in the corridor.
Kelly crosses her arms, leaning casually against the wooden divider. “Some people own their horses like they own any other luxury item, you see. Difference is, these are living beings, not just another sports car in their garage.”
There’s no hesitation in her tone, no filter. The woman clearly isn’t afraid to speak her mind.
“I hope that’s not your impression of me,” Erica replies smoothly, her voice low as she strokes Lea’s soft muzzle. “She had a wonderful home in the Hamptons, but when I got her, I knew I couldn’t keep her in the city. She’d have missed galloping and jumping.”
Kelly studies her for a beat, then gives a short nod, running a hand down Lea’s powerful neck. “You made the right decision bringing her here.”
Something about the way she says it makes Erica take a closer look at her. There’s a quiet honesty in Kelly’s words, but also a guardedness, like someone who’s learned to be careful about where her loyalties lie.
“How long have you been working here?” Erica asks, tilting her head slightly. “Seems like you’ve been around horses all your life.”
Kelly gives a small, knowing smile. “Eight months at Stone Ridge. Before that, I worked across the fence.”
“Ironwood Pastures?” Erica keeps her tone neutral, but the air between them shifts.
Kelly nods.
“Why did you leave?”
“Margaret couldn’t match the offer Mr. Gibbon made me,” she says simply, as if that’s all there is to it. “When it comes to paying bills, money talks.”
“I see.” Erica watches her carefully. “If she could have, would you have stayed?”
Kelly’s gaze lingers on Erica for just a fraction too long. It’s not an easy question, and she seems to know better than to answer it outright. Instead, she exhales slowly, then straightens up.
“Listen, Mrs. Sinclair,” she says, her tone quieter now, almost reluctant. “Word of mouth is that you have an axe to grind with Margaret. I have no quarrel with her, and I don’t want to get dragged into your in-fighting.” She pauses, as if considering her next words carefully. “I care about the horses. That’s all. But if you’re smart, you’ll be careful who you trust, okay?”
She gives Lea another firm pat, then turns away without waiting for a response, striding toward her small office at the end of the stable.
Erica watches her go, thoughtful. The warning is unexpected - but not unwelcome.
And it only makes her more curious.
The urge to follow Kelly lingers, to call after her and explain - I’m not who you think I am. I’m playing a role. I’m trying to help Margaret Henshaw.
But she doesn’t. She can’t.
And no matter how trustworthy the stablemistress seems, no matter how much Erica would rather have an ally at Stone Ridge than another set of wary eyes watching her, she knows that she’s on her own in this. For now.
And one thing is clear: word that the new client has history with Ironwood’s owner has already spread. Fast. A little too fast for her taste maybe.
Erica exhales, pushing the thoughts aside as she turns back to Lea. The mare watches her expectantly, ears flicking forward as if she understands the weight of Erica’s silence.
“I’ll see you later, girl.” Erica’s voice is barely above a whisper as she smooths her hand over Lea’s forehead, feeling the warmth of her coat beneath her fingers. “You’ll keep my secret, don’t you?”
Lea exhales softly, the warm breath ghosting over Erica’s cheek. It’s answer enough.
Pressing a quick kiss between her mare’s eyes, Erica steps back, letting Lea return to the simple pleasure of her mountain hay.
~~~
With each step toward the suite, her mind sharpens, the warmth of the stable giving way to the cool, calculated purpose that brought her here in the first place. Reaching into her pocket, she pulls out her phone and dials.
The line buzzes.
Erica slows her pace, gaze flicking around as she walks. The yard is quiet. A couple of grooms lead horses toward the turnout paddocks, but they’re too away far to overhear anything. The pathway toward the guest suites is empty. Still, she moves carefully, watching, listening.
Finally, the call connects.
Margaret Henshaw’s voice is strained, edged with frustration and no small amount of worry. “Erica, what in God’s name…”
“Please…” Erica interrupts, keeping her own low and even. “Look, I was only playing a role. I told them we have a history - one that you’re not even aware of. Something’s going on here, but I haven’t figured out exactly what yet. I’ll keep you in the loop, but you will have to be careful. Please!”
There’s a pause, a long, shaky exhale from Margaret’s end.
“Damn it, Erica…” Another breath. Then, quieter, “I’ll try my best. But please, you be careful, too.”
“I will.”
She means it, but in her own mind isn’t sure about the risks she might have to take.
As she nears the entrance to the suites, a group of riders emerges from the building. Dressed in crisp breeches and tailored jackets, helmets tucked under their arms, riding crops dangling from gloved hands, they move with the easy confidence of people who belong here.
Their conversation slows as Erica approaches. Just slightly. Just enough that they might hear what they shouldn’t.
She doesn’t hesitate.
“I’ll call back later,” she murmurs, ending the call and slipping her phone away as she strides past, her expression smooth, unreadable.
By the time she reaches her door, her heartbeat has steadied. Her mind, however, is already spinning.
Careful who you trust.
Kelly’s warning echoes in her head. And she’s starting to think it wasn’t just about Margaret.
~~~
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
Kelly? I can understand her leaving Ironwood for more money fordoing the same job, i mean bills HAVE to be paid. It seems that it's not just the horses that Gibbon is 'poaching' from poor Margaret. But this girl has her doubts, and could be useful in the future, if not right now. For she believes that Erica has a grudge against her former boss, something she clearly doesn't have herself.
Dear @LunaDog, at least, Kelly Garner seems to have an independent mind and isn't afraid to speak it. But needing to pay her bills, she might not be in a position to fight by Erica's side.
