“Perfect, I’ll see you Monday, and Brooke, thank you.”
I climbed out, locked the truck, and walked toward the front entrance with a little more pep in my step than when I left the bank.
Inside, the temperature dropped a few degrees, and theworld shifted. Warm, low light filtered through the room. The smell of woodsmoke from the massive stone fireplace at the far end. The clink of cutlery, the low murmur of conversation, the faint hiss of a tap being opened behind the bar. Comfortable chairs gathered around the fire instead of stiff rows of tables, people sinking into them like they belonged there.
A server in a Hargrove Brewing tee shirt and black jeans came over with a menu tucked against her hip.
“Hey, I’m Natalie. Are you here for lunch or just coffee?”
“Coffee for sure. Maybe food. I haven’t decided yet.”
She gave me a small, knowing smile and nodded toward a two-top near the windows. “That one’s quieter. I’ll grab your drink.”
I slid into the corner table, dropped my phone beside the napkin, and stared out the window. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
The server brought a mug, set down cream and sugar, and moved away again. I wrapped both hands around the ceramic like I could siphon stability out of it, then unlocked my phone.
Legal counsel.
I typed “agricultural lawyer near River’s Edge” before I could talk myself out of it, picked the first name with anything about rural property, and hit call.
“Law office of Elle Keene,” a receptionist answered.
“Hi,” I said. My voice sounded like it belonged to someone who’d been screaming. “My name’s Tessa Callahan. I just inherited a ranch, and there’s a lien, taxes are overdue, and I don’t understand any of it.”
There was a beat of quiet, a rustle of paper.
“Right,” she said. “One moment, I’ll see if Ms. Keene can take your call.”
I traced the rim of the mug with my thumb, breathingshallow. A few seconds later, another voice came on, low and brisk.
“Ms. Callahan? This is Elle. I understand you’re dealing with a lien on inherited agricultural land. I’m sorry. It’s always complicated.”
“How bad is this?”
“Well,” she said, and I could hear her shifting into work mode, “a lien gives the holder a claim on the property if the debt isn’t resolved. If taxes are in arrears as well, the county can push for an auction. If there are delinquent equipment loans, those lenders may move to reclaim assets. It all comes down to timing and who’s in first position.”
Auction. Reclaim. First position. Every word landed like another weight on my chest.
“I don’t understand any of this.”
“Where are you right now, Ms. Callahan?”
“In River’s Edge. At Hargrove Brewing. I couldn’t make myself go home yet.”
“Hargrove’s,” she repeated, like she knew it. “Alright. I’m in town this morning. I just left the county office. If you’re comfortable with it, I can meet you there. It’s easier to explain this when I can sketch things out.”
“In person?” “Yeah. You’ll still need to gather all the documents from the ranch, but we can at least get a head start on what you’re dealing with before you’re knee deep in notices.”
I stared into my coffee. “Okay. I’m here.”
“I’ll be there in about ten minutes. Navy blazer, too much paper in my bag. You won’t miss me.”
When the call ended, the room came back into focus. Soft music. Someone laughed near the fireplace. Cutlery scraping against plates.
Movement at the far side of the room snagged my attention before I could drag my eyes away.
Wyatt came in from a side door that led, if I rememberedright, toward the brewhouse. He wore a dark Hargrove Brewing tee shirt that pulled across his shoulders, jeans faded and stained like he’d actually been working, and a ball cap shoved low to keep his hair out of his face.
