In Her Defense

by Spectographer

When her teenage daughter is assaulted by a local football star, single mother Donna Paulsen blackmails prestigious New York attorney Harvey Specter into taking her case by threatening to expose his associate's fraudulent credentials. What begins as a forced partnership evolves into something deeper as Harvey becomes increasingly invested in helping Donna's family heal.

12. Skin in the Game

Author's note: Buckle up, my friends. This is when it all begins to unravel...

Chapter 12: Skin in the Game

I

The boy sits in the tall grass, knees pulled tight against his chest, making himself as small as he can. His shoulders shake with each sob, though he tries to swallow them down. Boys don't cry in Riverstone. Everyone knows that.

A few feet away, his horse—a beautiful roan mare with a sweet temper and soft brown eyes; his mare, his girl, his whole world; Jezzy—shudders where she lies sprawled, dying, on her side. The animal's once-proud flanks now hang loose on her frame, her eyes clouded with pain that medicine can't touch and time won't heal. The rifle rests across the boy's lap, heavy as judgment.

"You do what needs doing," his father had told him that morning, pressing the gun into his hands. Not I'm sorry or It's okay to be sad. Just the weight of expectation, handed down like an heirloom.

The boy has been sitting here for three hours now. The sun has moved across the sky, painting the field gold, then amber, then the burnt orange of endings. Jezzy watches him with one rheumy eye, patient even now. The boy wipes his nose on his sleeve.

"I can't," he whispers, though there's nobody to hear him but the dying horse and the indifferent Montana wind. "I'm sorry, Jez. I can't."

He doesn't hear the footsteps in the grass. Doesn't notice he's no longer alone until a shadow falls across him like mercy.

His best friend stands there—dark hair falling across his forehead, blue-green eyes carrying the kind of worry that only comes from knowing someone's heart as well as your own. They've shared everything since before they could walk—toys and secrets and skinned knees and dreams. In Riverstone, where friendships are forged in fire and tested by time, theirs is bedrock.

"Your mama said I'd find you here," the dark-haired boy says, settling down in the grass beside him. Their shoulders touch, a language they've spoken since they wore matching cloth diapers at church picnics.

"My dad says I have to," the first boy explains, his voice cracking. "But I can't. I just can't do it."

His friend nods once. He understands about fathers and their expectations. About the things that need doing. About the weight that comes with being someone's son in a town where men are measured by the hardness of their hands.

"Remember when Mrs. Kelley's cat got hit by the Miller's truck?" the dark-haired boy asks quietly. "That funeral we gave it. The eulogy and everything."

A tiny snort. A laugh in a sob's clothing. The memory hangs between them—two five-year-olds with a shoebox and solemn faces, sharing grief like they shared everything else.

"It's okay," the dark-haired boy says, and holds out his hand for the rifle.

The sitting boy looks at him, sees nine different summers reflected back at him, sees every secret they've ever whispered, every promise they've ever made. He hands over the gun, relief and shame flooding through him in equal measure.

The dark-haired boy checks the chamber with hands that seem too sure for their size. He looks at the horse with respect, not pity.

"You should say goodbye," he says, and waits.

The first boy crawls over to Jezzy, presses his face against the horse's neck. The animal smells of sweat and dust and the approaching end of things.

"I'm sorry," he whispers into the coarse mane. "You were a good horse."

When he pulls back, he nods once to his friend. Then he covers his ears with his hands, but keeps his eyes open. This is his responsibility, even if he can't pull the trigger himself.

The shot cracks across the field like thunder breaking. Birds scatter from a nearby tree, their wings beating against the sky. The horse's body jerks once, then goes still. The silence that follows feels like the first silence that ever existed.

The dark-haired boy lowers the rifle. There's blood spattered across his face, small crimson constellations mapping his cheeks and forehead. He doesn't wipe it away.

"I'm weak," says the first boy, shame burning hot in his throat. "My dad's right. I'm a coward. Something's wrong with me."

The dark-haired boy looks at him for a long moment. There's no judgment in his eyes, only a wisdom that children shouldn't have to carry.

"It's not you that's wrong," he says finally, resting his hand on his friend's shoulder. "It's what they ask of us."

The first boy doesn't understand, not fully, but he feels something loosen in his chest. A knot coming undone.

"Thanks, Nate," he whispers.

Nate Paulsen nods, his eyes still carrying that ancient kindness that seems to come from somewhere deeper than his nine years should allow. The blood on his face has begun to dry, marking him in ways that will last longer than either of them can imagine.

"That's what friends are for, Stan," he says simply.

They stand together in the fading light, two boys bound by something stronger than blood. The dead horse lies between them, and the rifle hangs at Nate's side, and the weight of it all is somehow easier now that it's shared.

In years to come, Stan will remember this moment differently. He'll tell himself he was the strong one, that Nate was just helping out a friend. But deep in that place where truth lives untouched by time or pride, he'll always know—Nate Paulsen saw him at his weakest and stood beside him anyway.

And years later, when that once-dark-haired boy lies cold and broken on the ground, Stan will be the one holding the rifle, wondering how anything could ever be all right again.

II

It's late when the knock comes, echoing through the trailer, startling Shane out of his daze. He's been sitting on the sofa, flipping through TV channels, trying to ignore the rumbling in his stomach and the emptiness of the room. His dad's been gone since early afternoon, no doubt propping up a barstool at the taproom, drowning his sorrows in cheap whiskey.

Shane sighs and heaves himself to his feet. He crosses the stained carpet and opens the front door.

Stan Carter is standing on the doorstep, his broad frame filling the space, casting a shadow that seems to engulf the entire trailer. He's holding a paper bag, filling the air with the scent of deep-fried chicken. Shane's mouth waters involuntarily.

"Hey, kid," Stan says, his voice gruff. "Your dad home?" His eyes flicker past Shane, scanning the interior of the trailer, his lip curling slightly in disdain.

