Page 74 of Total Jane Wreck

She takes a bite of her sandwich and speaks in between chews. “Keep in mind that everything I know is secondhand from Axel Rose.”

“Marigold—”

“Okay, okay.” She adjusts her grip on the wheel. “Mason was threatening to sue Chet for all that he had. So Chet got creative. He set up an endowment and signed over his entire net worth to the horses.”

I stare at her profile. “I’m sorry. Chet gave all his money to the horses?”

“Correct.”

“Chet’s horses—Spitfire, Copper Cash, Freckles, Miss Adele, Betty, and the lot—collectively, they’re billionaires?”

“Technically, yes.”

“Is that even—” I press my fingers to my temple. “Wait. If the horses belong to Chet, doesn’t the money still belong to him as well?”

“That’s the thing,” Marigold says, merging lanes. “He can’t touch the money unless it’s for their direct care and benefit. Which means if Mason wants that money, he has to sue the horses. Not Chet. The horses.”

Something between a laugh and a sob rises from my chest. “That’s insane. That’s genuinely insane.”

“Mmm.” Marigold tilts her head from side to side. “There’s method to his madness. Mason’s already a billionaire. If he sues a bunch of aging horses, he’ll seem petty and ridiculous. And it gets better.” Marigold’s voice softens. “The house, the land, all of it belongs to the endowment. Chet’s been living in your trailer. Axel Rose says that ever since you left, he’s been doing all the horse care himself. Hasn’t hired anyone.”

I look out the window at the darkening highway. “Wow,” I finally say, which is embarrassingly inadequate. “Chet must have set up the endowment in record time.”

Marigold glances at me. “Yes. But apparently, he knew this was coming for a while. So he had some time to prepare.”

I think back to that morning when I overheard Chet on the phone. How he wanted to set up an endowment that was airtight, just in case Mason repeatedly filed against him.

“But there’s more,” Marigold says. “Last night, Mason showed up at Resilience Ranch. He’d found out about the endowment, and he was furious.”

I grip the door handle like it’s an eject button. “What did he do, Marigold? Did Mason hurt Chet?”

She stares straight ahead, not blinking. “It’s messy.” Marigold keeps her eyes on the road, knuckles white on the steering wheel. “I’ll tell you what I know, but keep in mind—the horses are alright.”

“Umm, okay . . . why add that disclaimer?”

“Because,” Marigold answers, “I heard through the grapevine that you can get—” she takes a breath “—worked up. That you experience a strong physical reaction when a horse is suffering?”

My throat goes dry. “Did Mason try to hurt the horses?”

Marigold chooses this moment to take another bite of her sandwich, washing it down with a swig of lemonade. After swallowing, she says, “Yes. Axel Rose told me that when she got to the ranch this morning, she found Chet on the stable floor, passed out—I guess from the pain. After she roused him, Chet said that Mason had gone straight to the horse stable, carrying a hoof knife, like the one he was stabbed with. Chet ran in after him; Mason ranted that the horses would be billionaires over his dead body, that he’d kill them first. Chet tackled Mason, kept him from hurting the horses. But . . .” her voice softens “. . . Mason stabbed Chet in the stomach. Chet still hasn’t gone to urgent care.”

“What? Why not?”

“Because he’s worried Mason will return. Axel Rose said he was nearly delirious. They called Sheriff Theo, of course, but he can’t find Mason. Until Mason is apprehended, Chet refuses to leave the ranch.”

An image of Chet, injured, lying on the stable floor, assaults my brain. Was he scared? Did he call for me?

Jane! Jane! Jane!

I ball my hands into fists. “Mason better hope Theo finds him before I do. Because if I get to him first, he’ll regret ever being born.”

All of a sudden, sick floods my mouth; I swallow it, then clench my fists in my lap. Marigold notices. She pulls to the side of the highway and kills the engine.

“Hey,” she says, keeping her voice light. “Do you need air?”

All at once, my stomach makes its decision. I’m out of the Subaru and bent over the curb, regurgitated root beer and rage splashing onto the gravel. I retch until my eyes burn and my throat feels like someone’s sandpapered it from the inside.

“Sorry,” I rasp.