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
At 8 PM sharp, a knock sounds at the door of Erica’s suite. No hesitation, no impatience - just the precise, deliberate rhythm of a man who expects to be answered.
She adjusts the lapel of her Harris tweed jacket, a timeless blend of equestrian elegance and effortless authority, and opens the door.
Patrick Gibbon stands before her, the very image of a successful entrepreneur - charming, confident, and meticulously groomed. His tailored navy shirt is open at the collar, sleeves rolled up just enough to suggest he’s both a man of business and action.
His smile is all warmth and polished ease, but his eyes - sharp, assessing - give away the practiced control underneath.
“You look amazing,” he says, admiration laced with something just a little too smooth and with a sweeping motion, he gestures toward the sleek black Yamaha UTV parked just outside, its body gleaming under the overhead lights, the Stone Ridge logo emblazoned on its side like a brand.
Erica slings her handbag over her shoulder and steps into the crisp evening air, the faint scent of hay and saddle leather mixing with the cool mountain breeze. As she circles around the vehicle and slides into the front passenger seat, she notes the subtle weight of his gaze, lingering just a moment too long.
“This is an easy way to get around the estate,” Gibbon remarks, gunning the engine to life. “A modern workhorse, if you will.”
“Absolutely.” Erica’s response is measured, just short of distant.
She hadn’t expected a moonlit tour of the Stone Ridge empire, but then again, she knows the game. If she wants to uncover Gibbon’s true intentions - his next move against Margaret Henshaw - she might have to dance with the devil tonight.
The drive stretches for fifteen minutes, the UTV gliding smoothly over the manicured grounds, past pristine paddocks, sprawling arenas, and newly-built barns that gleam under strategically placed floodlights.
He doesn’t tire to demonstrate that this is no ordinary equestrian retreat - this is wealth and ambition laid bare.
Finally, Gibbon slows the vehicle, pulling up beside one of the frontier-style wooden cabins, perched at the most scenic vantage point the estate has to offer.
A small creek winds its way behind the structure, the sound of rushing water mingling with the rustling leaves.
A picnic area with a high-end BBQ pit overlooks a breathtaking small valley below, the last traces of sunset casting the distant hills in deep purples and burnished golds.
Erica steps out, taking in the deliberate perfection of the setting.
“You’ve built quite a paradise, Mr. Gibbon.” The admiration in her voice is genuine - she doesn’t have to fake that. She understands now, more than ever, why he wants to expand beyond the fence.
“A place like this - within driving distance of New York City - is the dream of every wealthy equestrian,” Gibbon says, his voice tinged with satisfaction as he unlocks the door.
She follows him inside, and luxury cloaked in rustic charm surrounds her. Exposed wood beams, a massive stone fireplace, plush leather furniture, and the unmistakable gleam of high-tech convenience woven seamlessly into the cabin’s design. A hunter’s retreat for the elite who wants to feel like rough-and-ready frontiers folk, but won’t want to miss any modern convenience.
Gibbon glances back at her as he strides toward the polished dark wood and chrome bar.
“My personal refuge after a long day at work,” he says, the faintest smirk at the corner of his mouth. “I enjoy the peace and quiet.”
Erica nods, her eyes sweeping the cabin - not just appreciating its detail, but noting the possible exits. The windows, the solid oak door, the fireplace tools that could double as weapons if necessary.
She isn’t paranoid - just prepared. There have been incidents where she had blindly – recklessly even - walked into traps and only barely had made an escape.
Gibbon pauses at the bar, rolling up his sleeves just a fraction more as he reaches for a bottle. A test.
“What can I get you, Mrs. Sinclair? Scotch? Bourbon?”
“I’m a Single Malt girl,” Erica replies smoothly. Not entirely true. If she had her way, she’d be sipping Nero d’Avola right now, but she knows better than to stand out too much. Tonight, she plays along.
He pours two fingers’ width of amber liquid into a tumbler, then sets a glass of spring water beside it - thoughtful, calculated. He prepares himself an Old Fashioned, the methodical movements revealing a man who enjoys control even in the smallest details.
“Have a seat, Mrs. Sinclair,” he says, gesturing toward the massive wooden table.
Erica meets his gaze - polished, unreadable. She picks up the tumbler, swirls the liquid inside, and takes her seat.
She’s in his domain now.
~~~
Gibbon raises his glass, the crystal catching the dim glow of the cabin’s pendant lights. His smile is confident, knowing.
“To new opportunities.” His voice is smooth, each syllable carefully measured.
Erica picks up her tumbler, the weight of the glass grounding her. She lets the smoky scent of the Scotch fill her senses before offering a small, amused smile.
“As the prophecy foretold.” Her tone is light, teasing - but her eyes remain sharp, watching his reaction.
Gibbon chuckles, clearly entertained. “Is this why fate has brought us together?” he muses, taking a slow sip and watching her over the rim of his glass.
Erica mirrors his action, though she merely tastes the whiskey, letting it linger before setting her glass down on the plush armrest of her chair.
“I see you are not only a man of vision, but also of education.”
“Mrs. Sinclair, you are just as advertised.” Gibbon’s words carry a subtle weight, something unspoken curling in the air between them.
Erica tilts her head slightly. “Please, Mr. Gibbon, you shouldn’t believe everything the internet leads you to believe.”
He smiles, unbothered, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “On the contrary, Mrs. Sinclair. I am quite intrigued. And your history with my dear neighbor makes even more sense now.”
Her fingers rest lightly against the rim of her tumbler. “Does it?”