"Uh, no, sir," Shane replies, shifting his weight. He's suddenly acutely aware of the peeling paint on the walls, the leaky faucet dripping steadily in the kitchen, the general air of decay that hangs over the place like a shroud.

Stan nods. "Out at the bar, I'm guessing." It's not a question, just a statement of fact. Everyone in town knows about Leo's drinking problem. It's not exactly a secret.

"Yes, sir," Shane says quietly. He can feel Stan's gaze on him, assessing, judging. He's used to being looked at like he's less than, but there's something about Stan's stare that cuts deeper, that feels sharper.

"Mind if I come in?" Stan asks, his tone indicating that it's not really a request. Shane steps back, opening the door wider. Stan brushes past him, setting the paper bag down on the coffee table and settles into an armchair, his movements smooth, confident. Like he owns the place. Like he owns everything.

Shane hovers awkwardly, not sure what to do with himself. Stan gestures at the couch. "Take a load off, kid. I ain't gonna bite."

Slowly, hesitantly, Shane sinks onto the sofa, perched on the edge, ready to bolt at any moment. Stan leans back, crosses one leg over the other, and regards Shane with an appraising eye. "So, big game tomorrow, huh? Livingston's no joke. Think y'all can pull it off?"

Shane shrugs, trying to appear nonchalant, but his heart is pounding in his chest. "We'll give it our best shot."

Stan chuckles, a low rumbling sound that seems to fill the room. "That's what I like to hear. Gotta go out there and give 'em hell. Show 'em that Riverstone ain't to be messed with, right?"

"Yes, sir," Shane says. He wants to look away, to escape the weight of Stan's gaze, but he forces himself to meet it head-on. Those gray eyes are sharp and cold as winter rain, but there's a flicker of something in them — amusement, perhaps, or condescension. It's hard to tell, and Shane isn't sure he wants to know.

"I remember when you and Ethan first started playing peewee," Stan continues, his expression softening slightly. "I swear, you boys could've torched that field to cinders, you played so damned hard. Must be nice, having your best friend as your QB. No one else on that team can read your mind like him, I bet. Nate was the same with me – never missed a pass. Never second guessed."

Shane swallows thickly, his throat tight. He thinks of Ethan, of their friendship, and how it's been strained to the breaking point lately. How much things have changed since those early days on the peewee field. How the trust between them has eroded, leaving behind a gnawing sense of loss and betrayal. It's funny, he thinks bitterly, how easy it is to break something, and how nearly impossible it is to put it back together again.

Stan clears his throat, pulling Shane back to the present. "I haven't seen you around the house lately. Everything all right?"

Shane bites the inside of his cheek, tastes blood. "Yeah, fine," he lies. "Just been busy. You know, school and practice."

Stan nods, but there's a glint in his eye that makes Shane's skin prickle. He knows. Somehow, he knows about the bad blood between Ethan and him. Knows that it's more than just a tiff between friends — that it's something deep-seated, ugly, festering.

"Listen, kid," Stan says after a moment, his voice softer, more gentle than Shane has ever heard it. It sets off alarm bells in his head. "I heard about your dad getting let go over at the lumberyard. That's a real shame. He's a good man, Leo. Heart of gold, that one."

Shane says nothing, just stares down at his hands, at the dirt under his fingernails, the bruises on his knuckles from where he punched a tree yesterday in a fit of helpless rage and frustration. Stan keeps talking, his words wrapping around Shane like coils of rope, tightening with every breath.

"I want you to know that Riverstone takes care of its own. We stick together through thick and thin, right? So if you're in a pinch, financially or otherwise...well, you just let me know. I might be able to pull a few strings, get your dad an interview down at the car dealership. Nice desk job, no heavy lifting. Would keep the lights on, put food on the table." The implied 'and your mouth shut' is unspoken but still hangs heavy in the air like the scent of that take out chicken. Grease on grease.

Shane lifts his gaze, meets Stan's eyes. He sees the calculating gleam there, the subtle hint of threat lurking beneath the façade of kindness and concern. It's a carrot and a stick, all rolled into one. A bribe, disguised as charity. Help for his father. An easy job. Food on their table. For that...just forget.

But he can't forget. Can't just wipe his memory clean, pretend nothing happened. Pretend his best friend didn't hurt Madison, didn't take something from her, something she can never get back. He opens his mouth to refuse, to spit out the words that are boiling up inside him like bile, but Stan cuts him off with a raised hand.

"Think about it, son," Stan says, his voice pitched low, almost pleading. "Ain't no shame in accepting a little help from a friend. Hell, even Nate needed a hand here and there. Did you know he was so flunking Algebra our junior year, the coach threatened to bench him? If I hadn't spent all those late nights quizzing him, there would've been no state championships, no college scholarship, no 10-yard line for Nate-the-Great Paulsen."

Stan leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped in front of him. "When Nate was...when he died," Stan says haltingly, his jaw clenching, unclenching, "I made a promise. To watch over his family. Make sure his babies were okay." A deep, pained breath. His tone suddenly feels private and desperate. "I know this... situation with Ethan and Maddie ain't easy for any of us, but I'm going to make it right, son. You've gotta trust me on that."

For a moment, Stan looks far older than his nearly forty years, his eyes shining, damp with emotion. And Shane, despite everything, feels a surge of pity for the man. Sees the fear and worry buried underneath the bluster and bravado. The father's love for a son who, by all appearances, has veered off the rails, headlong into disaster.

He thinks of his own father, of the times he's stumbled home drunk, reeking of liquor and cigarette smoke, of the empty bottles littering the trailer floor, the hollowed-out look in his eyes when he finally sobers up. The constant shame. The lingering disappointment. And he wonders — is it better to have a father like Leo, who is there but not, who is present in body but absent in spirit? Or a father like Stan, who demands excellence, perfection, and brooks no failure, no deviation from the path he's laid out?

