Peyton tried to steady her hands. They shook as she reached for the paperwork the attorney offered her. She read the legal gibberish and attempted to translate.
Her mother wanted her to live with three cowboys. Three men she barely knew. If her mom walked right in there today, Peyton just might run away. She’d do it for spite and teach her a lesson once and for all. Then, she’d tell her precisely what she could do with her cowboys.
Swallowing back silent anger and maybe even a twinge of fear, she regrouped. “And if I don’t sign this?”
The attorney, a Cartwell pawn no doubt, narrowed his gaze, placed his palms on the small writing desk and rose to his large feet, something few women missed if they possessed a dirty mind. Peyton had one, a real naughty one most of the time, and large feet gained her undivided attention.
The attorney’s were hard to miss. Size thirteen, if she cared to guess. She’d always heard the size of a man’s penis often found judgment from those who stared at feet. So she looked, out of habit. She found it entertaining sometimes.
“If you don’t sign, Miss Storm, you’re only going to suffer for it. Since you’re days away from your eighteenth birthday, you’ll become a ward of the state.”
She gritted her teeth and barely spoke between them. “A what?”
Braden Cartwell, the oldest of the three brothers, leaned over. “You’ll finish your teenage years in foster care.”
“Thank you for taking the time to explain it,” she snapped.