“Absolutely.” Gibbon leans back, at ease, though his posture is anything but careless. “As a lawyer, you would have preferred to drag Mrs. Henshaw to court - but, as you said, you lack the evidence that your father - may he rest in peace - loaned her any money.” He pauses, his eyes flickering with calculated interest. “It doesn’t surprise me that you’re not happy about this situation, yet you still want to see it remedied.”
Erica exhales slowly, pressing her lips into a thin, deliberate line. “That summarizes it nicely.”
“And, of course, you can’t risk what you’ve built.” Gibbon lifts his glass again, studying the liquid within before offering her a knowing glance. “Not for a little revenge.”
She meets his gaze, unwavering. “No. Certainly not.”
“Understandable.” He smiles, easy yet deliberate. “I might not be able to give you back the money Mrs. Henshaw owes your father - however, I’m quite sure I can enable you to ride across Ironwood’s pastures without my neighbor glaring at you from her doorstep.”
Silence hums between them, thick with implications.
Erica doesn’t blink. “And what, exactly, would that require?”
Gibbon sets his drink down with a quiet clink against the wooden table. “Nothing drastic. Just a little… strategic thinking.”
The fire crackles in the hearth, its warmth doing nothing to cut through the cold calculation in his eyes.
Erica’s fingers tighten slightly around her glass. The game is on.
~~~
She adjusts the lapel of her Harris tweed jacket, a timeless blend of equestrian elegance and effortless authority, and opens the door.
Patrick Gibbon stands before her, the very image of a successful entrepreneur - charming, confident, and meticulously groomed. His tailored navy shirt is open at the collar, sleeves rolled up just enough to suggest he’s both a man of business and action.
His smile is all warmth and polished ease, but his eyes - sharp, assessing - give away the practiced control underneath.
“You look amazing,” he says, admiration laced with something just a little too smooth and with a sweeping motion, he gestures toward the sleek black Yamaha UTV parked just outside, its body gleaming under the overhead lights, the Stone Ridge logo emblazoned on its side like a brand.
Erica slings her handbag over her shoulder and steps into the crisp evening air, the faint scent of hay and saddle leather mixing with the cool mountain breeze. As she circles around the vehicle and slides into the front passenger seat, she notes the subtle weight of his gaze, lingering just a moment too long.
“This is an easy way to get around the estate,” Gibbon remarks, gunning the engine to life. “A modern workhorse, if you will.”
“Absolutely.” Erica’s response is measured, just short of distant.
She hadn’t expected a moonlit tour of the Stone Ridge empire, but then again, she knows the game. If she wants to uncover Gibbon’s true intentions - his next move against Margaret Henshaw - she might have to dance with the devil tonight.
The drive stretches for fifteen minutes, the UTV gliding smoothly over the manicured grounds, past pristine paddocks, sprawling arenas, and newly-built barns that gleam under strategically placed floodlights.
He doesn’t tire to demonstrate that this is no ordinary equestrian retreat - this is wealth and ambition laid bare.
Finally, Gibbon slows the vehicle, pulling up beside one of the frontier-style wooden cabins, perched at the most scenic vantage point the estate has to offer.
A small creek winds its way behind the structure, the sound of rushing water mingling with the rustling leaves.
A picnic area with a high-end BBQ pit overlooks a breathtaking small valley below, the last traces of sunset casting the distant hills in deep purples and burnished golds.
Erica steps out, taking in the deliberate perfection of the setting.
“You’ve built quite a paradise, Mr. Gibbon.” The admiration in her voice is genuine - she doesn’t have to fake that. She understands now, more than ever, why he wants to expand beyond the fence.
“A place like this - within driving distance of New York City - is the dream of every wealthy equestrian,” Gibbon says, his voice tinged with satisfaction as he unlocks the door.
She follows him inside, and luxury cloaked in rustic charm surrounds her. Exposed wood beams, a massive stone fireplace, plush leather furniture, and the unmistakable gleam of high-tech convenience woven seamlessly into the cabin’s design. A hunter’s retreat for the elite who wants to feel like rough-and-ready frontiers folk, but won’t want to miss any modern convenience.
Gibbon glances back at her as he strides toward the polished dark wood and chrome bar.
“My personal refuge after a long day at work,” he says, the faintest smirk at the corner of his mouth. “I enjoy the peace and quiet.”
Erica nods, her eyes sweeping the cabin - not just appreciating its detail, but noting the possible exits. The windows, the solid oak door, the fireplace tools that could double as weapons if necessary.
She isn’t paranoid - just prepared. There have been incidents where she had blindly – recklessly even - walked into traps and only barely had made an escape.
Gibbon pauses at the bar, rolling up his sleeves just a fraction more as he reaches for a bottle. A test.
“What can I get you, Mrs. Sinclair? Scotch? Bourbon?”
“I’m a Single Malt girl,” Erica replies smoothly. Not entirely true. If she had her way, she’d be sipping Nero d’Avola right now, but she knows better than to stand out too much. Tonight, she plays along.
He pours two fingers’ width of amber liquid into a tumbler, then sets a glass of spring water beside it - thoughtful, calculated. He prepares himself an Old Fashioned, the methodical movements revealing a man who enjoys control even in the smallest details.
“Have a seat, Mrs. Sinclair,” he says, gesturing toward the massive wooden table.
Erica meets his gaze - polished, unreadable. She picks up the tumbler, swirls the liquid inside, and takes her seat.
She’s in his domain now.
~~~
Gibbon raises his glass, the crystal catching the dim glow of the cabin’s pendant lights. His smile is confident, knowing.