Either way, Shane realizes, the result is the same: kids who are crippled by their parents' expectations, their needs, their failures. Kids who grow up too fast, too hard, and bear the scars for the rest of their lives.

The moment passes. Stan straightens up, clears his throat, and resumes his act of cool invulnerability. "Well, I just wanted to stop by, check in, see how you were holding up." He stands, smoothing down the front of his shirt, his gaze sweeping around the room once more. "You let your dad know what I said, all right? About the job. He can give me a call."

"Yes, sir," Shane mumbles, rising to his feet. He follows Stan to the door, watches as the older man steps out into the cold night air, his breath a plume of white in the darkness. Stan turns back, one hand on the doorframe, and gives Shane a small nod.

"Game tomorrow," he says. "You show those Livingston boys what Riverstone's made of, y'hear?" Then, softer, almost under his breath: "Stand by your brothers. No matter what."

With that, he's gone, striding off into the night. Shane stands in the doorway, shivering in the chill wind, long after Stan's car has pulled away, its taillights disappearing around the bend in the road.

III

Mike switches the screen to dark mode and drags another file from the Bureau of Indian Affairs onto the left side of his monitor. He leans back in the chair, rubs his hands over his eyes and stifles a yawn. He's been looking into Nate's pension case all night, hunched over his laptop in the Paulsen's kitchen, reading, cross-referencing, writing copious notes. His neck and shoulders are sore. His eyes are bloodshot and strained from staring at the screen.

The file on Nate Paulsen's death is spread before him, and Mike keeps coming back to what isn't there rather than what is. People often think that lies are made of words, but Mike knows better. The most dangerous lies are made of silence, of absence, of the blank spaces where truth should be. And that's what he sees now, the holes in the story. The things that no one has bothered to say. The questions no one has thought to ask.

There is no cause listed for the fire that consumed the community facility on the Blackfoot reservation. There is no autopsy report, though federal regulations require one for every firefighter death. There is no explanation for why a man would drive thirty miles outside his jurisdiction to fight a fire in the middle of the night without informing his department. No written inquiry from the fire inspector. No statements taken from any witnesses. It's all...missing. Vanished, as if it never existed.

Mike props his elbows on the table and steeples his fingers beneath his chin, his brow furrowed in thought. He knows there has to be an explanation for this, that someone must have wanted it this way, but why? Who stands to gain from erasing Nate Paulsen's story?

Eira suddenly perks up, lifting her head from where she'd been resting it on Mike's foot. Her ears swivel forward, listening. A low growl rumbles in her chest. He looks down at her, curiosity and a trickle of apprehension coursing through him. The dog glances up at him, a strange intensity in her gaze.

"What is it, girl?" he asks, running his fingers through her fur. She growls again, rises, and trots towards the door. She sits, staring at him expectantly.

He hesitates for a moment, glancing around the dark and silent house. Then, with a sigh, he rises and follows her. "Fine," he murmurs, reaching for the doorknob. "Let's go see what's got you so worked up."

IV

The trailer is a mess. Donna's seen hoarder shows on TV that have looked less depressing. There are empty liquor bottles scattered across the floor, piles of dirty laundry heaped in corners, and the stench of stale beer and cigarette smoke hangs heavy in the air.

She and Harvey half-drag, half-carry a comatose Leo up the narrow hallway, grunting and swearing as they go. By some miracle, they manage to dump him onto his unmade bed, his snores already reverberating through the walls. Donna straightens up, wipes her brow with the back of her hand, and looks at Harvey. He's surveying the squalor around them with a mixture of disgust and pity. He catches her eye and shakes his head.

"What a shithole," he mutters.

Donna doesn't say anything, just casts a glance around the room, taking in the dingy furniture, the water stains on the ceiling, the broken window covered with duct tape. She's not sure what she feels — anger, maybe, or resignation. This is Riverstone, after all. Everyone knows Leo's a drunk. A nice guy when he's sober, but when he gets going on the bottle, he's a mean bastard. It's a miracle he's managed to hold onto this place for as long as he has, considering the rent's often late.

She thinks of Shane, the kid who lives in this wreck of a home. How he used to spend the night at their house when Leo was on a bender. How she'd wanted to report him to CPS, but Nate, with that Riverstone stubbornness, that infuriating loyalty, had said no. Had thrown her that age-old motto, 'We take care of our own.' And so they had. Practically took him in, fed and clothed him. Loved him. But then Nate died and Donna got too busy drowning in her grief and loss, and Shane had faded into the background. Donna hadn't noticed until now just how much. The thought makes her chest ache.

She nudges Harvey and nods towards the door. "Come on," she says. "Let's get out of here."

They're halfway down the hallway when she notices him, leaning against the doorframe of his bedroom, arms crossed. His dark hair is disheveled, his eyes sunken and bruise-rimmed. Donna stops in her tracks, her heart clenching at the sight of him. He's grown so tall, so broad, almost a man now. But in this moment, standing there in his boxers and faded t-shirt, he looks like a lost little boy.

"Hey, kiddo," she says softly, stepping towards Shane. "How long have you been standing there?"

He shrugs, his gaze flicking between her and Harvey. "Since you got here."

"You should be asleep," she chides gently, reaching up to brush a stray lock of hair from his forehead. "You've got school in the morning."

"I couldn't sleep." His voice is scratchy, thick with exhaustion and something else, something raw. Donna wonders if he's been crying.

She glances over her shoulder at Harvey, who is hovering awkwardly behind her. He looks as out of place in this run-down trailer as a tuxedo at a tractor pull. "Can you give us a minute?"

He looks grateful for the reprieve, his eyes darting around the room as if searching for an escape route. "I'll be in the car."

She listens to the sound of his footsteps receding down the hallway, the creak of the front door as it swings open, then shuts. When she's sure he's gone, she turns back to Shane.

