Chapter 11 #2
"Don't thank me yet. I intend to rope you into the church bake sale next month too."
Despite everything, Liv laughed.
Cooter showed up around eleven with his massive barrel smoker hitched to his truck, two of his sons helping him maneuver it into position near the barn.
"Heard you needed barbecue for the fundraiser," he called to Mike. "Figured I'd get a jump on the prep work. Takes twelve hours to do brisket right, and I ain't about to serve anything less than perfection."
"You didn't have to come this early," Mike said.
"Course I did. This is Liv's first big community event." Cooter's voice dropped. "And I heard through the grapevine there might be some folks sniffing around who ain't welcome. Figured having my smoker set up gives me an excuse to be on the property for the next day or so. Just in case."
Mike and Cooter's eyes met. Understanding passed between them.
"Appreciate it," Mike said.
"That's what neighbors do."
By noon, there were at least twenty people on the ranch property, all with legitimate reasons to be there, all positioned to provide additional security without making it obvious that's what they were doing.
Liv stood at the kitchen window, watching it all unfold, and felt something crack open in her chest.
These people didn't know her. Not really. She'd been here barely a month. But they were showing up anyway, bringing food and time and presence, creating a buffer between her and whatever was coming.
"First time seeing small-town solidarity in action?" Heather asked, coming to stand beside her.
"Is it always like this?"
"When it matters? Yeah." Heather handed her a mug of tea.
"When the McGrady ranch had that fire two years ago, half the county showed up with tools and supplies before the insurance adjuster even got there. Nobody asked if they needed help. They just came. Same thing when Charlotte went missing and Brett was stalking me. It’s amazing and heartwarming and wonderful.
I grew up around this and it still catches my heart. "
Harris appeared around one o'clock, clearly unnerved by the sudden influx of people. He stood on the porch, taking in the organized chaos—women in the great room, men around the smoker, kids running between groups with the kind of wild energy that came from being outside and slightly feral.
He started toward the kitchen, probably hoping to corner Liv again.
He made it three steps before Grandpa Quentin materialized in his path.
"Afternoon," Quentin said pleasantly, settling into one of the porch rockers like he had all day. "You must be Mr. Hendricks. Heard you're from Dallas. Staying a few days?"
Harris stopped. "That's right. Just enjoying the hospitality."
"Mm-hmm. Well, since you're here, let me tell you about this place.
" Quentin settled back, getting comfortable.
"See, the Watkins ranch has been in our family for four generations.
My grandfather bought this land in 1897 from a Mexican land grant holder named Esteban Ruiz.
Good man, Esteban, made the best tamales I ever tasted.
Anyway, he was looking to move closer to San Antonio where his daughter had married into the Martinez family, you know the ones, they owned that big mercantile on Main Street until the flood of '32 washed half the building into the creek... "
Liv watched from the kitchen window as Quentin launched into what appeared to be an incredibly detailed and meandering history of the ranch, the county, possibly the entire state of Texas. Harris tried twice to extract himself, but Quentin kept talking, his voice friendly and relentless.
"...and that's how we ended up with mineral rights to the section near the creek, though the oil never did pan out like they thought it would.
Course, that was during the boom of '52, which you're probably too young to remember, but let me tell you about the time my daddy tried to convince a wildcatter from Houston that we had black gold under the south pasture.
Well, turned out all we had was an underground spring and a very confused geologist... "
Fifteen minutes later, Arletta came out with a pitcher of sweet tea and a tray of glasses, her expression the picture of elderly hospitality.
"Thought you gentlemen might be thirsty," she said sweetly.
She poured for Quentin first, steady, perfect, not a drop spilled. Set the glass in front of him with the kind of precision that came from thirty years of Sunday suppers and church potlucks.
Then she turned to Harris. "Now, Mr. Hendricks, you look parched. Let me just—"
Her foot caught, or appeared to catch, on absolutely nothing. The pitcher tipped, wobbled, and then dumped its entire contents directly onto the small wicker table where Harris had set his laptop and phone.
Sweet tea, thick with sugar, sticky as sin, flooded across the keyboard, seeped into the vents, pooled around the charging port. The screen flickered once. Twice. Went dark.
"Oh my Lord in heaven!" Arletta's hands flew to her mouth, her expression the perfect picture of elderly distress.
"I'm so sorry! These old hands just ain't what they used to be!
