“There isn’t.”
“Sure. Whatever you say. Get me some food and then I want to hear all about Tessa.”
Reno transformed at Dillon’s kitchen table. He didn’t put on a different shirt or change his accent. He sat there with the will and the challenge documents from the court spread out in front of him, along with a pen and a yellow legal pad. Somewhere in the middle of his second pass through the documents, the rodeo clown went underground, and a man Dillon hadn’t seen in three years rose up to take his place.
Reno’s jaw did that other Steele men thing where it went tight and hard, indicating that he was angry. And, like all Steele men, it took a lot to anger him. As Reno made a third pass through the documents and started taking notes on his legal pad, he started looking like a man planning the demise of his worst enemy and grimly savoring every second of it.
Tessa had come over after work with every piece of paperwork the oil company’s lawyer had sent to Lincoln Sutter and which he’d forwarded to her. She’d also brought over Fern’s world famous meatloaf, which was delicious.
“Tell me again how you got this photocopy of Fern’s alleged letter,” Reno said without looking up.
“The oil company’s attorney give it to me in person as proof of standing to challenge the will,” Tessa said. “He said she intended to sell to the oil company and that her will is inconsistent with her stated intent.”
Reno tapped the photocopy of the handwritten letter with his pen. “The body of the letter doesn’t matter. For all we know, someone else could’ve written it for her as she dictated it. What matters legally is the signature. Fern had to sign it herself for this document to be considered valid. It’s not a half-bad facsimile of her real signature, particularly if she was known to sign her name in different ways sometimes.”
Tessa’s face fell, and Reno added hastily, “Don’t get me wrong. I agree with you that the whole letter—its timing, its content, it convenience—is highly suspect. But we need to deal in facts, here. Not speculation.”
“You’ll take my case then?”
“I will.” A pause. “On one condition.”
“What’s that?” Tessa asked quickly.
“You can’t tell anyone—and I mean anyone—that I’m an attorney. I left that part of my life behind a long time ago and I’m never looking back. Do we have a deal?”
Tessa nodded firmly. “What else do you need from me?” she asked with admirable calm. Dillon never failed to be impressed at how well she kept her cool in the most stressful situations.
Reno said briskly, “Get me every sample of Fern’s handwriting you can find. Letters, emails, notes scribbled on the backs of grocery receipts, I don’t care. The more samples I have, the easier it will be to get a handwriting expert to verify that the signature isn’t hers. Also, the more sample my guy has, the more credible his testimony will be.”
“How soon do you need the samples?”
“By Sunday. I’m working in Bozeman all weekend, but then I’ll have to hit the road. I’ll stay in close touch with you and the court, though.”
Tessa nodded. Then, tentatively, “Mr. Steele?—”
“Reno, please. Our dad’s the only person in our family who answers to Mr. Steele.”
“Reno.” She paused. “What are the chances that they’ll break the will and force me to sell to them?”
He set down his pencil and looked at her kindly.
“Slim to none that they’ll break the will. They’ve got a forged document, a hostile witness in the form of the dead woman’s neighbor, and a solid will drafted by a competent attorney who will testify that she was in her right mind when she signed it. If we can prove the letter of intent to sell that the oil company claims she wrote is a fake—and I think we can—they won’t get within a country mile of breaking that will.”
She started to exhale in relief, but then Reno leaned forward, staring hard at her.
“They will, however, try to force you to sell to them anyway. I guarantee that lawyer doesn’t care if his challenge to the will succeeds or not. He and his bosses are betting you can’t afford to fight them long enough to find out. They’re hoping you’ll cave and sell your place to make their lawyers and your bills for your own lawyers go away. That’s the actual play, here. They plan to bankrupt you into selling your land to them.”
Dillon, leaning against the kitchen counter with his arms folded, watched Tessa absorb that.
She didn’t react the way Lexi would have—not that he expected her to, anymore. Lexi would have gotten flustered and indignant and demanded to know how much it was going to cost and how to stick it to the other guy. Tessa got still and focused, giving all her attention to the problem and finding a solution.
Eventually, she leaned forward and asked, “What the plan, counselor?”
Reno’s mouth curved up just a little. The clown peeked through for half a second, and Dillon could see his brother at twelve, organizing the neighborhood lemonade stand into a profit-sharing model and almost getting their parents sued by several neighbors over it.
“First,” Reno drawled, “we make their life as lawyers genuinely unpleasant. I’m going to file a blizzard of motions that will bury them in irritating legal details. Then we’ll get a handwriting expert to analyze Fern’s alleged letter. When he declares it a forgery, we’ll file a motion to dismiss with prejudice. In the meantime, you keep doing what you do. Run the farm, raise your kid, take care of your business. I’ll handle the legal stuff. That’s what I’m here for.”
“And the bill?” she asked quietly. “What’s your hourly rate?”
