“This ain’t right,” I tell him.
Collins removes his glasses, polishing them with a handkerchief. He looks from one of us to the other, his expression sympathetic but firm. “I know it wasn’t right, but I was only covering my bases. She’s a lawyer. How do you think it would have looked if she came here and sued me for keeping thisinformation from her? It took me two months to track her down. Anthony was... vague about her whereabouts. Said he didn’t know. But I found her. In Denver.”
He pauses, letting the information sink in.
She’s a lawyer. That totally explains the suit. But why now? She must have known her grandfather was dead. So why try and sell the property now?
“Who does she work for?” Knox asks.
“How is that relevant?” Boone retorts.
“I just want to know how good she is. I know I don’t have as much of a vested interest as you guys, but I do have an ongoing lease. And I really don’t want to start looking for new training grounds now,” Knox says.
“She’s a pretty good lawyer,” Collins says, and the words hit me like a physical blow. “Works for a big firm there. Hartman & Ellis. She’s very good, from what I understand.”
“She has a case, doesn’t she?” I ask, the words tasting like ash in my mouth.
Collins puts his glasses back on, his gaze direct. “From a legal standpoint, her position is strong. The will is clear. Meadowlark Ranch was left to her mother, and as her mother’s only heir, it belongs to her. Your leases with Anthony were informal. She’s within her rights to terminate them.”
He sees the looks on our faces and adds, “I’m not saying it’s right. I’m just telling you what the law says. I advised her to take some time, to consider the situation, to talk with you all. But she’s... determined.”
Determined. That’s one word for it.
We leave the office in silence, the bright afternoon sun feeling like an insult. The ride back to the ranch is tense, the air in the truck thick with everything we didn’t say. The easy confidence we had at The Salt Lick is gone, replaced by a cold, hard reality.
This isn’t a misunderstanding we can talk our way out of. It’s not a problem we can charm or work around.
This is a fight. And we just found out the other side brought a professional.
“Fuck,” I say, the word echoing in the cab of the truck. It’s not a shout of anger, but an acknowledgment of the war we’ve just found ourselves in.
Saramaria
I’m hunched over a table on the patio of The Human Bean, a coffee cart that has somehow become the town’s social hub.
The cart sits right in the front corner of the lot, painted a deep, rustic red that matches the Feed and Seed’s branding. On one side, there’s a clear lane marked for the drive-thru, where cars line up to place their orders without leaving their vehicles. On the other side, facing the open expanse of the lot, is the patio.
It’s a pretty nice view, but my attention is elsewhere.
My screen is filled with property tax records and land valuation assessments, numbers and figures that blur together into a meaningless jumble. I’ve been at it for hours, my coffee long gone cold, the pastry I bought untouched.
I know I’m drawing attention. A woman in a tailored suit, typing furiously on a high-end laptop, sticks out in a town where most people are in jeans and work boots.
But the attention I feel most acutely isn’t from the curious glances of passersby. It’s from the older woman in the corner.
She’s impossible to miss. Dressed in a flowing caftan covered in what looks like every sequin ever made, she’s sitting at a small table, a book open in front of her. But she’s not reading. Every time I risk a glance up, her knowing eyes are fixed on me.The moment our gazes meet, she looks away a little too quickly, pretending to be engrossed in her book.
A small smile plays on my lips.
Muddy Creek hasn’t changed. Privacy is still a foreign concept.
My phone buzzes, the screen lighting up with my assistant’s name. I take a deep breath, bracing myself, before answering. “Brenda. Hey.”
“Saramaria,” she says, her voice a little too cheerful, a little too bright. “I was just calling to check in. See how things are... settling.”
Settling. That’s one word for it. “It’s a process,” I say, my eyes scanning a document about mineral rights. “What’s up?”
“Just the merger,” she says, and I can hear the click-clack of her keyboard in the background. “Richard sent over some revised figures this morning. I’ve flagged a few discrepancies, but I think we can get them approved by end of day if you give the go-ahead.”
