Another: Transfer of Ownership—M. Henderson (Provisional).
I stared at it for a long time, my thumb tracing the letters. "Provisional." The word was a puzzle, but it was also a glimmer of hope.
It was a sign that Hank had intended for this to happen. That in his own stubborn way, he'd tried to protect the legacy he was leaving behind.
A wave of both relief and bittersweet ache hit me. He’d done it, but he hadn’t been able to say the words.
The barn was still and dim when I finally found Ella. She was in the tack room, curled up on a hay bale with Duke resting his head on her lap.
The only light came from the string of white Christmas lights we’d hung above the beams days ago, twinkling like soft stars overhead. The air was cool and smelled of hay, worn leather, and horse.
I walked in slowly and sat across from her. “Found this,” I said, holding out the envelope.
She looked up, blinking through tired eyes, and took it without a word. Her hands trembled slightly as she opened it and scanned the contents.
A mix of confusion and hope flickered across her face as she read. After a long silence, she looked at me, a question in her eyes.
“What is it?” she asked, her voice quiet.
“Signed receipts. Land surveys. A couple letters. All showing Hank intended to pass the ranch to you—not just emotionally, but legally. He’d started the process, even if he didn't finish it.”
“This proves my grandfather intended for me to have the ranch,” she whispered, the words a fragile, dawning realization.
“It’s not much,” I said, a touch of my old pessimism creeping in. “It’s not a full deed. But it might be enough to show intent. It might give us a fighting chance with Sarah’s cousin.”
“Why didn’t he ever say this? Out loud?” Her voice cracked on the last word. She bit her lip, nodding, and then her shoulders began to shake.
The tears came silent and steady, a dam breaking after weeks of being so strong, so stoic.
I didn’t say anything. I just moved to sit beside her on the bale, close enough for her to lean into me if she needed to. The silence was a quiet kind of support. After a moment, she did.
Her head came to rest on my shoulder, her breath shaky. “I hate feeling like I’m holding on by a thread.”
“You’re not,” I said, my voice low and steady. I felt her warmth against my side. “You’ve got roots here. Whether you knew it before or not, this place already sees you as one of its own.”
She smiled through the tears, just a little, the thought a small comfort.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I said, the words feeling huge and significant as I finally allowed myself to say them aloud. It was a promise I hadn't even realized I was making until this moment. “Not from this ranch. Not from you. Not unless you tell me to.”
She turned her face toward me, eyes wide, seeing the unspoken truth in my words. “Max…”
I took her hand gently, my rough, calloused fingers closing around hers, which were soft but now held the quiet strength of this ranch.
"I'll fight for this place. With you. For you. But only if you want me to."
She didn’t answer right away. Just stared at our joined hands, rough and soft together, a silence full of things neither of us could put into words.
Outside, the wind had picked up. The old barn door creaked on its hinges, and a flurry of snow dust blew in through the cracks in the siding.
I stood, crossed to the doors, and pulled them shut tight against the elements. “Storm’s coming,” I said, peering into the dark. “Looks like a big one.”
Ella joined me at the doorway, her small frame a warm anchor beside mine. Her eyes scanned the growing curtain of snow. “Of course it is.”
We both laughed, but it was quiet and a little raw.
“Whatever’s ahead,” I said, glancing at her, “we’ll meet it head-on. Together.”
She nodded once, a look of complete resolve and trust on her face, and then, so softly I barely heard her, she whispered, “Together.”
