Next card up was …

An ace of clubs.

“Oh, lookey-lookey.” John sat back, bracing the hand that wasn’t holding the deck on the table. “That’s a big one.”

“Depending on what the last one is, yessir.”

Lane was aware of his heart beginning to skip behind his sternum. There was no reason to hide any reaction on his part because the bets were in and the outcome predetermined at this point: there would be a card burned, and then whatever was up next was going to be the decider. End of story, no need to try and poker face this one.

And yet he didn’t want to let anything out, not the dread nor the excitement, superstition locking him in place as if his emotions might tip luck in a bad way for him.

Glancing over at Lizzie, he found that she was focused on him, not the cards—like maybe she’d been waiting for him to look her way. And when she mouthed, I love you, all he could do was smile at her and marvel that for a man who had grown up with great wealth … that woman he had picked was one who reminded him over and over again that money didn’t matter. Possessions weren’t the thing. The car you drove and the house you lived in and the clothes you wore … were nothing but vocabulary. They weren’t the true communication that mattered, they weren’t the connections that were important.

He thought of that moment when he’d fallen off the bridge. Funny, he’d been braced for the hard impact of the water below, tucking into himself to withstand, to survive, the hit that he’d been convinced would kill him.

In reality, the fall was what was dangerous, though. Not the river.

The river had saved him.

I love you, too, he mouthed back.

And then he heard himself say, “Next one?”

The Grain God burned a card …

Everyone gasped.

The ace of hearts.

“Sonofa …” Lenghe didn’t finish the curse, though, as was his way.

And Lane? He looked at Miss Aurora. The woman wasn’t focused on the game. Her eyes were closed and her head was back and her lips were moving.

And later, much later … that was the image that would come back to him, both her hands gripping Lizzie’s, her whole body locked in a strained rope of devotion and prayer, her belief in her God and Savior so strong, Lane could have sworn that yes, she was capable of calling a miracle right down from heaven.

He glanced over at the Rembrandt. The fact that Jesus Christ seemed to be staring at his momma felt right. “Guess you’re staying in the family,” he murmured to the painting.

The cheer that erupted was loud as it echoed around, and Lenghe was a total gentleman about it all, coming over not for a handshake, but for a hard embrace. And then Lane was vaguely conscious of Mack and Jeff rushing to him and shaking him until his teeth rattled, and Lizzie jumping up and down, and even Gin and Amelia getting into the buzz.

Lenghe was obviously a little shaken. Then again, when you suddenly owed someone over fifty million dollars? Your world went a little wonky.

Lane knew that one firsthand.

“You know,” Lenghe said as Lane came back over, “if I hadn’t seen it myself …”

“Me, too.”

“And you know something, you’re a good boy. You’re a fighter and you’re gonna make it. You’re going to do just fine, son.”

As Lenghe smiled up at him with such honest regard, Lane didn’t really know how to handle it.

“Get some champagne,” the Grain God announced to the crowd. “You Bradfords have something to celebrate!”

As another round of cheering let out, the man shook his head. “I, on the other hand, need to go make a really tough phone call. Man, I’m going to be sleeping on the couch for … months after this.”

Lane laughed, and then Lizzie was in his arms, and they were kissing.

“I’m calling Monteverdi right now,” Lane said. “Then we’re going to have some champagne.”

She leaned her body in to his. “And then …?”

“I’m going to start feeling really, really tired—and I’m going to have to go to bed,” he said as he kissed her deep. “With the love of my life.”

“I can’t wait,” she whispered against his mouth.

FIFTY-TWO

The next morning, Lane took John Lenghe back to the airport in the Porsche before breakfast. As he slowed down at the check-in and waved at the guard, Lenghe looked over.

“You know, that was a helluva game.”

Lane hit the gas again and took them past the concierge building. “It was. It truly was.”

“I still can’t believe it. Well, that’s the way Lady Luck went, and there’s no arguing with it.”

Slowing down again, Lane proceeded through the open gate in the chain link fence and then idled over to Lenghe’s jet, which was gassed up and waiting. “Frankly, I’m still not over it. I didn’t sleep at all afterward.”

“Me, neither, just for a different reason.” Lenghe laughed. “But at least the wife is still speaking to me. She ain’t pleased, but she loves me more than she should.”

Lane stopped the sports car a couple of yards from the set of metal stairs that extended out of the jet like a shiny tongue. “She really going to make you sleep on the sofa?”

“Nah.” Lenghe got out and reached for his small suitcase in the nonexistent backseat. “Truth is, her feet get cold and she needs me around so she has something to warm them against.”

Lane engaged the emergency brake and got out, too. As Lenghe came around to the front grille, Lane said, “I’m never going to forget this.”

Lenghe clapped a meaty hand on Lane’s shoulder. “I meant what I said last night, son. You’re going to do well. I’m not saying it’s not going to be a struggle, but you’re going to right your ship. I’m proud of you.”

Lane closed his eyes. “Do you have any idea …” He cleared his throat and laughed awkwardly. “You know, I would have loved to have had my father say that to me just once.”

Lenghe laughed, but his version of the sound was natural and relaxed. “Why do you think I’m bothering to tell you? Just because he didn’t speak the words doesn’t mean they aren’t true.”

With a final clap on Lane’s shoulder, Lenghe turned away. “I’ll see you soon, son. You can always call me—”