Chapter 3 #2
His voice firmed, a steel edge honed over decades on the Texas ranch creeping in. "It's the only one I’m giving you." He stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the linoleum floor. "I've got work to do in the barn. Stay close to the house, all right?"
"Why?"
"Because I'm asking you to."
He'd never shut her out like this before, and the rejection stung more than she expected. But if he wouldn't tell her the truth, she'd find it herself. This was her home too and she wasn’t a little girl anymore.
He left without another word, the screen door slamming behind him. Raven sat alone in the kitchen, listening to the tick of the old wall clock and the distant sound of cattle lowing in the pasture.
She waited several minutes, until she saw Uncle Martin disappear into the equipment barn, then headed for his office in the back of the house.
The room served as ranch headquarters, filled with filing cabinets, livestock records, and the ancient computer he used to track cattle prices and weather reports.
The desk drawers were locked, but Raven had learned to pick simple locks when she was fifteen, a skill she'd acquired after reading too many mystery novels and deciding she needed practical talents to go with her theoretical knowledge.
The first drawer contained the usual ranch paperwork: feed bills, veterinary records, insurance documents. The second held something that made Raven's stomach sink with recognition.
Deposit slips. Four of them, each for amounts that dwarfed their normal ranch income. Raven's heart hammered against her ribs as she flipped through them. The most recent was dated two weeks ago: one hundred and fifty thousand dollars deposited into Uncle Martin's personal account.
That was about what they made in a good quarter. There was no payer listed, no business name or account number—just cash, as if someone wanted to ensure there was no paper trail beyond these slips.
The sound of crunching gravel just outside sent her into motion. She stuffed the photos back into the envelope, relocked the drawers, and slipped out of the office just as Uncle Martin's shadow appeared at the front window.
By the time he entered the house, Raven was sitting at the kitchen table with a textbook open, the picture of innocence. But her mind was racing, connecting dots that formed a picture she didn't want to see.
Uncle Martin was involved with criminals. Either willingly, for money that had paid off their mortgage and filled his bank account, or unwillingly, under the kind of pressure that turned honest men into reluctant accomplices.
"Studying hard?" Uncle Martin asked, his voice strained with forced casualness.
"I have a big history test next week." Raven turned a page without reading it. "Professor Peterson is big on dates and battles."
"History's important. It helps you understand how we got where we are." He poured himself a cup of coffee with hands that weren't quite steady. "Sometimes, though, the past has a way of catching up to the present. Creating complications." The last two words carried a note of bitterness.
Raven glanced up from her textbook, meeting his gaze directly. "What kind of complications?"
She held her breath, hoping—praying—he'd finally be honest with her. She saw him wrestle with it, saw the words forming behind his careful expression. Then his phone rang, and whatever courage he'd been gathering scattered like leaves in a storm.
"Martin Bishop." His voice was guarded as he answered. A pause. "Yes, I understand. Tonight, same arrangement."
He ended the call and stood staring at the phone as if it were a snake that might bite him. Her uncle was terrified. She could see it in the rigid set of his shoulders, hear it in the careful neutrality of his voice. Whatever arrangement he'd made, it owned him now.
"Uncle Martin..."
"I need to run into town." He was already reaching for his keys, his movements sharp with nervous energy. "Lock the doors while I'm gone. Don't answer if anyone comes by."
"You're scaring me." The admission escaped before she could stop it, her voice cracking.
The words stopped him at the door. When he turned back, his expression was raw with something that might have been love or maybe guilt.
"I know, baby girl. I'm trying to keep you safe, but I know it's scary." He crossed the kitchen in three strides and pulled her into a hug that felt like goodbye. "Just trust me a little longer, all right? And whatever happens, remember that everything I've done has been to protect you."
Then he was gone, leaving Raven alone with questions that multiplied like viruses and a growing certainty that her world was about to change in ways she couldn't control.
She went to the window and watched his truck disappear down the dirt road, heading toward town and whatever appointment couldn't wait. In the distance, storm clouds gathered on the horizon, promising rain that would wash away all the evidence of nighttime visitors.
But some things couldn't be washed away. They left a stain that wouldn't fade, a corruption that spread like cancer through everything it touched.
Raven pulled out her phone and scrolled through her contacts until she found what she was looking for: the number for the Gillespie County Sheriff's Department. Her finger hovered over the call button for a long moment before she set the phone aside.
Uncle Martin had said no sheriff. He insisted they stay away from official channels. But why wouldn’t he trust the sheriff? Was he protecting someone, or was he already in too deep to ask for help?
Outside, rain began to fall, pattering against the windows in an insistent rhythm. Somewhere beyond their property line, trucks were being loaded, preparing to roll through the darkness. Cargo was shifting hands and money was sealing deals that would reshape everything.
Tomorrow, she'd make the rounds in town, talk to people who had no reason to lie to her.
The old-timers at the hardware store, the waitress at the diner who'd known her since she was ten, maybe even some of the hands from the neighboring spreads.
Uncle Martin might not believe she could handle the truth, but this was her home too, and she'd be damned if she'd let it go without a fight.
Ready or not, the storm was upon them. It was time to stop bracing and start fighting back.