Chapter 3 #2
Crossing the threshold felt like stepping into a storybook drawn by someone with impeccable taste and a wild sense of humor.
The entry smelled faintly of peppermint and vanilla. Polished beams arched overhead, softened by the glow of mismatched chandeliers that should have clashed but somehow didn’t. Rugs overlapped in jewel tones; their edges scalloped like layers of an extravagant cake.
Along one wall, a grandfather clock ticked with the solemnity of a cathedral. Opposite it, a painting of sunflowers erupted in colors so bold it demanded attention.
And then the mantel.
Centered above the stone hearth was a single framed photograph: a gap-toothed me, five years old, pressed against Aunt Penny’s side.
She was laughing, head tilted back, her wild gray hair caught mid-swoop.
In her arms sat a chicken wearing what appeared to be a velvet ribbon.
My mother hovered, blurred in the background, mid-eye-roll.
The sight knocked the air out of me.
“Your aunt,” Mr. Browne said, following my gaze, “believed every home should contain a little mischief.”
I swallowed hard and managed a smile. Mischief was one word. Magic might be another. Penny was always full of surprises.
He gestured us toward the sitting room, where an antique tea set gleamed on the low coffee table. The cups were delicate China, each one painted with a different bird. Mine was a goldfinch, bright and cheery. Austin’s—a hawk, severe and steady, not unlike the man.
I lowered myself onto the sofa, notebook already sliding out of my tote. If Penny had left rules, I’d need to write them down for future reference.
“Before we begin,” Mr. Browne started, “Per Mrs. Thomas’s instructions, I have taken the liberty of distributing Penny’s things as directed in the will before your arrival. So, you’ll have a clean start.” He nodded in the direction of the house.
Mr. Browne unfolded a parchment-thick paper edged with Penny’s letterhead. Even from across the coffee table, I recognized the curling, dramatic sweep of her purple ink.
“Millicent Thomas,” he began, his voice alive with authority. Typical lawyer voice. “Your aunt leaves you her estate in full, contingent upon your agreement to certain terms.”
My pulse thudded in my ears. My hand shook slightly as I poised my pen, ready and waiting.
Austin glanced my way, then whispered, “You’ve got this.” His nod was a symbol of confidence.
“One,” Mr. Browne continued. “You, along with Mr. Adams, must reside in the main house for a minimum of one calendar year, without extended absence.”
I scribbled One year. My pen trembled, though my face tried to stay calm.
“Two: you must make an earnest effort at daily ranch life and basic maintenance. Expertise is not required. Effort, however, is essential.”
I laughed nervously. “Does surviving pizza delivery count as maintenance?”
Mr. Browne’s eyes twinkled, though his voice stayed stately.
“Three: each month, you must complete at least one neighborly act or community event. For this, Sue Carter is your designated mentor.”
My pen scrawled neighborly act? underlined twice. Pie had to count. Surely pie counted.
“Four: you must attempt no fewer than three rural skills of your choice. Your aunt suggested fresh bread as an introduction.”
Purple ink winked from the page, bold as laughter. Penny’s rules weren’t punishment—they were invitations.
I blinked fast against the sting in my eyes. For a woman I’d barely known, she’d left instructions that read less like demands and more like suggestions to a daughter, not an estranged niece.
A flicker of movement drew my gaze to the window. A sleek tabby leapt onto the windowsill, tail curling around his paws, eyes green and curious. He studied me in silence; cats were so mysterious.
Mr. Browne followed my gaze. “Inspector,” he said with a small incline of his head. “He was her confidant. He chooses his company carefully. The goat outside, that would be Sherlock.”
Inspector blinked once, turned deliberately away, and lay in the light.
“He’ll come around,” I whispered. “I’m new.”
Across the table, Austin’s mouth curved into the faintest smile. A crack in his armor, small but startling, and I felt the warmth of it like a draft slipping under a door.
Mr. Browne cleared his throat.
“And five: Mr. Adams is to remain here with Dr. Thomas as financial planner and estate manager for the full calendar year.” He refolded the parchment with careful precision.
“That concludes your portion, Dr. Thomas.” He turned to Austin.
“Mr. Adams, if you’ll remain a moment, there are additional matters for your attention. ”
He glanced at me. “Dr. Thomas, perhaps you’d like a few minutes to acquaint yourself with the house. The kitchen is through there,” he gestured behind him, “the staircase leads to the bedrooms. And do mind the goat—he patrols regularly and rarely stays in his pen.”
Notebook clutched to my chest, I rose. My eyes lingered once more on the photo above the hearth—Penny’s wild hair, my mother’s blurred disapproval, the chicken poised like royalty.
The ache pressed in, familiar and comforting. But beneath it stirred something new, something stubborn. Was it fear, perhaps, or possibly anticipation or excitement that lurked beneath the surface? I wasn’t sure, but I couldn’t wait to find out.
If Penny believed I could belong here, then maybe—just maybe—I would.
Austin’s POV
The moment Milly disappeared up the stairs, the air in the sitting room shifted.
Mr. Browne waited until her footsteps softened overhead, then drew a second envelope from his satchel, sealed with mulberry wax. He set it on the table between us.
“For you,” he said simply.
I broke the seal. Inside: Penny’s handwriting, bold and looping in purple ink.
Austin, you’re not here just for numbers.
The words pressed heavily against my chest.
You’re the Protector. You’re here to keep Milly safe—not from herself (though good luck with that), but from others who would use her kindness against her. She deserves a chance. Your job is to give her that chance.
I kept reading, my jaw tight.
Do not tell her. She must believe she is trusted, free to fail and find her feet. If danger rises—family, outsiders, whoever—step in. Quietly. I trust you to know when. Balance, Austin. You’ve always known how to keep balance.
The page trembled in my grip before I realized it was my hand.
I’d walked away from protection. Numbers were cleaner. Numbers never screamed in the dark. Balance sheets don’t haunt you, but memories of the screams and the knowledge of what could have been, do.
Mr. Browne’s voice cut gently into the silence. “Milly’s aunt was very clear. This duty falls to you alone.”
I swallowed. “And if I fail?”
“Then the land is lost. It will be carved apart—sold in pieces, stripped for profit. The house sold, the acres parceled. That was their plan.”
“I could have worked the numbers remotely.”
“No,” Browne shook his head with a faint smile. “Penny was old school. She wanted you on-site because her books aren’t digital, someone had been quietly bleeding assets for years, and you can’t protect Milly from behind a camera a thousand miles away.” Like it was the simplest truth in the world.
I didn’t need him to name names. Harold. Arnie. I could see Harold’s face even now—slick smile, eyes darting like a thief who never left fingerprints. The kind of man who’d gut this place while swearing he was saving it.
I folded the letter carefully, pressing the crease flat with my thumb.
Out of the corner of my eye, the crates stacked neatly by the door caught my attention.
Delivered ahead of us, just as arranged.
Plain cardboard to Milly’s eyes. But I knew better.
Inside were cameras, motion sensors, encrypted comms—tools for watching the edges of a place too large for one man to guard alone.