“To new opportunities.” His voice is smooth, each syllable carefully measured.
Erica picks up her tumbler, the weight of the glass grounding her. She lets the smoky scent of the Scotch fill her senses before offering a small, amused smile.
“As the prophecy foretold.” Her tone is light, teasing - but her eyes remain sharp, watching his reaction.
Gibbon chuckles, clearly entertained. “Is this why fate has brought us together?” he muses, taking a slow sip and watching her over the rim of his glass.
Erica mirrors his action, though she merely tastes the whiskey, letting it linger before setting her glass down on the plush armrest of her chair.
“I see you are not only a man of vision, but also of education.”
“Mrs. Sinclair, you are just as advertised.” Gibbon’s words carry a subtle weight, something unspoken curling in the air between them.
Erica tilts her head slightly. “Please, Mr. Gibbon, you shouldn’t believe everything the internet leads you to believe.”
He smiles, unbothered, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “On the contrary, Mrs. Sinclair. I am quite intrigued. And your history with my dear neighbor makes even more sense now.”
Her fingers rest lightly against the rim of her tumbler. “Does it?”
“Absolutely.” Gibbon leans back, at ease, though his posture is anything but careless. “As a lawyer, you would have preferred to drag Mrs. Henshaw to court - but, as you said, you lack the evidence that your father - may he rest in peace - loaned her any money.” He pauses, his eyes flickering with calculated interest. “It doesn’t surprise me that you’re not happy about this situation, yet you still want to see it remedied.”
Erica exhales slowly, pressing her lips into a thin, deliberate line. “That summarizes it nicely.”
“And, of course, you can’t risk what you’ve built.” Gibbon lifts his glass again, studying the liquid within before offering her a knowing glance. “Not for a little revenge.”
She meets his gaze, unwavering. “No. Certainly not.”
“Understandable.” He smiles, easy yet deliberate. “I might not be able to give you back the money Mrs. Henshaw owes your father - however, I’m quite sure I can enable you to ride across Ironwood’s pastures without my neighbor glaring at you from her doorstep.”
Silence hums between them, thick with implications.
Erica doesn’t blink. “And what, exactly, would that require?”
Gibbon sets his drink down with a quiet clink against the wooden table. “Nothing drastic. Just a little… strategic thinking.”
The fire crackles in the hearth, its warmth doing nothing to cut through the cold calculation in his eyes.
Erica’s fingers tighten slightly around her glass. The game is on.
~~~
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
Precisely!
Dear @LunaDog, and what that means will come clear in a minute...
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
The firelight flickers against the dark wood of the cabin, casting shifting shadows as Erica raises her glass. She lets the golden liquid swirl before taking a measured sip, her gaze locked onto Patrick Gibbon’s.
“To the last I grapple with thee; from hell’s heart I stab at thee; for hate’s sake I spit my last breath at thee.”
Her voice is low, almost a whisper, the lines deliberately chosen. It’s not just to prove her knowledge of literature - this is a test, a calculated move to pull Gibbon in, to measure his response.
He watches her with an amused glint in his eye, then exhales a soft chuckle. “I hope it won’t come to this, Mrs. Sinclair.” He leans back slightly, his fingers tracing the rim of his glass before reciting his own passage, voice smooth as polished mahogany.
“He piled upon the whale’s white hump the sum of all the general rage and hate felt by his whole race from Adam down; and then, as if his chest had been a mortar, he burst his hot heart’s shell upon it.”
A slow smirk curls at Erica’s lips. “You don’t strike me as an Ahab type, Mr. Gibbon.” She tilts her head, studying him like a puzzle she’s close to solving. “I’d say you’re more of a rational businessman.”
Gibbon inclines his glass slightly, as if toasting her deduction. “Nicely put.” He takes another sip before setting the tumbler down with an intentional slowness. “And as a businessman, I have a vision. My little empire, as you call it, will expand beyond the fence. It’s inevitable.”
His voice is smooth, measured, but something in the air shifts. Erica tenses - only slightly - but she knows he sees it.
“With you having moved your Bay to Stone Ridge, Mrs. Henshaw has no clients left,” Gibbon continues, glancing at his gold watch. “Pretty much all of her staff are already on my payroll. It won’t be long before she realizes she’s fighting a losing battle.”
Erica’s grip on her tumbler tightens. “If I have learned one thing, Mr. Gibbon, it is that Margaret Henshaw isn’t one to fold easily.”
Gibbon’s smile deepens, a razor-thin crescent of amusement. “True. That’s why she needs… a little encouragement.” He taps the face of his watch. “Which, if my men are on schedule, is happening… right about now.”
A chill creeps along the back of Erica’s neck. She keeps her expression neutral, but inside, alarms are blaring. Her eyes flicker slightly.
What does he mean?
She runs through possibilities. More vandalism? A bribe, a lawsuit? Gibbon doesn’t strike her as the type to set fire to a barn once more in some crude intimidation attempt. No, this feels more precise. Surgical even.
She forces herself to slow her heartbeat before she can take another sip of Scotch, masking her unease with an air of casual interest. “Encouragement,” she echoes. “What an interesting word in this context.”
Gibbon simply smiles. “Business, Miss Sinclair. Nothing personal. But no mother should have to make that kind of choice…”
~~~
Across the fence, while Erica and Patrick Gibbon dance with words in his luxurious retreat, something far darker unfolds in the shadows of Ironwood Pastures.
