Midnight Rebel (Midnight Falls, Texas)

Chapter 8

Autumn

I’m sitting at Margaret’s ornate desk in The Manor’s study, surrounded by stacks of financial documents, when I hear footsteps approaching.

“Margaret, finally, you’re here. I’ve been trying to talk to you without?—”

I spin around in the plush leather chair, coming face to face with Frank. Whatever the estate manager was about to say dies on his lips.

Frank’s pinched expression makes it clear he’s not pleased to see me occupying this space.

I lift my chin, meeting his disapproving gaze. I have every right to be here, regardless of what Frank thinks.

“Only me,” I say breezily. “Margaret went to town to pick something up. And before you ask, she didn’t tell me when she would return.”

Frank’s face goes through a series of micro-expressions—irritation, disdain, resignation—before settling into a sickly sweet smile that doesn’t reach his rheumy eyes.

“No problem, Miss Clarke. How is your investigation coming along? Found anything interesting yet?”

His voice holds a sneer as if he’s certain The Manor is squeaky clean, all thanks to his meticulous work. The way he carries himself, you’d think he single-handedly ran the place.

“It’s going fine, thanks for asking,” I reply coolly, casting my gaze at the paperwork in front of me. “Do you need to access something from the office? Am I holding you up?”

Frank sniffs haughtily as if the notion of asking permission galls him. “Not at all, Miss Clarke. I’ll leave you to your good work,” he says, effectively dismissing himself.

With a final sneer, Frank turns on his heel and stalks out, leaving an oppressive atmosphere in his wake. The tension lingers like gunpowder smoke after a duel.

I breathe a sigh of relief once Frank is gone. He’s such a slimeball. I’m grateful to be working primarily with Colt on this investigation.

Thanks to Colt granting me access to The Manor’s financial records, I’m uncovering some intriguing details that match information from various other sources.

Although I don’t have the full picture, the pieces are slowly coming together.

As I sift through ledgers and booking forms, I’m struck by how involved Colt is in the estate’s operations. He’s always downplaying his role, acting as if he’s an absentee, but the evidence tells a different story.

Colt does more than he gives himself credit for, visiting frequently and handling major decisions.

Then there’s a trove of financial data that doesn’t have Colt’s name attached to it.

As I delve deeper into these records, discrepancies jump out—lapsed insurance premiums, overdrawn accounts, profitable events with income either unrecorded or recorded incorrectly.

I’m no math whiz, but even I can see something’s not right here. My heart races as I process this information. Money is missing, but why?

More importantly, who is taking it?

A chilling thought strikes me—what if it’s Margaret? What if Colt’s mother has a valid reason for these irregularities?

My heart sinks. I can’t unsee it now that I’ve found it. The question is, what am I supposed to do about it?

The last thing I want is to cause problems for Colt. My presence and investigation are already complicating things for him.

Both he and Margaret have been so welcoming; the idea of repaying their kindness with accusations makes my stomach churn.

For now, I decide to keep my suspicions to myself. Colt is under enough pressure as it is. I won’t add to his burden until I have concrete proof.

Where is Colt? It’s been several hours since I last saw him. My musings are interrupted by a notification on my laptop.

I open the email from a trusted source—Detective Connors from the local police department.

My eyes widen as I read her message:

Autumn, I’ve got some information you might find interesting. Those anonymous phone tips about the Midnight Riders being involved in The Manor’s problems? We traced them. They’re coming from inside The Manor House itself.

My mind races. Who could be making these calls? A chill runs down my spine as a possibility occurs to me.

Could it be Frank? He’s always lurking, and he clearly has issues with Colt and the way The Manor is run.

I lean back in my chair, the weight of this new information settling over me. The plot is thickening, and I’m not sure I like where it’s leading.

As I’m about to dive back into the financial records, voices drift in from the hallway, catching my attention.

Colt’s deep timbre reaches my ears first. “Thanks for coming at short notice. Send me the quote and tell me when you can get started on the work.”

An unfamiliar voice replies, “I’ll get you something by first thing tomorrow morning.”

“The sooner, the better,” Colt replies.

“It’s stable for now,” the other man assures him. “It will hold, but you’re right to fix it right away before the damage gets worse.”

Curiosity piqued, I quickly pack up my things and head for the door. As I step into the hallway, I catch sight of Frank barreling toward Colt, their voices low but their body language speaking volumes.

