Marlowe
King spread the old letter across his desk that evening, considerably more worn now than when it first arrived weeks ago, and I settled into the chair beside him, curious about the response he'd been carefully avoiding until tonight.
"Tell me about him," I said. "Whoever this old friend actually is."
King was quiet a moment, gathering his thoughts with visible care. "His name's Ronan. We rode together for a few years, back before Delphine, back before I took over this club's presidency at a considerably younger age than anyone expected. Closest friend I had outside this den, for a while."
"What happened between you two?"
"Ridge Pass happened." His voice carried the particular weight of old grief, still raw despite twelve years of careful management. "After Delphine died, I cut
