20. The Reckoning #2
"The matter is resolved, Ms. Beckett," Victor said, his tone sharpening by a fraction of a degree. "The title is clear. You are free to proceed with your inheritance paperwork without interference from our offices."
"Oh, I know the title is clear," I said, the satisfaction starting to burn hot in my blood now.
"But it wasn't your son's paperwork that cleared it.
It was his own stupidity. Stanley didn't even bother to do a basic title search at the county building, did he?
He just assumed because my dad and I lived in the cottage for years, the land belonged to us. "
Jax shifts his weight on the bucket, a low, dark rumble starting in his chest as he watches me.
"He filed a fraudulent affidavit under oath against my father's estate," I continue steadily. "To freeze a deed that Rowe’s actually holds. He didn't just commit perjury, Victor. He committed legal suicide.”
“Hm,” Victor says, obviously displeased.
“He put an encumbrance on property owned by the Rowes, and he exposed your entire corporate name to an immediate lawsuit for slander of title. He gave us the keys to ruin you."
The silence on the other end is heavy now, and it’s obvious Victor Hargrove isn’t used to being handed his own skin by a girl from the marshes.
"He’s exactly what Jax said he was," I add, driving the last nail into the timber. "A weak, reckless little kid playing at being a gangster and failing miserably before he even got out of the driveway."
"The filing has been removed," Victor says coldly, telling me I’d hit the exact nerve I’m aiming for. "The Hargrove group is moving past this particular parcel. The entire tract is no longer on our table."
"Good," I say. "Because the answer is still no."
A long, heavy pause follows. I can hear the old man draw in a short, dry breath through his nose.
"I thought it might be," Victor murmurs.
The line goes dead with a sharp click.
The silence that returned to the office is heavy with the sudden evaporation of the threat that has been hanging over my head for weeks. I stare at the black screen of the phone, my chest heaving, the adrenaline still buzzing through my fingers.
I look up at Jax. "Is that... is that it? Can it really be over just like that?"
Jax’s blue eyes stay fixed on the window, his large hand still flat against his thigh. "Men like Victor and his son don't just fold their tents. Not unless they're bleeding somewhere we can't see."
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his own phone, flipping it open as it starts to vibrate against his palm. He presses the speaker button without a word.
"Rafe," Jax grunts.
"The bird has flown," Rafe's voice comes through, loud and ragged over the speaker. "Priest's guy at the highway junction just watched Stanley’s black sedan clear the Moonrise town line. He had two suitcases in the back seat, and he was driving like the devil was sitting in his lap."
Jax looks over at me, his eyes narrowing with satisfaction. "Did he look back?"
"Didn't even slow down for the blinking light," Rafe said, letting out a rough, gravelly chuckle.
"Janie just called me from the desk too.
The Hargrove legal team didn't just pull the affidavit; they filed a formal disclaimer of interest on the entire sector.
They ran the white flag all the way up the pole, Jax. "
"True?" Jax asks.
"True as the dirt," Rafe said. "Men like Stanley always have other problems. This one just became the absolute least of them. His old man is going to skin him alive before he hits the Houston city limits. See you later at the shop."
The line cut out.
Jax set his phone down on the wooden crate.
He doesn’t celebrate or at least give a sigh of relief.
He just stands up, his massive frame blocking out the light from the small office window as he steps toward the heavy metal filing cabinet in the corner.
His boots made a thud against the floorboards.
He reaches behind the top lip of the rusted iron cabinet, his thick fingers searching the dark clearance space until they click against something metallic. He pulls down a long, heavy manila envelope, the paper crinkling loudly in the quiet room.
He walks back to the cot, stopping inches from where my knees are tucked under the wool blanket. He keeps his eyes on the envelope as his large hands carefully work the metal prongs loose.
He slides a thick piece of parchment out, the edges yellowed with age, and it has the official county seal stamped in dark blue ink at the bottom.
It is the original deed of the one I’d brought to the fence line weeks ago; this one carries his mother’s name in faded elegant cursive.
I look up at him, my throat suddenly tight, a dozen questions rising to my tongue. "Jax?"
"I’ve been thinking," he says slowly. He doesn’t look away this time; his blue eyes lock straight onto mine. "About how to handle things."
He stops, his thumb tracing the rough edge of the blue seal on the paper. The silence between us stretches until I can hear the rhythmic ticking of the old clock on the desk.
"It’s her legacy," he says, his voice rougher now. "My mother's. I can’t sell it. I can't let go of the name on this paper. It’s the only thing left that belongs to her."
"I know," I whisper. "I never wanted to take that from you, Jax."
"But I know you," he continues, his jaw tightening by a fraction. "I know there’s a reason you want to buy the dirt. There’s something you’re trying to keep safe, and I’m not a man who destroys a boundary."
He holds the deed out to me.
"So, I think it’s best we meet in the middle," he says.
“The middle?” I murmur in confusion.
"We renew the lease. Fifty years. A hundred. As long as you and the old woman want to breathe this air, nobody touches you. I’ll sign the papers today if it puts your mind at rest."
I stare at the yellowed parchment in his hand, my breath hitching in my chest. The room seems to tilt beneath me.
He isn't giving up his mother's memory. He's giving me my life back without asking him to. He’s building a wall around me, one made of iron and legal certainty, just to keep the world from pushing me off the edge.
"Jax," I choke out, the word breaking in half.
I throw the wool blanket aside and lunge forward, my arms wrapping tight around his neck. The impact shakes his massive frame, but he doesn’t stumble.
His large, calloused arms came around my waist instantly, pinning me against his chest with a strength that holds me upright.
I bury my face in the crook of his neck, inhaling the deep, comforting scent of soap, iron, and the clean heat of his skin. I squeeze him until my fingers ache against the cotton of his t-shirt, my tears finally leaking out.
He doesn’t say a word. He just holds me, his broad hand flat against the small of my back, his thumb rubbing a slow, steady circle into my spine through the thin tank top.
He adjusts his weight, his heavy boots shifting slightly on the floorboards so he can bear my full weight without letting me go.
After a long time, I pull back, my hands resting against his broad shoulders. My eyes are burning, and my vision is blurry, but when I look at his blond hair and those steady blue eyes, something gives way. The foundation I'd poured around my grief finally cracks open.
"I'm ready," I say quietly but clearly.
Jax looks down at me, his brow furrowing by a fraction. "Ready for what?"
I wipe a streak of moisture from my cheek with the back of my hand and look out the window toward the open marsh.
"To tell you why this land is important to me," I say. "To tell you about Clara."