"Come on," she murmurs, guiding him into his bedroom. It's surprisingly tidy, though the furniture is battered and mismatched. She sits him down on the edge of the bed, perching next to him. Her fingers find his hair again, stroking, soothing. "Do you want to talk about it?" she asks quietly.

He hesitates, then shakes his head. "No."

"Okay." She doesn't press him. Instead, she helps him slip under the covers, tucking them around his shoulders like she would with Madison or Ty. He stares at her, tears shining in his eyes. Her heart breaks all over again.

"I'm sorry," he whispers.

She frowns. "For what, honey?"

He blinks, a tear spilling down his cheek. She wipes it away with her thumb. "For everything," he says, his voice cracking. "For Mads. For...for Ethan. I don't know what to do."

She cups his face in her hands, looks deep into his eyes. He is to Ethan what Nate was to Stan, the second-in-command. The wingman. The clean-up crew. Nate, she knows, would have taken a bullet for Stan, but would he have covered up rape? She can't bear the thought of it. Can't bear to think of her beloved Nate doing something so despicable, but the truth is, she'll never know. And here is Shane, suffering under the weight of that same blind loyalty.

What does a mother say to a son, a child, in the throes of a moral crisis? What words can ease the pain of growing up, of losing innocence? How does she remove her bias, her pain, her anger? How does she forget that this boy is the best friend of her daughter's rapist?

She doesn't know the answer to any of these questions, so she just holds him close, cradles him against her chest, strokes his hair until the tears subside and he falls into a fitful sleep. And then, when he is finally still and quiet, she rises, turns off the light, and closes the door behind her.

She finds Harvey leaning against the hood of the car, arms folded across his chest. His eyes are closed, his head tilted back, as if he is savoring the cool night air. More likely trying not to puke. He opens his eyes as she approaches, straightens up.

"He knows something," she says, her voice low.

Harvey regards her for a long moment, his expression unreadable in the darkness. "Who is he?" he asks at last. "To Madison."

"Family," she replies simply. "He's family."

He nods, as though this is all the explanation he needs. Perhaps it is. "And to Ethan?"

"His number two," she says. "Since they were in diapers."

Another nod, this one slower, more thoughtful. "I thought she was holding something back," he muses, almost to himself. "Some piece of the story that didn't fit with the narrative."

Donna leans against the car beside him, her shoulder brushing his. "Do you think he could testify against Ethan?" she asks, her voice barely audible above the sound of the wind rustling through the trees. "I mean, if it comes to that?"

Harvey is silent for a long time, his gaze fixed on some point in the distance. "I think," he says, finally, his words measured, "that loyalty can be a very powerful thing."

Donna stares down at her hands, at the wedding ring she still wears, the diamonds glittering in the moonlight. She remembers the day Nate slipped it onto her finger, his eyes shining with love and pride. The promises they made to each other that day, the vows they exchanged. She thinks of the years that followed, the laughter and the tears, the fights and the making up, the births and the deaths. All the little moments that add up to a life. A shared existence.

She thinks of Stan – she tries not to, but she can't help it. Did he pay for this ring? Did he contribute to the mortgage payments, the bills, the cost of raising her children? How much of their lives together were financed by his money, his influence? Sometimes – too often – it felt like she was married to both of them. Stan's shadow hanging over every decision, every choice. His fingerprints on everything. Nate's eyes always darting to his best friend, looking for approval, acceptance. How many times had she wanted to scream, 'Look at me, not him!' How many times had she wanted to grab them both by the shoulders and shake some sense into them?

And now here they are, years later, with the fallout from that twisted, co-dependent relationship hanging heavy over their heads. A rapist's father and a victim's mother. A town divided, a community torn apart. Donna wonders if it was always inevitable, if the cracks were always there, waiting to widen and split them open.

Harvey's voice cuts through her thoughts. "How much do you think Madison's left out of her story?"

"Enough to bury him," she says without hesitation. "But I can't force her to tell me. She's as Riverstone as any of them."

He hums in acknowledgment, his gaze still fixed on the horizon. "What made her come forward?" he asks after a moment. "The eight days between the assault and the police report – what changed?"

Donna sighs. "Me."

Harvey looks at her, a question in his eyes.

"She told me," she explains. "In confidence. But I couldn't keep it. I went to the police."

His brow furrows. "And she's not angry?"

Donna laughs, a humorless sound. "Oh, she's furious. She'll never trust me again." Her voice cracks on the last word, a sudden surge of emotion threatening to overwhelm her. "But I couldn't live with myself if I didn't do something. If I just stood by and let Ethan get away with it. If I let my daughter be raped with no consequences."

Harvey nods, understanding dawning in his eyes. "You did the right thing," he says quietly.

"Did I?" She looks up at the sky, at the stars twinkling in the inky blackness. "I broke my daughter's trust. I ruined my son's life. I lost my job, and likely my husband's farm is next. I have the entire town breathing down my neck, ready to lynch me the second I show any weakness. And Ethan Carter is starting QB tomorrow, like nothing ever happened." She swallows hard, her throat tight. "Was it really the right thing?"

He is quiet for a long moment, considering her words. Then he straightens, swaying as the alcohol threatens his equilibrium. She reaches out, steadying him with a hand on his arm. He looks down at her, his eyes dark and serious. "Yes," he says firmly. "It was. And I'm going to make sure of that."

V

Mike opens the door and Eira slips through the narrow gap, disappearing into the night like a ghost. He hesitates on the threshold, listening to the sounds of the Montana night—the distant hooting of an owl, the rustling of leaves in the breeze, the bleating of sheep. And then, another sound. The low, mournful howl of a coyote, answered by another, and then another.

He steps out onto the porch, his gaze sweeping over the farmyard. A full moon hangs low in the sky, casting a pale, silver light over the landscape. Snow drifts across the fields in lazy swirls, fluttering in the air, whipping across Mike's face.