Sarah Henshaw, Margaret’s 25-year-old daughter, walks briskly across the stable yard, the night air cool against her flushed cheeks. Normally, at this hour, she’d be curled up with a book after a long shift at the Bedford DIY store, but these days, nothing seems normal.
Despite all the boarders have gone, she’s the last pair of unpaid hands to help her mother keep Ironwood running - what’s left of it, anyway.
The place feels hollow, haunted. No sounds of nickering horses from the stalls, no shuffle of hooves on straw, just a stillness that presses against her ribs like a weight. She exhales sharply, pushing back the creeping worry.
No clients, no income. It’s that simple.
Flipping the light switch, Sarah squints against the harsh glow of the overhead illumination and steps into the stable. Her heart clenches at the row of empty stalls.
She remembers them full, bustling with life. Now, there are only two horses left - her mother’s own.
She forces a smile as she approaches the stocky roan mare. "Hi, Dolly," she murmurs, running her fingers through the horse’s thick mane. The familiar warmth, the soft scent of hay and leather, offers a brief comfort.
Then…
"Name’s not Dolly," a voice rasps behind her.
Sarah whirls, her breath hitching.
Two men stand in the stable entrance, silhouetted against the night. Blue coveralls, gloved hands, ski masks concealing their faces.
Every instinct in her body screams danger.
Her fingers tighten around the pitchfork leaning against the stall wall. She wrenches it free, brandishing it like a weapon. “Get lost,” she snaps, her voice steady despite the ice blooming in her chest.
The men exchange glances, then move in, flanking her from both sides.
“Save yourself the trouble and come quietly,” one of them drawls, amusement laced with malice. “If you don’t…”
Sarah lunges, swinging the pitchfork with all her strength.
Too slow.
One man bats it aside with practiced ease, wrenching it from her hands. The other rushes her, slamming into her midsection. She crashes onto the stable floor, the impact jolting through her bones.
"Get her feet," the first man grunts, straining to keep hold as Sarah thrashes beneath him, struggling, bucking, twisting, fighting with everything she has.
“Help!” she groans, the word dying in her throat.
A gloved hand clamps over her mouth, muffling the sound.
Silver flashes in the dim light - a roll of duct tape. Before she can turn her head, the first layer seals her lips, then another, around her head, pulled taut, silencing her completely.
She tries to scream, but the duct tape forces her breath through her nose - too fast, too shallow. She starts to feel dizzy, panic rising like floodwaters.
The zip ties come next, cinching her wrists tight behind her back, then her ankles. She writhes, testing the plastic’s bite, but there’s no give.
Tears sting her eyes as they haul her upright, dragging her toward the stable doors. The cold night air bites at her skin as they step outside, the gravel crunching beneath their boots. She screams again, but the only sound she can make is a muffled whimper.
A black cloth bag is pulled over her head.
The last thing she sees before darkness swallows her whole is the light on the porch of her mother’s house…
Somewhere, across the fence, Patrick Gibbon lifts his glass and toasts to opportunity.
Sarah Henshaw never sees where they take her.
~~~
gif jpg umwandeln
“To the last I grapple with thee; from hell’s heart I stab at thee; for hate’s sake I spit my last breath at thee.”
Her voice is low, almost a whisper, the lines deliberately chosen. It’s not just to prove her knowledge of literature - this is a test, a calculated move to pull Gibbon in, to measure his response.
He watches her with an amused glint in his eye, then exhales a soft chuckle. “I hope it won’t come to this, Mrs. Sinclair.” He leans back slightly, his fingers tracing the rim of his glass before reciting his own passage, voice smooth as polished mahogany.
“He piled upon the whale’s white hump the sum of all the general rage and hate felt by his whole race from Adam down; and then, as if his chest had been a mortar, he burst his hot heart’s shell upon it.”
A slow smirk curls at Erica’s lips. “You don’t strike me as an Ahab type, Mr. Gibbon.” She tilts her head, studying him like a puzzle she’s close to solving. “I’d say you’re more of a rational businessman.”
Gibbon inclines his glass slightly, as if toasting her deduction. “Nicely put.” He takes another sip before setting the tumbler down with an intentional slowness. “And as a businessman, I have a vision. My little empire, as you call it, will expand beyond the fence. It’s inevitable.”
His voice is smooth, measured, but something in the air shifts. Erica tenses - only slightly - but she knows he sees it.
“With you having moved your Bay to Stone Ridge, Mrs. Henshaw has no clients left,” Gibbon continues, glancing at his gold watch. “Pretty much all of her staff are already on my payroll. It won’t be long before she realizes she’s fighting a losing battle.”
Erica’s grip on her tumbler tightens. “If I have learned one thing, Mr. Gibbon, it is that Margaret Henshaw isn’t one to fold easily.”
Gibbon’s smile deepens, a razor-thin crescent of amusement. “True. That’s why she needs… a little encouragement.” He taps the face of his watch. “Which, if my men are on schedule, is happening… right about now.”
A chill creeps along the back of Erica’s neck. She keeps her expression neutral, but inside, alarms are blaring. Her eyes flicker slightly.
What does he mean?
She runs through possibilities. More vandalism? A bribe, a lawsuit? Gibbon doesn’t strike her as the type to set fire to a barn once more in some crude intimidation attempt. No, this feels more precise. Surgical even.
She forces herself to slow her heartbeat before she can take another sip of Scotch, masking her unease with an air of casual interest. “Encouragement,” she echoes. “What an interesting word in this context.”
Gibbon simply smiles. “Business, Miss Sinclair. Nothing personal. But no mother should have to make that kind of choice…”
~~~
Across the fence, while Erica and Patrick Gibbon dance with words in his luxurious retreat, something far darker unfolds in the shadows of Ironwood Pastures.
