9. Juliette #3
"Small town," Frank shrugs. "What can I do for you?"
"We need the records for the Cinder Gulch mining tract," I say, stepping forward. "The ones from the 1920s."
Frank raises an eyebrow. "That’s deep in the basement, Miss. Haven't looked at those in thirty years."
"We have time," I say, offering him a smile that I used to use on board members—sharp, professional, and utterly determined.
As we follow Frank into the cramped, dust-filled basement of the hardware store, I feel Cag’s presence behind me like a physical shield. The trauma of my past is still there, a shadow in the corner of my mind, but it’s being pushed back by the light of the future I’m building here.
I’m not a runaway anymore. I’m a woman on a mission. And with Cag Kramer at my back, I feel like I could take on the whole world. Or at least, one very arrogant oil tycoon.
The basement is a labyrinth of filing cabinets and wooden crates. It smells of damp paper and old secrets. Frank points us toward a corner filled with leather-bound ledgers.
"Knock yourselves out," he says, heading back upstairs. "Just try not to breathe in too much of the dust. It’s historical, but it’s still dirt."
Cag and I set to work. He hauls the heavy ledgers onto a dusty table, his muscles straining against his shirt. I start flipping through the pages, my eyes scanning for the familiar legal jargon of my father’s world.
Hours pass. My fingers are stained with ink and my lungs feel heavy with the scent of the past. But then, I see it.
A signature. Not my father’s. It’s his grandfather’s, and it’s on the original grant, because the Marchands bought into this gulch a hundred years ago for the ore and signed the water away to get it.
My father inherited the tract. He never read what came attached to it.
A land-use covenant buried in a 1924 mining lease.
"Cag," I whisper, my heart leaping into my throat. "Look."
He leans over me, his heat a constant comfort in the chilly basement. I point to a clause that clearly states the Cinder Gulch headwaters, and every foot of Coyote Creek they feed, are tied permanently to the downstream agricultural parcels, including Pine Ridge, regardless of mining activity.
"It’s a perpetual easement," I say, my voice trembling with excitement. "He can’t divert it. Even if he owns the land upstream, the water belongs to the valley. His own family gave it away, Cag. He’s been fighting a covenant his own grandfather signed."
Cag goes very still over the document, the way he does right before he moves fast. "This is it. This is the loophole."
"It’s not a loophole, Cag. It’s the law. My father ignored it because he thought no one would ever look this deep."
Cag turns to me, his eyes blazing with a mixture of pride and something much deeper. He pulls me away from the records before wrapping an arm around my waist and kissing me with dust and victory still between us.
"You're a genius," he growls against my lips.
"I'm a designer who reads too much," I laugh, my arms wrapping around his neck.
We’ve found the record Black Aspen counted on no one reading. Now we have to prove it still governs the water.
As we head back up into the sunlight of Pine Valley, the weight of that letter feels even lighter. My father thinks he’s playing a game of chess. But he didn't realize I’ve been studying the board my whole life.
And I just found the move that puts him in check.
We walk back to the truck, Cag’s hand never leaving mine. As we pass the Cozy Cup, I see a sleek silver SUV with tinted windows parked across the street. My heart skips. It matches the vehicle that reached the gas station seconds after Cag drove me away.
"Cag," I murmur, nodding toward the SUV.
He sees it instantly. His entire demeanor shifts. He doesn't panic; he just becomes more of himself. More dangerous. More protective.
"Get in the truck," he says, his voice low and dangerous.
"They're here for me."
"They're going to have a hell of a time getting past me," he says, opening the passenger door and ushering me in.
He circles the truck and slides into the driver’s seat, his eyes never leaving the SUV. He doesn't speed off. He starts the engine and pulls out slowly, a clear challenge to whoever is inside.
They don't follow. Not yet. But I know they will.
"It’s starting," I say, my hand finding his on the gear shift.
"Let it start," Cag says, his grip tightening on mine. "We have the law, we have the land, and I have you. They can bring whatever they want. They’re not taking a single thing from Pine Ridge."
As we drive back toward the ranch, the golden light of the afternoon illuminating the peaks, I feel a sense of peace I’ve never known. The war is here, but for the first time in my life, I’m on the right side.
I’m with the man who carries me when I’m tired, who whittles bird figurines to heal his heart, and who sees me as a partner instead of a prize.
The deed-book reference rests safely between us. For the first time since the water slowed, Pine Ridge has a claim Black Aspen may not be able to bury.