With shoulders squared and jaw clenched, Frank advances on Colt, emphasizing each point with a sharp prod of his finger.

“What was Jake doing here? I didn’t book anyone from Clearwater Construction for a callout. Jake is the most expensive contractor in the area.”

Colt’s jaw clenches as he responds, visibly straining to keep his cool. “Slow down, Frank. I called Jake because he’s an expert at reinforcing work after helping us with a problem at the clubhouse.”

Frank scoffs at the mention of the clubhouse. Colt’s hands ball into fists at his sides, and for a moment, I worry he might take a swing at the older man.

“The tunnels need work,” Colt grits out.

“Of course they do,” Frank sneers. “If you catch me up to speed, I can assist.”

I watch as Colt shoves his clenched fists into his pockets, clearly trying to rein in his temper. “It’s under control. But thanks.”

Frank’s next words carry clearly down the hall, dripping with insinuation. “So now you’re taking an interest? On account of her? The reporter?”

Colt’s hand shoots out of his pocket in a sharp “stop” gesture. “I don’t like what you’re insinuating, Mr. Wells,” he says, his voice dropping dangerously. “The Manor is my responsibility.”

“Funny way to show your loyalty,” Frank hisses. “You’re never here to look after your responsibilities, are you?”

I strain to hear Colt’s response, my heart racing at the tension in the air.

When he speaks, his tone is clipped and icy. “If you’re insinuating that I’m shirking my responsibilities, I suggest you stop now. And kindly remind me of your role here, Mr. Wells.”

Frank scoffs, but Colt presses on. “Your job title?”

“Estate manager,” Frank mutters begrudgingly.

“That’s right. You are the caretaker,” Colt says firmly. “While I appreciate your service, please stick to your role and step aside when I do mine.”

“Suits you, doesn’t it?” Frank spits back.

Colt’s voice drops to a menacing growl, reminiscent of our first encounter in the gardens during the masquerade ball.

“You may get away with behavior like that around my mother, Mr. Wells, but I suggest you watch your tone around me.”

Their voices lower to an indecipherable murmur, but the tension is palpable. Moments later, Frank’s footsteps echo sharply as he storms down the hall.

Now more than ever, I’m convinced I need to keep quiet about my suspicions. Colt is under immense pressure; I won’t add to his burden until I have irrefutable proof.

As Frank disappears around the corner, Colt’s gaze finds mine. His face softens immediately, a smile replacing the scowl as he approaches me.

I lean against the door jamb, trying to appear casual. “What’s got up his nose today?” I ask lightly. “His panties are in a twist over something.”

Colt sighs, running a hand through his hair. “He’s used to being in charge around here. He sees anything I do at The Manor as treading on his toes.”

“Is he jealous that you’re taking over?” I probe gently.

“I’m not taking over,” Colt insists. “I’m doing what needs to be done while I’m here. Supporting Mom and you.”

Something in his tone makes me pause. “Your duty. Is that how you see it?”

Colt grunts, his hand back in his pocket, fingers balled into a fist. His forearm flexes, betraying the tension he’s trying to hide.

“What’s got under your skin?” I ask softly. “And don’t say it’s Frank.”

A small smile tugs at Colt’s lips. “You know me so well. And it’s only been a few days.”

“How is that different to you knowing how I take my coffee with?—”

“Cream, one sugar,” he finishes.

I can’t help but smile. “Or what I like to eat for breakfast.”

“Two eggs on toast, sunny side up,” he replies without missing a beat.

“All that aside, are you going to fill me in?” I press.

Colt explains about the tunnels, how a crew will be coming in the next few days to fix the damage. For now, they’ve installed some support structures to prevent further collapse, but the area is strictly off-limits.

“Of course,” I assure him. “You don’t have to tell me twice.”

A genuine smile spreads across his face. “Good.”

Although his shoulders relax, his hand is still in his pocket, clenched into a fist. Something’s off.

“Colt,” I say softly, “what aren’t you telling me?”

He hesitates, slowly pulling his hand from his pocket. When he opens his fist, I see a crumpled bandana with the Midnight Riders’ logo.

“Found this in the tunnels,” he says grimly. “Along with this.” He produces a small club patch from his other pocket.

I watch as Colt’s fingers trace the outline of the patch, his brow furrowed in concentration.

