6. Gran Iris And The River Stone #3
I look at her. I think about the dark motel room in Galveston. I think about the weight of Jax's hands on my hips, the rough scrape of his stubble against my jaw, the terrifying, consuming heat that makes my blood boil every time he enters a room.
I think about the text messages from Stanley, the silver rental car sitting in the driveway yesterday, the encroaching shadow of Houston.
I shake my head. I pull the armor back up, locking the iron clasps into place.
"No, Gran," I say, the lie sitting badly in my mouth. "There is nothing else. I am just... I am just really glad you are here."
Gran Iris looks at me for a long, heavy moment. She sees the lie. She has always seen the lie. But she does not push. She nods slowly and pats my hand one last time.
"Alright, sweetheart," she says. She stands up, gathering the empty mugs. "I am going to go sit with Arthur for a while. See if I can get him to eat some oatmeal. You look like you need some air."
"I do," I say, standing up from the table. "I want to take a walk. Just to clear my head before I start working on the blueprints again."
"Go on," Gran urges, shooing me toward the back door. "Take your time."
I walk out the back door, stepping off the small wooden porch and onto the damp grass. The morning sun has burned away the last of the coastal fog, leaving the sky a bright, glaring blue. The humidity is already climbing, thick and heavy against my skin.
I do not walk toward the dock. I turn my boots eastward and begin walking the eastern parcel. The switchgrass brushes against my jeans, and the dew soaks into the denim.
I walk past the old oak grove. I do not look at Clara's small stone wall. I cannot look at it right now. I keep my eyes focused on the tree line ahead until I reach the edge of the deep river, where the water is moving slowly today.
The dark, muddy green current cuts through the banks as I walk along the boundary line until I see the clearing.
The stone is sitting exactly where it was three days ago.
I stop walking. I stare down at the smooth, gray surface. It looks so entirely ordinary. You would never know it was the anchor point of a fifty-year lease, the final promise of a dead woman, or the center of a war between two stubborn people.
I slowly sink to my knees. The damp earth seeps through the knees of my jeans.
I reach out my right hand. My fingers are trembling slightly. I lower my arm and place two fingers directly against the cold, smooth surface of the river stone.
"I understand now," I whisper to the empty air, speaking to the ghost of Margaret Rowe. "I understand a little more why he will not sell."
I think about what Gran said.
The river keeps what it keeps.
I think about my mother's bluebonnets.
Coming back every spring without being asked.
I think about Clara.
I think about Jax.
Maybe some things root themselves so deep that no deed, no lease, no expired agreement can move them.
Maybe that's what this land has always been.
Not property.
A place where grief learned to stay.
I stay crouched in the dirt for a long time. The wind picks up, rustling the leaves in the canopy above me. I keep my fingers pressed against the stone, letting the cold seep into my skin, trying to draw some of that absolute, unyielding permanence into my own chaotic foundation.
I need to find a way to fix this. I need to find a way to talk to Jax without the anger, without the corporate posturing. I need to show him the blueprints of my grief, even if it tears me apart to do it.
Deep in the pocket of my oversized cardigan, my phone vibrates in a single, sharp buzz.
I pull my hand away from the stone. I dig into the pocket, pulling the device out into the sunlight. The screen lights up with a new text message.
The number is not saved in my contacts. But the ten digits are burned into my brain like a brand. Houston area code.
I tap the screen, opening the message.
In Moonrise. I would love to meet you. It’s nothing personal, Nora. I’d just like to talk about your property.
My lungs freeze as I shoot upright, scrambling backward until my boots hit the trunk of a pine tree. A blind, suffocating panic explodes in my chest, sending a rush of adrenaline through my veins that makes my vision blur.
In Moonrise?
He is here. Stanley is physically in Moonrise?
I'd just like to talk about your property.
He knows. The bastard knows about the expired lease. With his family's oil money and their army of corporate lawyers, he has undoubtedly pulled the county records. He knows the deed is cloudy. He knows I am vulnerable.
He is circling the Beckett cottage like a predator in the water, looking for the exact weak point in the foundation to tear the whole structure down.
A deep, sickening sense of unease wells up in my gut. Being in Moonrise and wanting to see me is bad enough, but talking about the property is even worse.
I look at the phone screen, my hands shaking so violently I can barely read the text.
Things are about to take a wild, violent turn. I have absolutely no idea how I am going to survive it.
But I look down at the river stone one more time.
Margaret Rowe didn't ask permission to claim what mattered.
Neither will I.