Chapter 11
The lawyer arrived on a Tuesday, which Tessa should have expected. Arlo had been telling her for weeks that Tuesdays were trouble.
She was in the barn giving Chairman Meow his morning insulin—a procedure she could now perform in under ninety seconds with only minor bloodshed—when she heard an unfamiliar engine in the driveway.
Not Dillon’s truck, which she’d learned to identify by its rumble and the way Loretta brayed at it like a long-lost relative.
Not Arlo’s ancient Chevy. Something quieter and more expensive.
She set down Chairman Meow on a bale of hay, and for once, he didn’t take off like he’d been shot out of a cannon. He did regard her with his customary expression of imperial contempt, of course. But she’d come to understand the look was his version of affection.
“You’re welcome,” she told him formally.
He flicked his tail dismissively and turned his back.
Cats. Humans are just inconvenient staff to them.
Outside, an expensive black sedan parked behind her car. A man in a charcoal suit stood beside it, surveying the property. He was clearly not evaluating how the lake glittered through the pasture oaks or the way Sik-sika Mountain rose majestically behind Apple Pie Creek across the lake.
Nope. She knew that look. It was the same look her father got when he assessed a real estate property for potential investment returns. This man was measuring value. Acreage and mineral rights and what the land would look like stripped of everything that made it alive.
Bonnie and Clyde positioned themselves between Tessa and the stranger like feathered bodyguards, necks extended, hissing softly. For once, Tessa was grateful for them. They might be jerks, but today they were her jerks.
The man smiled at her even as he eyed the geese nervously.
Ahh, yes. She’d grown up around smiles just like that—polished, practiced, calibrated to project warmth without actually containing any.
“Mrs. Lawrence? I’m Craig Westerfeld, an attorney with Stillwater Basin Energy.” He extended a hand with buffed and manicured nails. His cufflinks were silver with a diamond winking at her from each one. His Testoni alligator skin shoes had clearly never touched mud.
Tessa shook his hand politely, acutely aware that her hands were stained with antiseptic and smelled of cat. Not to mention her jeans were filthy—she’d just cleaned stalls—and her gray T-shirt had visible sweat stains.
A few weeks ago, she would have been mortified. Today, she noticed Craig Westerfeld noticing and didn’t care. She was a lady, and a lady could wear a burlap sack and still be a lady.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Westerfeld?” she asked with just the right amount of cool precision to convey that she was in charge of this conversation.
He held out a business card. “I believe you spoke with our representative, Dale Hutchins.”
“I did. I told him the property can’t be sold at this time due to come rather unusual conditions in my mother-in-law’s will.”
Craig’s smile didn’t waver. “You’ll be pleased to know we’ve recently come into possession of a document that calls Mrs. Lawrence’s will into question. Do you have a few minutes to discuss it?”
She led him to the porch where Hamlet sprawled across the top step with serene entitlement. Westerfeld stared at the pig in dismay. The pig stared back. Tessa could swear Hamlet was smirking. God bless him.
“You’ll have to step over him,” she said lightly. “He doesn’t move for strangers.”
Craig stepped over the pig gingerly. Tessa gestured to Fern’s rocker which he wedged himself into, his knees sticking up awkwardly.
She sincerely hoped he was as uncomfortable as he looked.
She leaned against the porch rail with her arms crossed, intentionally remaining standing, in a position of power over the seated lawyer.
She didn’t offer him a drink. In her world—and the world this man also seemed to run in—such an omission was a clear statement that his social status was so far beneath hers that she didn’t deign to extend social nicety to him.
Westerfield opened his briefcase and produced a single sheet of paper he handed to her with barely disguised relish.
It was a photocopy of a letter, handwritten on lined notebook paper in a cramped, slanted hand she didn’t recognize.
Addressed to Dale Hutchins. Dated fourteen months ago.
The substance of it was simple. The writer was interested in discussing a potential sale of property on the south shore of Lake Stillwater.
The property was described by its parcel number. At the bottom, a signature.
Fern A. Lawrence.
Tessa read it twice. She’d seen plenty of Fern’s writing in the farm journals—all those notes about feed schedules and animal medications and Makayla’s birthday wishes. This writing looked nothing like Fern’s. But that she didn’t mean she could just dismiss this letter as a forgery.
