Chapter 3 #2
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. We have been 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 Main Street 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.”
“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 this information 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.