Sarah Henshaw, Margaret’s 25-year-old daughter, walks briskly across the stable yard, the night air cool against her flushed cheeks. Normally, at this hour, she’d be curled up with a book after a long shift at the Bedford DIY store, but these days, nothing seems normal.
Despite all the boarders have gone, she’s the last pair of unpaid hands to help her mother keep Ironwood running - what’s left of it, anyway.
The place feels hollow, haunted. No sounds of nickering horses from the stalls, no shuffle of hooves on straw, just a stillness that presses against her ribs like a weight. She exhales sharply, pushing back the creeping worry.
No clients, no income. It’s that simple.
Flipping the light switch, Sarah squints against the harsh glow of the overhead illumination and steps into the stable. Her heart clenches at the row of empty stalls.
She remembers them full, bustling with life. Now, there are only two horses left - her mother’s own.
She forces a smile as she approaches the stocky roan mare. "Hi, Dolly," she murmurs, running her fingers through the horse’s thick mane. The familiar warmth, the soft scent of hay and leather, offers a brief comfort.
Then…
"Name’s not Dolly," a voice rasps behind her.
Sarah whirls, her breath hitching.
Two men stand in the stable entrance, silhouetted against the night. Blue coveralls, gloved hands, ski masks concealing their faces.
Every instinct in her body screams danger.
Her fingers tighten around the pitchfork leaning against the stall wall. She wrenches it free, brandishing it like a weapon. “Get lost,” she snaps, her voice steady despite the ice blooming in her chest.
The men exchange glances, then move in, flanking her from both sides.
“Save yourself the trouble and come quietly,” one of them drawls, amusement laced with malice. “If you don’t…”
Sarah lunges, swinging the pitchfork with all her strength.
Too slow.
One man bats it aside with practiced ease, wrenching it from her hands. The other rushes her, slamming into her midsection. She crashes onto the stable floor, the impact jolting through her bones.
"Get her feet," the first man grunts, straining to keep hold as Sarah thrashes beneath him, struggling, bucking, twisting, fighting with everything she has.
“Help!” she groans, the word dying in her throat.
A gloved hand clamps over her mouth, muffling the sound.
Silver flashes in the dim light - a roll of duct tape. Before she can turn her head, the first layer seals her lips, then another, around her head, pulled taut, silencing her completely.
She tries to scream, but the duct tape forces her breath through her nose - too fast, too shallow. She starts to feel dizzy, panic rising like floodwaters.
The zip ties come next, cinching her wrists tight behind her back, then her ankles. She writhes, testing the plastic’s bite, but there’s no give.
Tears sting her eyes as they haul her upright, dragging her toward the stable doors. The cold night air bites at her skin as they step outside, the gravel crunching beneath their boots. She screams again, but the only sound she can make is a muffled whimper.
A black cloth bag is pulled over her head.
The last thing she sees before darkness swallows her whole is the light on the porch of her mother’s house…
Somewhere, across the fence, Patrick Gibbon lifts his glass and toasts to opportunity.
Sarah Henshaw never sees where they take her.
~~~
gif jpg umwandeln
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
You have moved this into the realms of REAL criminal activity now. With Erica placed right at the hub. How is this going to plan out from here?
Dear @LunaDog, you will read more about this in the next few days. I can promise you a wild ride.
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
The Story really takes now a turn to the Darkness. If I had to guess: Sarah´s Abduction serves a sinister purpose: To blackmail Margaret into Submission ? You will tell us now doubt dear @Jenny_S. You are truly on the roll!
Dear @Caesar73, thank you so much. As Gibbon foreshadowed, if he can't break Margaret as a businesswoman, he can break her as a mother.
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
Gibbon plays the old Game here: Hit two Birds with one Stone!Jenny_S wrote: 1 week ago Dear @Caesar73, thank you so much. As Gibbon foreshadowed, if he can't break Margaret as a businesswoman, he can break her as a mother.
Just caught up.
Wow, brilliant. Loving the flow of events, the descriptions. Things are certainly unfolding and I'm enjoying following along.
Wow, brilliant. Loving the flow of events, the descriptions. Things are certainly unfolding and I'm enjoying following along.
Dear @Caesar73, and this happens while he's enjoying a drink.
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
Dear @RopeBunny, that is a wonderful compliment. Thank you so much.
I'm glad this story captivates you.
I'm glad this story captivates you.
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
“What can I do to contribute to your vision, Mr Gibbon?” Erica asks, keeping her tone smooth, her expression unreadable.
Gibbon smirks, swirling the amber liquid in his glass before taking a slow sip. “Nothing, really.” He sets the glass down with a soft clink. “All you need to do is lean back and enjoy the ride. Literally. I’m quite certain that in two or three days, you’ll be able to take your mare over to the most recent piece of land Stone Ridge Equestrian owns.”
A quiet stillness settles between them, the weight of unspoken things pressing down around Erica like a tightening noose.
“So you’re confident that your “encouragement” will make Henshaw roll over,” she asks, her voice even, measured.
“Absolutely positive, Mrs. Sinclair.” Gibbon’s smirk deepens as he leans back in his chair, eyes glinting with quiet triumph. “Seeing you ride across my new acquisitions without that old mare watching from the fence line will be pure joy.”
It takes Erica half a second too long to process what he means. The old mare. Her fingers tighten subtly around her glass. He’s talking about Margaret Henshaw.
