The heavy silence in Jethro’s study was broken only by the rhythmic ticking of the old brass clock on the wall. Rashel stood with her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her face a mask of rigid control. But the fury in her eyes betrayed her calm.
Jethro sat behind his desk, the shadows from the fire dancing over the sharp lines of his face. He looked exhausted—drained in a way that went beyond lack of sleep. This had been building for days, and tonight it would explode.
“You’ve got to stop,” Jethro said, his voice hoarse but firm. “This constant hostility… Rashel, I’m not your enemy.”
She blinked at him, incredulous. “You lied to Seth. You told him, This child is yours.”
“And you didn’t correct me.”
“Because I had to!” she snapped.
Jethro stood, the force of his movement sending hi
