I’m surprised. After the stonewalling, after the evasion, I didn’t expect him to just hand them over. I reach out and take the box from him. It’s heavier than it looks, and my wrist feels it. “Thank you. I... I appreciate it.”
He shrugs, a minimal movement of his shoulders. “You asked for them. I’m not going to hide them. We have nothing to hide.”
“Where are Boone and Knox?” I ask, looking around the empty yard.
“Boone took Midnight down to the lower pasture to check the water lines. Knox went into town to meet with Gary. They’re trying to figure out a strategy for the season with... everything going on.”
I nod. That makes sense. The scandal is affecting everyone, even those not directly involved.
Rhett checks his watch, a bulky, practical thing on his wrist. “I have to head into town. I need to pick up a load of feed before the supply store closes. Winter’s coming, and we need to stock up.”
I want to ask him why. Why give me the documents now? What changed? Was it just Boone’s influence? Or did theyrealize that fighting me on this would only lead to a lawsuit they can’t afford? I open my mouth to probe, to ask a dozen questions that are bubbling on my tongue.
But he doesn’t give me the chance. He doesn’t wait for a response. He just tips his hat—a curt, respectful gesture—and turns back to his truck.
“I’ll be back later,” he says, opening the driver’s side door.
“Rhett,” I say again.
He pauses, one foot on the running board. He looks at me, his expression patient but distant.
“Why now?” I ask. “You’ve had these all along. Why give them to me today?”
His gaze flicks over my face, as if he’s searching for something. For a second, I think I see a crack in the armor. A flash of something that looks like weariness. Or maybe respect.
“Because you’re right,” he says simply. “It’s your property. You have a right to know what’s happening here.”
Then he climbs into the cab and shuts the door. The engine roars to life and he backs up, turning the truck around. I watch the taillights recede down the driveway, disappearing into the dust.
I stand there for a long moment, clutching the heavy box of papers. The wind tugs at my hair, and I shiver.
I carry the box into the house. It’s cold inside, the air stale. I haven’t been staying here much, preferring the discomfort of the cabin to the memories of this place. But today, I need a table. I need space.
I set the box down on the dining room table. The surface is scratched and faded, bearing the scars of decades of family meals. I pull out a chair and sit.
Wellsy curls up under the table, resting his chin on my foot. I take a deep breath and open the box.
The smell of old paper hits me immediately. Dust, ink, and time. It smells like my grandfather’s study.
I pull out the first stack of documents. They are held together by rubber bands that are brittle and cracking. I slide them off and lay the papers flat.
Financial records. I scan the columns of numbers. Income from cattle sales. Expenses for feed, vet bills, equipment maintenance. It’s a mess. The handwriting changes over the years—sometimes neat and precise, sometimes hurried and messy.
I flip further back. Five years. Six years. Eight years.
My grandfather’s signature is on everything.Anthony Cruz.The script is firm, authoritative. It’s the same signature that was on the will that left this place to me.
But these aren’t just standard ranch records. As I dig deeper, I find the lease agreements.
My breath catches in my throat.
There’s a contract dated eight years ago. Just months after I left. It’s a land use agreement between Meadowlark Ranch andReyes Enterprises.
Boone.
It grants Boone permission to build a cabin on the south ridge and to utilize the south pasture for his own cattle herd, in exchange for a percentage of the profits and labor on the main ranch. The rent is nominal. A dollar a year.
I flip to the next one. Dated two years later. An agreement for Knox Wilder. Permission to build a second cabin and use the north pasture for training and rehabilitation of bulls. The terms are similar. Labor for land.
