Knox follows my gaze. “Yeah,” he says, his tone sobering. “I think we need to figure out exactly what the hell is going on.”
The Salt Lick is precisely what we need right now. Dark wood, the low hum of conversation, the scent of fried pickles and stale beer. It’s a place where problems can either be drowned or shouted over the din of a live band. Tonight, I’m hoping for a bit of both.
Knox slams three bottles of beer onto the table, the glass thudding against the scarred wood. Foam spills over the sides.Boone just stares into his, like he’s trying to divine the future in the amber liquid. I take a long pull from mine, the cold bitterness a welcome shock to my system.
“Okay,” Knox says, breaking the silence. He’s the first to recover, the first to shift from stunned anger to strategy. It’s why he’s a champion on the circuit and a nightmare to play poker against. “Plan. Rhett, you’re the most organized one of us. You need to get a copy of that will. I’ll get Gary to run it through his people. Find every loophole, every technicality we can use.”
I nod, my mind already racing. “I can do that. I’ve been handling the ranch’s books for Anthony for years.”
Boone finally looks up, his eyes dark with a worry that goes deeper than just losing a place to live. “What she said about the property taxes... is it true?”
The question hangs in the air. It’s the one thing she said that actually landed a real hit. I sigh, setting my bottle down.
“It’s not great,” I admit, hating the words even as I say them. “The ranch hasn’t been turning a huge profit for the last few years. The drought hit the hay production hard, and cattle prices have been... unpredictable. Anthony was dipping into his savings to cover the difference. The taxes are high. But it’s not a lost cause. With some smart management, we could turn it around. Wehavebeen turning it around.”
The last part comes out more defensive than I intended. This land is my responsibility, and her casual dismissal of it felt like a personal insult.
“We will,” Knox says, his voice firm. Then he shifts gears again. “The land evaluators. Who are they in town? We need to get to them first. Plant some seeds about the... unique challenges of the property. Maybe convince them it’s not worth what she thinks it is.”
“There’s old man Hemlock over at the county assessor’s office,” I offer. “And a new guy, Miller, who set up shop on MainStreet last year. Hemlock’s a soft touch, but he’s by the book. Miller’s hungrier, probably more open to... persuasion.”
“Good.” Knox nods, already filing the information away. “We’ll split up tomorrow. You take Hemlock, Boone and I will handle Miller.”
Boone’s gaze is distant, his fingers tracing the condensation on his beer bottle.
“What do we actually know about her?” Knox asks.
“All Anthony ever said was that she left town after they fought. He hadn’t heard from her in years. Not a call, not a letter. Nothing.” The hurt in Boone’s voice is barely concealed.
“So how did she even get the will?” Knox asks, leaning forward. “And who the hell was the lawyer who drew it up? Anthony wasn’t exactly the type to keep a legal team on retainer.”
“Thomas Collins. He’s got a small firm on Elm Street. Been in Muddy Creek forever. Handled all of Anthony’s simple legal stuff. If anyone knows what’s going on, it’s him.”
Knox’s eyes meet mine across the table. A silent understanding passes between us. This isn’t just about waiting her out anymore. This is about getting ahead of her.
“Fuck it,” Knox says, downing the rest of his beer in one go. “Let’s go now.”
The office of Collins & Associates is the polar opposite of The Salt Lick. It’s quiet, sterile, smelling of lemon polish and old paper. The carpet is a bland beige, the walls lined with law books and framed diplomas. A middle-aged Beta with glasses perched on her nose looks up from her desk, eyes widening slightly at the sight of three large Alphas filling her small waiting room.
“Can I help you?” she asks, her voice a little too high.
“We need to see Mr. Collins,” I say, keeping my tone even. “Tell him this is urgent.”
She hesitates, then nods, picking up the phone. A moment later, a door opens and a man in his late sixties appears. Thomas Collins is thin, with a fringe of white hair around a bald spot and a kind but weary face.
“Rhett,” he says, recognizing me. “Boone. Knox. This is a surprise. Please, come in.”
His office is just as sterile as the waiting room, but with more personal clutter. Photos on his desk of his grandkids, a worn-out recliner in the corner. He gestures for us to sit, but we remain standing.
“What’s this about?” he asks, his expression cautious.
“The will,” I say, getting straight to the point. “And Saramaria Cruz.”
Collins sighs, sinking into his leather chair. “I figured you’d be by. Look, gentlemen, I know this is a shock. But I have a duty to my client.”
“Your client is dead,” Boone says matter-of-factly. “And we’ve been living on that land for years. Taking care of it. We had an agreement with Anthony.”
Collins holds up a hand. “I know. And I told Saramaria that when she called about half an hour ago. She was pretty upset that I didn’t tell her the land had squatters on it. But I will tell you exactly what I told her: Verbal agreements, especially when it comes to property, are... tricky. They don’t always hold up.”