She lifts her drink in a slow, deliberate salute, her movements careful, calculated. Any shift in her expression, any flicker of reaction, could give her away. The Scotch burns on the way down, but she barely registers it.
The soft buzz of Gibbon’s phone slices through the silence like a blade.
“Excuse me, please.”
He stands, stepping a few paces away, feigning privacy as he answers the call.
Erica watches him from the corner of her eye, forcing herself to remain still. Whoever is on the other end must be delivering good news - Gibbon’s mouth curves into a slow, satisfied smile. He chuckles, a quiet, indulgent sound, then murmurs something in agreement before slipping the phone back into his pocket.
When he turns back to her, he radiates genuine certainty.
“As I said, Miss Sinclair, give it two or three more days, and this transaction is done.”
Erica lowers her lashes, masking her thoughts. “I’ll drink to that.” Her voice is low, almost unreadable, as she tips her glass back and empties it.
Gibbon watches her with something like approval. Then, instead of merely offering a refill, he reaches for a different bottle, one with a dark, aged label. With slow precision, he uncorks it and pours a generous measure into her glass.
“This moment calls for something special.” he murmurs. “Glenurchy. Thirty years old. As a Single Malt girl, you will appreciate it, I’m sure.”
The heavy scent of peat and oak drifts up to Erica’s nose as she stares down at the drink. Something about the gesture feels off. Unspoken.
Without looking up, she wraps her fingers around the glass, lifting it just slightly, maybe hesitating for the fracture of a second.
Gibbon leans back in his chair, satisfied. The deal to lay his hands on Ironwood Pastures is already done, because somewhere, beyond the pristine fences of Stone Ridge, in the cold dark of the night, Sarah Henshaw is being dragged away.
~~~
An hour and two more drinks later, Patrick Gibbon drives Erica back to her suite in his UTV, the engine humming softly as they cut through the darkness. The cool night air rushes past, crisp and laced with the faint scent of pine and damp earth. It helps clear Erica’s head - enough to keep her steps steady when she unbuckles and slides out of the passenger seat.
Gibbon watches her with a smile, his fingers tapping lightly against the steering wheel. “It’s been a pleasure.”
She returns the smile, small but practiced. “The pleasure is all mine, Mr. Gibbon.”
He tilts his head slightly. “Patrick, if you like.”
Erica hesitates for only a fraction of a second before nodding. “Good night, Patrick.”
She reaches into her handbag for her access card. “I’m feeling a little drowsy…”
Gibbon chuckles softly, clearly pleased. “The Glenurchy will do that to you.”
She allows a slow, knowing smile, then turns and steps inside, closing the door behind her with a quiet click.
Only when she hears the soft purr of the UTV retreating into the night does she exhale, the carefully maintained mask slipping from her face.
Her hands move quickly, pulling her phone from her bag. She dials before she even has time to sit, pacing once across the room as the call rings.
Margaret answers almost instantly. The sound that greets Erica isn’t a hello - it’s a choked sob.
Erica freezes, her grip tightening around the phone. “Margaret.” She keeps her voice low, controlled. “Tell me what happened.”
The older woman gasps for breath, her voice barely above a rasp. “They took Sarah.”
The words slam into Erica’s chest like a hammer.
She sits down hard on the edge of the bed, fingers curling against the comforter as if bracing for impact. “Margaret…” she starts, but the woman cuts her off with a ragged inhale.
“I got a phone call. They told me…” Another broken sob. “Sarah is gone.”
Erica shuts her eyes for a brief second, forcing down the rising heat of anger and the cold wave of dread that follows.
Gibbon’s parting words echo in her head. "Two or three more days, and this transaction is done."
Now, she knows exactly what he meant.
And she also knows - this is war.
~~~
A shiver runs down Erica’s spine, cold as a blade, as Margaret’s voice trembles through the phone.
“They told me not to call the police.” Margaret’s words are tight, strained, barely making it past the fear constricting her throat. “If I do, they’ll…” She can’t even bring herself to finish the sentence. “They said Sarah will be set free once I sign the sales contract.”
Stone Ridge’s contract. Gibbon’s contract.
Erica grips the phone tighter. “Margaret…”
“I heard her, Erica.” The older woman’s voice cracks. “In the background. She was trying to scream, but…”
A sharp, broken sob.
“She couldn’t. They had gagged her.”
Erica’s stomach knots violently, the image flashing through her mind with brutal clarity.
Sarah, bound and terrified, somewhere in the dark, muffled cries swallowed by the cold night.
She clenches her jaw, trying to steady the storm rising inside her. Every instinct tells her to say the obvious - call the police, get help - but what if that’s exactly what they want? A reason to hurt Sarah, to push Margaret into a corner where she has no choice but to sign away everything.
Her pulse pounds in her ears.
She exhales slowly, forcing the words out with as much conviction as she can summon.
“I’ll get her back.”
The silence that follows is thick, stretching unbearably between them.
Margaret sniffles, a small, broken sound. “How?”
Erica doesn’t answer right away.
Because she doesn’t know.
Because she has no plan.
But she needs one.
Fast.
~~~
Gibbon smirks, swirling the amber liquid in his glass before taking a slow sip. “Nothing, really.” He sets the glass down with a soft clink. “All you need to do is lean back and enjoy the ride. Literally. I’m quite certain that in two or three days, you’ll be able to take your mare over to the most recent piece of land Stone Ridge Equestrian owns.”
A quiet stillness settles between them, the weight of unspoken things pressing down around Erica like a tightening noose.