I take the items, examining them closely. “You think someone’s framing the Riders?”

“Someone wants us to think that.” Colt nods, jaw clenched.

I take the bandana, examining it closely. It’s too clean to have been there during the collapse. “But who? And why?”

“That’s what I need to figure out,” Colt says, running a hand over his face. “If word gets out about this, it could spark a war between the town and the Riders.”

My mind races, connecting the dots between this new information and the financial discrepancies I discovered earlier. What is the link?

The sound of voices from the hallway jolts us. Colt quickly pockets the items, his eyes meeting mine in a silent agreement to keep this conversation between us.

The gravity of the situation settles over us like a heavy blanket. I bite my lip, studying Colt’s face. His jaw is clenched, eyes stormy with worry. It’s clear he’s sharing something big with me, something he hasn’t told anyone else.

“Colt,” I say softly, placing my hand on his arm, feeling the taut muscles beneath his sleeve. “Why are you telling me this?”

He looks at me, his gaze intense. “Because I trust you, Firefly. And because I need your help.”

I’m touched by his trust, but guilt gnaws at me. Here I am, investigating him and his family while he’s opening up to me about something this serious.

“Of course,” I say, pushing my conflicted feelings aside. “What do you need me to do?”

Colt’s shoulders relax, but the worry doesn’t leave his eyes. “Keep your eyes and ears open. But be careful. If someone’s trying to frame the Riders, they might not stop there.”

I nod, a mix of excitement and apprehension coursing through me. This is bigger than I thought and potentially dangerous. But as I look at Colt, I realize I’m all in.

As we stand there, the weight of the situation hanging between us, I notice a shift in Colt’s expression. The worry in his eyes gives way to something warmer, more familiar. It’s the same look he gave me this morning when we woke up tangled together, blissfully content.

He runs a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly. “You know what? I’m done with all this serious stuff for now.”

“Oh?” I raise an eyebrow, curious about where he’s going with this.

A mischievous glint appears in his eyes as he takes a step closer. “Yeah. I’d much rather focus on how I had you moaning my name.”

Memories of our night together flood back, sending warmth cascading through my bloodstream. “Colt,” I breathe, thrilled by his boldness.

He grins, pleased with my reaction. “You know, keeping you safe is my priority,” he says, his voice low and sincere. “But pleasing you? That’s quickly becoming my favorite hobby.”

Heat floods my cheeks, but I manage to hold his gaze. “I’m down with that,” I say huskily. “It’s a very good use of your time. And you’re very good at it.”

His eyes darken. “Nah, I think I need more practice. I’m rusty.”

“Already?” I tease, falling easily into our familiar banter. “After last night’s thorough demonstration, I’d say your skills are anything but rusty.”

A growl rumbles in his chest as he suddenly pulls me into a private room—the parlor, I think—all antique furniture and gilded mirrors and closes the door behind us. Colt kicks the door shut behind us, pressing me up against it.

“You take me to the best places,” I quip breathlessly. “Show me the sights.”

His lips curve into a wicked grin. “You want to see the sights? Here, I’ll show you something.”

Heat pools in my belly as his hands start roaming. “That’s worth writing about.”

“You ain’t seen nothing yet,” he murmurs against my neck.

As things are heating up, we hear voices in the hallway. It sounds like a tour group—or maybe a couple checking out the venue for a wedding.

“Colt,” I gasp, pushing half-heartedly at his chest. “We’ll get caught.”

He grins, completely unrepentant. “Let them gawk. We’ll put on a show worth watching.”

I roll my eyes, but I can’t keep the smile off my face. “You are incorrigible.”

“You inspire me,” he replies before capturing my lips in a searing kiss.

Colt’s hands roam my body, setting every nerve-ending alight. The quick progression of our relationship catches me off guard. A week ago, I was solely focused on my career, on breaking this story wide open. Now, I’m falling hard and fast for the man at the center of my investigation.

The realization should make me want to run far away from Midnight Falls and never look back. But as Colt’s lips trail fire down my neck, all I can think is how right this feels.

The heat in his gaze sends a shiver down my spine. I can’t shake the feeling that I’m in way over my head. But for once, I don’t care. Whatever comes next—be it scandal, heartbreak, or the story of a lifetime—I know one thing for certain: I wouldn’t change a thing about how I got here.