Eira reappears, materializing from the darkness, her fur gleaming in the moonlight. She barks, once, twice, as if urging him on. Then she's off again, bounding across the yard, her paws leaving tracks in the fresh snow.

Mike follows her, past the woodpile and the chicken coop, towards the large, red barn. She stops there, scratches at the door, then sits back on her haunches. When Mike pulls it open, she slips inside and vanishes into the darkness again. The smell of hay and animals washes over him as he enters, mingled with machine oil and old leather.

A sudden movement makes him jump—a massive black horse in the far stall rears up, front hooves slamming against wood with a crack that echoes like gunfire. As it turns, Mike sees a mark on its flank—a patch of bald hide the size of a dinner plate. A burn? A brand? The hair is too thoroughly gone to say.

"Jesus," Mike breathes. His heart thuds against his ribcage, and his palms are damp with sweat. He holds his hands up, trying to appear as non-threatening as possible. "Okay, big guy. Just take it easy."

The horse snorts and backs away, shaking its head. The animal watches him warily, ears flattened against its skull, nostrils flared. Mike moves slowly, giving the horse plenty of space. He finds Eira seated in front of a door at the far end of the barn. She whines and scratches at the door, her tail wagging furiously.

Mike approaches, listening for any other sounds. When he presses an ear against the wood, he hears movement inside the room, a soft scrape of metal on metal. He frowns and glances down at Eira. She is sitting at his feet, her ears pricked, her tail still wagging. She looks up at him, her expression hopeful and eager. It's clear that whatever is beyond the door is what has caught her attention, but he can't be sure if it's animal or human.

"Who's in there, girl?" he whispers. "Is there a—"

The click of the lock being disengaged makes him freeze, muscles tensing in anticipation. Mike shrinks back into the shadows, hugging the wall. The door swings open slowly, casting a rectangle of light across the barn floor. A figure emerges—a man, tall and broad, cowboy hat pulled low over his face. His features are shrouded in darkness, but Mike recognizes the outline of his build instantly. The set of his shoulders, the way he carries himself—it's unmistakable.

Mike's heart nearly stops in his chest. A million questions race through his mind, but his tongue is frozen, his mouth gone dry. Eira barks, a happy sound, and rushes forward to greet the man.

"Well hello, my beautiful girl," the man says, the rich rumble of his voice warming the darkened barn like a sunrise. He scratches behind her ears with thick fingers. She lifts her head, begging for more, and he obliges, smiling softly. "Where's your mama at?"

VI

The farmhouse sits dark and silent when they pull up into the drive. Donna kills the engine and exhales, shooting Harvey a look from the driver's seat. He looks drunker than he did at Leo's; his head is lolling against the passenger window and he's blinking slowly, as if trying to bring the world into focus. "Sober enough to walk yourself in?" she asks.

He looks indignant, or as indignant as he can after that many drinks, which is about on a level with an angry kitten, then pushes open the passenger door and promptly falls flat on his face. She sighs, climbing out and circling the car. She grabs his arm, pulling him upright, and he leans heavily on her as they stagger towards the door. She tries to ignore the warm, solid feel of him, the way her heart rate quickens when he presses against her.

She manages to get the door open, and they stumble inside. "Shh," she says, close to his ear. "Steady. Don't wake the kids."

He turns to look at her. At this proximity, she can smell his cologne, something subtle and expensive; she can see the faint lines around his eyes, the ones that crease when he laughs. There's something like a silent question in the set of his brows, the slow sweep of his gaze as it wanders across her face. For one wildly inappropriate second, she wonders if he's thinking about kissing her. Wonders, even more wildly, what it would feel like.

"I think," she says with exaggerated slowness and the faintest curl of her mouth, "you need to lie down."

"In your bed?"

"Not a chance."

She tugs him along, past the staircase that leads up to her and the kids' room. The floorboards creak underneath their feet and she winces at the sound. The last thing she wants is either Maddie or Tyler nosing around at this hour and asking a million questions. That's not a conversation she feels ready to have in the middle of the night. Or, well, ever.

They get to his door at the very end of the hall. She nudges it open with a foot, and then shoves him, gracelessly, but lovingly, down onto the bedspread. She steps back to appraise him. Eyelids at half-mast, shirt collar open, hair a mess, smelling like Gretchen's infamous moonshine: basically a hot mess. Her hot mess of a lawyer.

"You going to survive the night without asphyxiating on vomit?"

"Ask me again in the morning." A pause as he looks her up and down, then: "Maybe you should stay."

"For what, Harvey? So that I can pour you water and pat your back when the nausea hits?"

"That's one reason."

Donna rolls her eyes, and kneels before him on the floor. "Hold still." She bends down to take off his boots – Nate's boots – and gets a sick little twist of her stomach as she does so, memories mixed with reality, old and new merging in uncomfortable ways. With the boots stowed neatly in the corner, she looks up at him and tries to stuff her heart back into the tiny space in her chest.

Big mistake. There he sits, propped on elbows, dark eyes glittering, keenly interested. Even sloshed to hell and back, Harvey Specter manages to be infuriatingly aware of his sex appeal and the way it's affected her. Has been affecting her. Is affecting her now.

"I hate that you're pretty," he admits, in that whiskey rasp that somehow translates into a seductive mouthful. "And funny. And that you don't take my shit."

"Are you always this full of compliments when you're drunk?"

He ignores her. "I hate that you've got that good mom thing going on. Great mom. More than that. You—"

"Shut up." Donna's throat tightens and she glances away, smoothing out the wrinkles of the bedspread as she does. She's had just about enough of his drunken babble and her own uninvited feelings for one night.

She stands and moves to leave, but Harvey is there, a hand on her hip, so light it almost isn't even touching her. But it's there, a warmth that sends a jolt through her. She turns, looks down at him with what she hopes is an annoyed, disdainful glare, but probably just comes off as flustered.