“This letter demonstrates Mrs. Lawrence’s intent to pursue a sale prior to her passing,” Craig said. “As such, we’ve filed a motion to review the legality of her will.”
Tessa’s face remained composed but her pulse was chaotic.
“On what grounds?” she asked pleasantly.
“On the grounds that the restrictive conditions don’t reflect her final wishes.”
“Which is an expensive way of saying you’re contesting the will,” she said a little less pleasantly.
Craig’s smile thinned. “We understand this is unexpected. Stillwater Basin has no desire to create conflict. We simply believe the court should have an opportunity to consider all relevant evidence before the estate is administered. It was our responsibility to come forward with any pertinent evidence, and it’s really for your benefit. ”
“Mr. Westerfeld.” She held the photocopy distastefully between two fingers.
“I grew up in a household where the dinner conversation regularly involved billion-dollar takeovers and leveraged buyouts. I know a legal threat dressed up as concern when I see one, and I’ve watched better men than you make threats since I was in diapers. ”
Surprise flickered briefly in Westerfield’s eyes. She could almost see his mental debate with himself. Was she a liar or not the bumpkin she looked like?
“I’m not going to comment on whether this letter is forged—” She paused delicately and then added in the most acidly polite tone she was capable of, “—Although you and I both know the truth.”
He opened his mouth with clear intent to protest and she cut him off smoothly, saying icily, “Any further communication with me regarding this matter needs to go through my attorney. If you or anyone else from your company sets foot on this property again, I’ll call the sheriff and have you charged with trespassing. Do I make myself clear?”
She didn’t have an attorney. She didn’t have money for an attorney. And she had no idea if Sheriff Wheeler would arrest anyone from a big, powerful oil company. But Westerfeld didn’t know any of that.
He stood and extended his hand again. She stared down at it with such cool disdain that even Chairman Meow would have been impressed.
The oil man’s hand fell awkwardly and he bit out, “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Lawrence. We’ll be in touch . . . through your counsel.”
She gave him her best imitation of Judith’s chilly, you-are-less-than-nothing smile and watched him navigate over Hamlet—a more precarious proposition going down stairs than up—and walk toward his sedan.
What she wouldn’t give to see Bonnie and Clyde attack him—
The geese must be psychic, for at that exact moment, they burst out of the bushes, wings spread, necks stuck out like spears, making an unholy ruckus of honks and hisses. Westerfield bolted for his fancy sedan, his silk tie flapping over his shoulder and his briefcase slamming his thigh.
The fancy car tore down the driveway, and the sound of its engine faded until the only noise was the faint percussion of a woodpecker in an oak along the fence line.
Tessa sat down in the wicker chair, wishing for a rocker that fit her so she could work out some of her agitation rocking angrily in it.
She looked at the photocopied letter in her hand.
Fourteen months ago, Fern had been healthy, running this farm and writing acerbic journal entries. Had she really considered selling? Did the will represent a change of heart after her health failed? Or was this letter someone else’s handwriting?
She needed help she couldn’t afford to get answers she desperately needed.
She pulled out her phone and did what would’ve been unthinkable a month ago but now felt as natural as checking Chairman Meow’s insulin.
She called Dillon.
His truck pulled less than fifteen minutes after he picked up her call. Relief flooded her as she watched Dillon settle his hat and walk toward the porch with his usual, unhurried stride.
He’d been finishing up a call. She could tell by the yellow-orange iodine stain on his forearm and the fact that his sleeves were still rolled to the elbow. He hadn’t taken time to clean up. He’d just come.
He stopped at the bottom of the steps and paused to drink in the sight of her the way he always did. His gaze moved to the hat on her head and a momentary smile lit his eyes.
She handed him the photocopy without saying a word. He read it standing there, one boot propped on the bottom step.
She’d seen him irritated, amused, uncomfortable, and—once, yesterday, on this same porch—stripped of every defense he carried. She had not seen him angry before. But when he looked up from the letter, his expression was hard.
“That’s not her handwriting,” he said bluntly.
“You’re sure?”