“So you’re confident that your “encouragement” will make Henshaw roll over,” she asks, her voice even, measured.
“Absolutely positive, Mrs. Sinclair.” Gibbon’s smirk deepens as he leans back in his chair, eyes glinting with quiet triumph. “Seeing you ride across my new acquisitions without that old mare watching from the fence line will be pure joy.”
It takes Erica half a second too long to process what he means. The old mare. Her fingers tighten subtly around her glass. He’s talking about Margaret Henshaw.
She lifts her drink in a slow, deliberate salute, her movements careful, calculated. Any shift in her expression, any flicker of reaction, could give her away. The Scotch burns on the way down, but she barely registers it.
The soft buzz of Gibbon’s phone slices through the silence like a blade.
“Excuse me, please.”
He stands, stepping a few paces away, feigning privacy as he answers the call.
Erica watches him from the corner of her eye, forcing herself to remain still. Whoever is on the other end must be delivering good news - Gibbon’s mouth curves into a slow, satisfied smile. He chuckles, a quiet, indulgent sound, then murmurs something in agreement before slipping the phone back into his pocket.
When he turns back to her, he radiates genuine certainty.
“As I said, Miss Sinclair, give it two or three more days, and this transaction is done.”
Erica lowers her lashes, masking her thoughts. “I’ll drink to that.” Her voice is low, almost unreadable, as she tips her glass back and empties it.
Gibbon watches her with something like approval. Then, instead of merely offering a refill, he reaches for a different bottle, one with a dark, aged label. With slow precision, he uncorks it and pours a generous measure into her glass.
“This moment calls for something special.” he murmurs. “Glenurchy. Thirty years old. As a Single Malt girl, you will appreciate it, I’m sure.”
The heavy scent of peat and oak drifts up to Erica’s nose as she stares down at the drink. Something about the gesture feels off. Unspoken.
Without looking up, she wraps her fingers around the glass, lifting it just slightly, maybe hesitating for the fracture of a second.
Gibbon leans back in his chair, satisfied. The deal to lay his hands on Ironwood Pastures is already done, because somewhere, beyond the pristine fences of Stone Ridge, in the cold dark of the night, Sarah Henshaw is being dragged away.
~~~
An hour and two more drinks later, Patrick Gibbon drives Erica back to her suite in his UTV, the engine humming softly as they cut through the darkness. The cool night air rushes past, crisp and laced with the faint scent of pine and damp earth. It helps clear Erica’s head - enough to keep her steps steady when she unbuckles and slides out of the passenger seat.
Gibbon watches her with a smile, his fingers tapping lightly against the steering wheel. “It’s been a pleasure.”
She returns the smile, small but practiced. “The pleasure is all mine, Mr. Gibbon.”
He tilts his head slightly. “Patrick, if you like.”
Erica hesitates for only a fraction of a second before nodding. “Good night, Patrick.”
She reaches into her handbag for her access card. “I’m feeling a little drowsy…”
Gibbon chuckles softly, clearly pleased. “The Glenurchy will do that to you.”
She allows a slow, knowing smile, then turns and steps inside, closing the door behind her with a quiet click.
Only when she hears the soft purr of the UTV retreating into the night does she exhale, the carefully maintained mask slipping from her face.
Her hands move quickly, pulling her phone from her bag. She dials before she even has time to sit, pacing once across the room as the call rings.
Margaret answers almost instantly. The sound that greets Erica isn’t a hello - it’s a choked sob.
Erica freezes, her grip tightening around the phone. “Margaret.” She keeps her voice low, controlled. “Tell me what happened.”
The older woman gasps for breath, her voice barely above a rasp. “They took Sarah.”
The words slam into Erica’s chest like a hammer.
She sits down hard on the edge of the bed, fingers curling against the comforter as if bracing for impact. “Margaret…” she starts, but the woman cuts her off with a ragged inhale.
“I got a phone call. They told me…” Another broken sob. “Sarah is gone.”
Erica shuts her eyes for a brief second, forcing down the rising heat of anger and the cold wave of dread that follows.
Gibbon’s parting words echo in her head. "Two or three more days, and this transaction is done."
Now, she knows exactly what he meant.
And she also knows - this is war.
~~~
A shiver runs down Erica’s spine, cold as a blade, as Margaret’s voice trembles through the phone.
“They told me not to call the police.” Margaret’s words are tight, strained, barely making it past the fear constricting her throat. “If I do, they’ll…” She can’t even bring herself to finish the sentence. “They said Sarah will be set free once I sign the sales contract.”
Stone Ridge’s contract. Gibbon’s contract.
Erica grips the phone tighter. “Margaret…”
“I heard her, Erica.” The older woman’s voice cracks. “In the background. She was trying to scream, but…”
A sharp, broken sob.
“She couldn’t. They had gagged her.”
Erica’s stomach knots violently, the image flashing through her mind with brutal clarity.
Sarah, bound and terrified, somewhere in the dark, muffled cries swallowed by the cold night.
She clenches her jaw, trying to steady the storm rising inside her. Every instinct tells her to say the obvious - call the police, get help - but what if that’s exactly what they want? A reason to hurt Sarah, to push Margaret into a corner where she has no choice but to sign away everything.
Her pulse pounds in her ears.
She exhales slowly, forcing the words out with as much conviction as she can summon.
“I’ll get her back.”
The silence that follows is thick, stretching unbearably between them.
Margaret sniffles, a small, broken sound. “How?”
Erica doesn’t answer right away.
Because she doesn’t know.
Because she has no plan.
But she needs one.
Fast.
~~~
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing