Page 79 of The Heartbreaker Next Door

I stepped into Blackburn’s office, which looked as if a tornado had collided with a library—paper stacked in every imaginable orientation, and not a single flat surface left unconquered. Blackburn himself was behind the desk, sleeves rolled to the elbows, tie askew, glasses perched on the tip of his nose like a cartoon owl.

He took one look at me and grunted. “Sit down, Lockhart. What can I do for you?”

I placed the envelope on his desk, then lowered into the seat across from him. Blackburn opened it with a lawyer’s efficiency that bordered on savagery, eyes narrowing as he skimmed the first page. His lips moved as he read, silently, with the same intensity a wolf brings to a wounded rabbit. When he got to the second page, his brows went up. By the third, he took his glasses off, pinched the bridge of his nose, and sighed.

He reached for his keyboard and typed something with two fingers, glanced at the screen, then at me, and back again, then back down to the paperwork. As I waited for his verdict, it felt as if time itself had stopped, like the entire world was suspended, frozen.

When he finally looked up, his eyes were sharper than I’d ever seen. “Where did you get this?”

“Storage. It was in the archive boxes.”

He nodded, lips pressed in a tight line, and leaned back in his chair hard enough to make it creak. “Do you know what this means?”

I had a pretty good idea, but hearing him say it would make it real. “Enlighten me.”

He gestured with the document. “This note, this isn’t just a personal IOU. This is a promissory note, with your grandfather’s signature, notarized, witnessed, and recorded. And the collateral listed is... well, it’s damn near the whole ranch, minus about three acres the vineyard is on that your folks bought fifteen years ago.”

“Okay,” I managed. “But why is it in an archive box? Why isn’t there a record in the courthouse?”

Blackburn’s face twisted. “This was in the eighties between two men who were of the era of handshake deals and off-the-books arrangements, and your granddad was notorious for both. But this—” he tapped the contract— “is legally binding. Technically, if the note isn’t paid off, whoever holds it can claim the collateral, just like a bank can call a mortgage.”

I let that sink in. I tried to swallow, but my throat was a desert. “So who owns the note now?”

I had a pretty good idea, but I just needed to hear him say it.

Blackburn flipped through to the last page, the assignment of rights. “After Walter passed, the rights transferred to his estate, specifically, to the sole beneficiary. Which is Felicity Foster.”

“Felicity,” I repeated.

Blackburn nodded grimly. “I don’t think that girl has any idea what she’s sittin’ on and what it is worth.”

I sat there, breathing shallow, as the implications lined up in my mind like dominoes. “So, where does this leave the ranch?”

Blackburn spread his hands on the table. “Legally, your entire ranch is subject to foreclosure if she demands repayment and you can’t cough up the amount due. Or she can choose to forgive the debt. Or she could negotiate a settlement. But right now, if she wanted to, she could take you to court and walk away with the whole kit and caboodle.”

I stared at him, and more to myself I mumbled, “She wouldn’t do that.”

He shrugged. “People surprise you. Especially when they’re desperate, or angry, or hurt.” His eyes softened a fraction. “Look, Dean, this is a mess, but it’s not unfixable. I’ll call her and⁠—”

“I’ll tell her,” I interrupted.

“Well now, Walter was my client, and this is part of the estate that she has inherited. I need to inform her⁠—”

“Just give me today. You can call her tomorrow.” I stood, not waiting for his response.

The idea of Felicity finding out from Blackburn made my stomach want to crawl into my shoes. Blackburn made a copy of the paperwork before handing it back to me. I thanked him, ignored Gina’s attempt at small talk on the way out, and drove straight to Felicity’s place.

The house was dark, her SUV was gone. I knocked anyway, hoping she was just hiding inside, but there was no one answered. I left a note on the door with a piece of electrical tape I found in my glovebox, asking her to call me, then tried her phone, it went straight to voicemail. I left her a message asking her to call, not that I would tell her on the phone. This was an in-person conversation.

I drove to Maverick’s daycare just in case. It was closing time, and the playground was empty except for a lone tricycle, abandoned in the mud. Desiree Lake, my old Sunday School teacher, a woman with a shock of pink hair and a voice like a foghorn, told me Felicity was supposed to pick her son up, but Nonna had come and retrieved him instead.

Unsure of where else she could be on her day off, I headed back to the ranch and saw her SUV parked at the admin building. It didn’t surprise me that she was working on her day off, she was one of hardest-working people I’d ever met, and that was coming from someone who put in a minimum of sixty-plus hours a week.

Felicity’s office was where I was headed when I noticed my door was open. Everyone in my family and on staff knew better than to go into my office, which meant I had a good idea who was in there.

I found Felicity sitting in the straight-backed guest chair facing my desk, arms folded tight across her chest. Her hair was up in a messy bun, just like the first time I’d seen her. She wore the same battered jeans and navy sweater that she’d had on that morning when I left her, but every line of her body was drawn taut, coiled for impact.

I stopped in the doorway. “Hey,” I said, voice soft as I could make it.