And that table's been wobbly since Easter.
I told Lyle to fix it but you know how men are, never get around to the small things. "
Harris lunged for the laptop, but it was too late. Tea dripped from every surface, pooled in the keyboard, ran down the screen in sticky rivulets.
"It's…" Harris's voice was tight. "It's fine. Accidents happen."
"Let me get you some towels."
"No, I'll just. I need to . . .excuse me."
He retreated toward his cabin, laptop clutched to his chest, sweet tea dripping from his sleeves.
The second Harris disappeared inside, Arletta's flustered expression vanished like smoke. She picked up the empty pitcher, examined it with satisfaction, then looked at Quentin.
"Foot caught on the table leg," she said primly. "Terrible hazard. Someone really ought to fix that."
"That table's been solid since 1987," Quentin observed, not even trying to hide his grin.
"Funny how things get wobbly when you need 'em to." Arletta headed toward the kitchen, then paused. "Also? I checked his cabin this morning while he was at breakfast. Man keeps three different phones and a file folder with photos of our Liv. Figured his laptop could use a baptism."
Kenny, who'd been standing silent in the shadows, made a sound that might've been a laugh. "You searched his room?"
"I cleaned his room. Ain't my fault if I happened to notice things while I was dustin'." She fixed Kenny with a look. "And before you ask—yes, I took pictures of everything with my phone. Texted 'em to Joe already."
"Arletta—" Mike started.
"Don't 'Arletta' me, Michael Watkins. That man's nosing around our girl. I'll be damned if I'm gonna just bake biscuits and pretend I don't notice." Her voice gentled. "Now. Y'all want lunch or you gonna stand there gaping like catfish?"
From the kitchen window, Liv pressed both hands over her mouth, torn between laughter and tears.
Mike appeared beside her, grinning. "Never a dull moment around here.”
Joe's phone rang around three o'clock. He stepped into the office, closing the door behind him.
"Talk to me," he said.
Johan's voice came through clear and certain. "Found your leverage on Harris."
"I'm listening."
"He's got a daughter. Emily, nineteen, sophomore at UT Austin. Smart kid, full scholarship, but she's got type one diabetes. Insulin costs are killing his ex-wife. She's been picking up extra shifts at the hospital just to cover the prescriptions."
Joe's mind was already calculating. "How much?"
"Monthly costs run about four hundred for insulin, another two for supplies. His ex won't take money from him directly. Too much bad blood from the divorce. But if someone else stepped in to help..."
"I can make that happen."
"Thought you might." A pause. "There's more. Harris's reputation is built on discretion. If word got out he was taking bribes or filing false reports, he'd be done in this business. And he knows it."
"So we've got carrot and stick."
"Exactly."
Joe was quiet for a moment, thinking. "Set up a medical trust for the daughter. Make it look like it's from a nonprofit that helps families with chronic illness costs. Route it through enough organizations that Harris can't trace it back to us directly."
"How much are we talking?"
"Enough to cover her through graduation. Call it forty thousand."
Johan whistled low. "You sure about that?"
"I'm sure about protecting my family." Joe's voice was flat. Certain. "Make it happen."
"On it. I'll have the paperwork ready by tonight."
Joe ended the call and sat in the quiet office for a moment, staring at the security feeds on his monitor. Liv was visible in one camera angle, laughing at something Charlotte had said, flour in her hair and peace on her face.
Forty thousand was nothing compared to what she was worth. Mike was in love with her. That was clear to just about anybody with a pair of eyes. And that made her priceless.
He picked up his phone and texted his brothers. Office. 4pm. We're making Harris an offer he can't refuse.
At four o'clock, Harris was escorted to the ranch office by Kenny, who'd appeared at his cabin door with the kind of polite insistence that made it clear refusal wasn't an option.
Joe sat behind the desk. Lyle leaned against the wall to the right. Mike stood by the door. Kenny positioned himself behind Harris's chair. Not threatening, exactly, but definitely a presence.
Harris looked between them, jaw tight. "What's this about?"
"We want to make you an offer," Joe said. "A generous one."
"I already told you—"
"Hear me out." Joe's voice was calm. Reasonable. The voice of a man who'd negotiated oil deals and investment portfolios and knew exactly how to find leverage. "You've got a daughter. Emily. Nineteen. Type one diabetic."
Harris went very still.