"I like your jeans," he mumbles.

"Harvey—"

"This sweater."

"Stop."

His palm curls around her waist, fingers inching beneath the edge of her shirt. It's been so long since someone has touched her body with affection that she can't help but suck in a breath. Desire should be a soft, fluttering feeling, or maybe a subtle warmth. It's not supposed to hit her with the intensity of a fucking truck barreling through her ribcage, as if every inch of her is on fire, blood roaring in her ears, pulse rabbiting. Oh god. This is nothing, just a hand grazing her skin, but she might as well be naked with his mouth between her thighs at this rate.

His head dips, nose burying itself against her belly and oh, fuck, her stomach bottoms out. A wave of heat and want that rocks her. Weakens her knees.

A pathetic whimper escapes her. Is she breathing? She can't breathe. If only she had something to grab onto, something to keep her from collapsing in a pile of goo at his feet – but she is grabbing. His hair, to be specific. Knotted in her fists. When did that happen?

Her breasts ache, tight in a way she thought she'd long forgotten, nipples almost painful. This is exactly what she didn't want to happen. If only she could chalk it up to being a while, since...well, everything. But that'd be a lie. A bold-faced lie because for as horny and wet and pathetic as she is right now, she's not even the least bit tempted to imagine it's someone else's hands on her. It's just him, one hundred percent, that lopsided grin of his aimed up at her in a silent, teasing question.

But god, it's so not the right time. He's too drunk, she's too vulnerable, both too reckless, in a house with children just upstairs, who if woken up by any errant moans or cries or thuds would not approve of mommy and her hired – blackmailed – attorney in a tangled, naked pile in this tiny little bedroom.

As the stream of her rational, cautious thoughts bump up against her volcanic impulses, Harvey's other arm hooks around her hip and he pulls her towards him, maneuvering her with impressive finesse given his level of inebriation, and all thoughts – rational, carnal, or otherwise – fly right out her head, into the night, and well out of reach.

He grabs her by the waist and lifts her effortlessly, setting her down to straddle his lap, his palms firmly supporting her backside, cradling her there in a way that sets her pulse skittering wildly and her breath trembling in her lungs, eyes widening. Is it fear? No. Not really. Maybe a little. She just didn't realize what she was signing up for tonight and it's here, real and ready and perched beneath her ass. And oh god, hard. Thick, full length, trapped against her inner thigh, twitching in response to her sudden, too-obvious attention. She flicks her eyes back up to his face, blushing with the sheer heat of it all.

"Harvey." She speaks his name to quell him. Or to buy time. Who even knows at this point. But it's all that comes out of her mouth, besides a breathy sort of laugh, at what is probably the most absurd position she's put herself in in many, many years.

His tongue comes out to swipe across his bottom lip, and her fingers twitch with the sudden need to touch. To hold his chin between forefinger and thumb and lift that stubborn jaw for her own tongue to dance a slow, obscene tango with his. Or just take that full lower lip of his between her teeth and pull until he groans into her. Anything and everything, to prove this is real. That she's allowed to want something that's just hers, not in service of anyone else, no obligations or self-sacrificing martyrdom required. That she's not some shriveled-up husk of a woman, incapable of experiencing pleasure or happiness or anything in between.

But all of those things are true, aren't they? She's a widow, a mother of two children who should have a father, living on the periphery of life, working hard to stay out of reach of messy complications like this. Aching need with a near-stranger, when the love of her life is rotting in the ground mere miles away.

Suddenly, he rolls his hips against hers, a firm, insistent press of himself that rocks her from the inside out. There is an involuntary clutch of her fingers, a blurring of her vision as she whispers his name. Fingers twining further into his hair, trapping him against her, and he has the nerve to laugh.

If anyone has the right to laugh at this painfully awkward attempt at whatever this is, it is most definitely not him. Oh no, no, no. Donna flattens her palms against Harvey's chest, shoving him down. He leans back easily on his elbows, legs dangling off the edge of the mattress, one eyebrow quirked at her.

"You're an ass," she informs him, lips nearly brushing his when she leans forward. She's gratified to hear the way his breath hitches as her knees settle on either side of him.

"Yeah." His hands grip her thighs, slide upwards to cup her ass, keeping her there. "But at least I'm a pretty one." There's a purr in his voice, low and taunting and achingly male. He thrusts up again, more insistent this time, grinding the length of his cock right against the seam of her pants. She barely manages to stifle a groan.

Holy hell. If Donna thought she was wet before, it's nothing compared to the flood between her legs now. Her body reacts like an animal; everything clenches, need lancing through her, leaving her damn near convulsing. God help her, her toes even curl. It's painful, in a sense. Acute and desperate and sitting on a loaded spring of impending explosion.

"Yes," she breathes. "It's aggravating, your level of pretty."

When his mouth smiles up at her, smugly pleased, all she can think is that she wants it on her. Anywhere he sees fit, wherever he will allow her to take it. But a large part of her also wants to slap it off his face, slap some good old fashioned humility into him. The former urge is stronger. Yes. She thinks, without thinking at all, that he is the loveliest thing she's seen in years and for whatever stupid reasons, this lovely creature is waiting with baited breath for her lips. Those lips and that smile and those pearly, condescending teeth.

But Donna finds herself not wanting to kiss him, suddenly. Oh no. No, no, no. Because she's terrified that once their tongues get past the perfunctory how-do-you-dos and the general oohs and ahhs of oh-this-is-finally-happening, and their mouths meet in a sweet, meaningful sort of way, she will drown right there, in those messy, slightly boozy lips of his, and she'll never again quite return to the surface. So she kisses his forehead, because it's a more ridiculous gesture, more on a level with his cheeky 'howdy ma'am' demeanor that Gretchen's moonshine has emboldened in him. Kisses that cute crinkle between his eyes as he looks up at her, something almost tender in the sparkle of his expression, even amidst the sex-starved haze of him.

He doesn't have time to process the significance of her kiss or the gentleness with which she presses it to his face, because before he can even fully appreciate her mouth on his skin, Donna is crawling off him. Something akin to heartbreak seizes her chest in that moment, some form of fierce regret and the crushing feeling of missing out on something earth-shattering.

"What are you doing?"

"Protecting your virtue," Donna says. "For both our sakes."

She steps back. Breaks their connection. Watches as his face falls, his hand slowly returning to the mattress, fingers curling into a fist. She swallows and looks away, trying to regain her composure, her sanity. "You're my daughter's lawyer. My kids are upstairs. You're drunk. There's a whole lot of reasons why we're not doing this tonight, or ever. Now get a grip."

He shrugs, an easy gesture, and flops down on his back, gazing up at the ceiling. She's still reeling, head spinning, and he's the picture of indifference, as if they've just spent the past five minutes talking about the weather. Maybe she overreacted to his touch, made a mountain of a molehill. She doesn't know whether to laugh or cry or both at how much it stings that their near...whatever it was, doesn't seem to have fazed him in the slightest.

"Goddamn moonshine," he mutters.

"Just sleep it off." She grabs his legs and, as gently as possible, hitches them onto the bed. Then, in a fit of pure soft-heartedness, she even throws a blanket over his body and huffs when he smiles up at her, that genuine, crinkle-eyed grin that goes straight to her belly. Oh lord, what the hell is she going to do with this man?

The answer, it seems, is nothing. Instead, she slips quietly into the hallway and shuts the door.

VII

Nate's old office is musty, the air thick with memories. Stan doesn't know why he came here. Maybe to torture himself. He stands by the window, staring out at the overgrown fields, the snow blanketing everything in a mocking pristine white.

"Hey, Nate," he says quietly, more to the shadows than anything else. "Got another secret for ya." His hand tightens around the tumbler, and he wishes the dead could rise, just for a moment, so Nate could appear and take a swing. Punish him for failing his son, for not protecting his daughter.

"I've been telling myself it's not true," he goes on, draining the glass, letting the cheap bourbon burn down his throat. He coughs, grimaces. "Even hired this fancy fucking lawyer to fight for my son. To put my faith in the justice system when all along, I knew. I knew, Nate. My son...is no innocent."

The last words come out in a whisper, and Stan leans forward, head resting against the cool pane. God, he misses his old friend. The man was his moral compass, his light in the dark. And now, he's wandering the world without a map, lost in his own private wilderness of lies and regret. Lost, that is, until Donna slams a lawsuit in his face. Fucking Donna. A moment of grief passes through him and he wishes it weren't Donna against him, wasn't Maddie in the middle of all this. She was Nate's baby, for god's sake. His baby girl. As much Stan's as his own son.

"And Donna—" He chokes on her name. "She's trying to do what's right for Maddie. I understand that, I swear to god, I do. But she didn't even come to me first. Let me fix it, quietly. I would've let her chop the kid's balls off. Hell, I would've helped. I'd have paid for her every whim, taken care of everything, just to keep us whole."

He falls silent then, thoughts drifting to the time after Nate died. He's often thought that what drew him to Donna was her strength—she had to be strong to carry both herself and her children through the heartbreak. Now, that very same strength threatens everything he's built.

"Half the ranch, Nate. That's what I'm going to give to her. Half the fucking ranch. That's how stupidly in love with you and yours I am. That's how guilty."

He pictures Donna and the kids, living there, like family. His chest aches. He wants it. More than anything, he wants her here, even if she is planning to rip everything in two. He doesn't have to like it. He doesn't even have to accept it. But as long as she's here, he can ensure the Paulsen legacy stands beside his own.

"I'm going to have the lawyer draw up the papers tomorrow. It's gonna be legal and binding, her name alongside mine on the title." Stan turns, surveying the room that once belonged to a better man than him. "Your babies are gonna have it all. Because of you. Because of me. And not in spite of Donna's blade against my throat."

He never had any say in whether Ethan hurt Maddie or not. Just as he has no say in the battle of wills playing out before him now. All he has ever been in control of are the gifts he's given Donna, the shelter, the comfort, the protection. She can burn it to the ground if she wishes, but the home remains. It's as simple as that.

Love makes us weak, he knows this, but it also demands justice. If Stan can do nothing else, he'll ensure that her home—and the children's—is always standing. For better or worse, the Paulsens have always been his.

He walks back to the desk and picks up the half-empty bottle of Jim Beam. Tilting it at a picture of Nate and the family; Donna holding Tyler's hand, with Maddie mid-laugh, mid-run across the grass. Nate is front and center, hands on his hips, looking so proud that his smile almost cracks his face in two. He says, "For Maddie. For all of us. We were always stronger together."

He drinks deep, the fire spreading through his veins, warming him from the inside out. Nate never approved of drunkenness, but Stan needs it tonight. Needs to dull the pain, the guilt, the shame of raising a son who could hurt someone as precious as Madison. He leans back in the creaking leather chair, the one Nate used to occupy, and closes his eyes. In the darkness behind his eyelids, he can almost see his friend, that easy smile, those steady hands.

"I miss ya, brother," he whispers. "I'm sorry I failed you. Failed her. Fuck. I'm gonna do what's right. Let her eviscerate me if that's what she has to do. For your girl. And your son, too. No kid deserves the shit they're getting. Donna can be angry, I won't take that from her."

He hears a dog barking in the distance. Eira. Donna must be here. To chop his balls off with a spoon, no doubt. To tell him how miserable his life's about to become, how all that he's built is going to crumble at her feet. He hopes she does. It's better than her silence. The fact that she hasn't so much as looked his way since this nightmare began is killing him.

Slowly, he puts the bottle on the desk and pushes to his feet. "If that woman shows up to stab me, I'm not gonna stop her. That's where we're at."

When Nate died, Stan realized he didn't have a best friend anymore. After six years, he still doesn't. But if he had to pick, Donna Paulsen might just be it. How twisted is that? There's no label he can accurately attach to the bond between them, so he doesn't try. She is her, he is him. They're parents, neighbors, linked by an irretrievably broken but binding common history. Neither one of them is the same person they were when Nate was alive, but somewhere along the way, their parallel transformation meant neither could truly go on without the other. Stan sure as hell can't.

Stan grabs his hat from the desk, pressing it firmly on his head before walking out of the office. The moment he's outside, Eira comes lopping around the side of the barn, ears flopping, big body smacking into him as her tail wags with delight.

"Well hello, my beautiful girl," he greets warmly, hands finding their way to her fur and giving her an affectionate scruff. "Where's your mama at? Bet she's got that shotgun good and ready, huh? Better find my way back to the hole I crawled out of before she takes off a kneecap."

Behind him, the massive black horse in the main barn stall rears up, hooves hammering the sliding door. Stan wanders over, examining the planks. Little craters mark where the big unbroken brute has kicked.

"There, there, Kitchi," he murmurs, running a hand down the beast's neck. "Shh, boy."

Kitchi lifts his head and looses a high, angry whinny into the still night air.

"Missed you too, ol' boy." He pulls a sugar cube from his pocket and holds it out on a flattened palm. The animal huffs, hot breath billowing around them, then softens, burying its muzzle against Stan's palm. His velvety lips drag against the skin, teeth scraping, as he gulps down the sugar. "Been a while, huh?"

The stallion tosses its head and snorts. It stamps a hoof and bumps Stan's chest with its muzzle, demanding more sugar, or attention, or both.

"Still a bastard, aren't you?" Stan chuckles, patting the animal's neck. "Gotta admire your tenacity." The horse stills at his touch, some of the tension leaving its muscles. "I'd take you home with me, but Mads needs you," he says quietly. "Especially now."

He leans forward, resting his forehead against the horse's. He feels the tears building, hot and stinging, and he lets them fall. For Maddie, for Nate, for Ethan. For all that's been lost. All the good that's been gone and not even replaced with mediocrity.

"Please be a friend to her, Kitchi," he murmurs. "Keep that seat of yours warm. She'll be back up there when she's had time to heal. You two can glue each other's hearts back together again, alright?"

Kitchi blows out a breath and lowers his head. Stan steps back and wipes his eyes, taking a moment to collect himself. This isn't easy, none of it, but he's made the decision. Now it's time to follow through. Make things as right as they can be.

"Well, bud," he mutters, "I'm off to the wolf's den."

Eira barks, bounding by, and Stan finds himself following the dog across the farmyard, to the back door of the house. When he rounds the corner, the warm, golden glow from the guest room – Nate's boyhood room – seeps out onto the snow. His steps slow, his heart lifting. For a moment, he sees things the way they were, when Nate would bring him in, snickering and shushing, two boys whispering beneath blankets with a flashlight in case Nate's mom came knocking. Long summer days playing in the woods, riding horses, helping on the farm, growing up, bit-by-bit, to become the men they are. Were.

At the bottom of the porch steps, he lingers in the cold night air. Eira presses against his leg. His hand finds its way to her soft, furry head. Funny how this feels more like family, like home, than that broad of a wife and sorry excuse of a son waiting in the ranch house not three miles away.

He sees movement in the window. The curtains are open. Maybe he's more drunk than he thought because, as he watches, he doesn't have the sense to avert his eyes. The mystery attorney is in the room, sitting on the edge of the bed, Donna standing between his spread thighs, and – Jesus Christ, his hands are one her bare skin, disappearing under the back of her shirt. Stan sucks in a sharp breath. Something tightens in his chest and gut and throat. Anger, frustration. Possessiveness? Jealousy? He takes another breath, tries to label the emotion, but can't.

Her children are asleep a floor away. He gets that there are adult needs, sexual frustrations to be appeased, and the options are limited, but – of all the men in the whole world...her lawyer? This fucking city boy? What the hell?

Stan feels his heart pounding hard, adrenaline spiking. He flexes his fingers, hands balling into fists. His face feels hot, his temples throb. If she wants to ride this asshole's dick in her dead husband's childhood bedroom, that's her prerogative. It's none of his business, truly. He knows it. But, that doesn't lessen his desire to knock down the door and tell him to get the fuck out.

Oh, Nate, what do I do now? he wonders. Your widow has invited the devil himself to her bed. She thinks this guy is going to save her, get her all the things she deserves, and take care of her kids. But men like this...they don't know the first thing about care-taking. He's here to claim, to destroy, to take. Once he's done, he'll move onto another broken woman to feast on.

Donna deserves better.

Nate's kids deserve better.

As Stan stands there in the frozen darkness, teeth clenched, muscles bulging in his forearms, Eira prancing impatiently in the snow, he decides:

He can't settle. He can't give her half a fucking thing. Not if this guy is lining up to steal it from her. Ungrateful little twat. How could she throw her life away for a roll in the sack with a two-bit, mob-backed, extortionist from the city? With her children upstairs! In Nate's old bedroom! All these years, he thought he knew the depths of her, but here she is, slutting it up with the first hotshot who wanders his way through.

Jesus. Her daughter just got raped and all Donna cares about is her own fucking selfish needs.

That's the booze talking, Stan. Pull back.

Fuck that. Donna's gone off the deep end.

To think, he was about to end this war in her favor. Absolve his sins by cutting five generations of the Carter ranch in half and signing over her name to the paper's. Stupid. If she wants to degrade herself, and Nate's memory, by letting this asshole touch her like this, she doesn't deserve the rights to a goddamn twig on the property.

Saddle up, boy. Time for a Carter to earn their keep and take out the trash.