2. Tessa
CHAPTER TWO
Tessa
I wake up to knocking.
No, banging.
I groan, pull the pillow over my head, and consider pretending I’ve moved out in the night and joined a monastery where early mornings are illegal.
The knocking gets louder.
“Tessa.”
My uncle’s voice slices through my denial like a knife through butter. Which is impressive, considering I’m still half asleep and deeply committed to avoiding reality.
“I need you up. Now.”
I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling. January second. Barely into the new year and already this might as well be a personal attack.
“I’m awake,” I lie. “I’m just… spiritually unavailable.”
“That’s not funny.”
“It is to me,” I mutter, swinging my legs out of bed. “One minute.”
I drag on a sweater and pad down the hallway, hair still braided from yesterday, sleep clinging to me as a second skin. My uncle is already pacing the landing, jaw tight, phone clenched in his hand.
“You look like someone died,” I say. “Please tell me it’s not you. Grandma would be very upset.”
“This isn’t a joke,” Thomas says. “There’s a rumor going around town.”
I sigh. “There’s always a rumor going around town.”
“This one matters.”
That gets my attention.
I follow him downstairs, the house still wrapped in that early morning quiet that belongs more to night than day. The old grandfather clock ticks steadily in the corner, unimpressed by urgency or grudges or small-town paranoia.
In the kitchen, my grandmother is already up. Of course she is. Nell Long has been waking before dawn since before I was born, and probably before my mother was, too. She stands at the counter, pouring hot water over loose tea leaves, movements unhurried.
She glances over her shoulder and smiles when she sees me. “Morning, love.”
I cross the room and kiss her cheek, breathing in the familiar scent of bergamot—it’s faintly floral.
“Tell your son he’s committing a crime against humanity,” I say, reaching for a mug. “It’s barely light out.”
Nell’s smile deepens, knowing and sharp around the edges. “I assume the world is ending, Thomas?”
My uncle exhales hard. “The McCoys are planning something.”
There it is. The name that lives rent-free in his head.
Nell’s hand pauses mid-pour. Just for a fraction of a second. Anyone else might miss it. I don’t.
“Planning what?” she asks mildly.
“That’s what I want to know,” Thomas says. “I heard it last night. Council chatter. Nash McCoy’s stirring again.”
I keep my eyes on the coffee grounds as I scoop them into the filter, already bracing myself.
“Nash McCoy stirs constantly,” I say. “It’s kind of his brand.”
“This isn’t funny, Tessa.”
“I didn’t say it was,” I reply evenly. “I said it was consistent. Anyway, how did you hear this already? Are you sure it’s accurate?”
Thomas turns to face me fully now, intensity cranked up. He’s about to deliver a closing argument. “In this town, one spark at midnight is a wildfire by breakfast. It’s true, alright. They’re expanding. Doing something with the land. And if they are—”
“They already own their land,” I interrupt, flicking the switch on the coffee maker. “Last I checked.”
He bristles. “That’s debatable.”
It always is with him.
“And it won’t just affect the ranch,” he snarls. “If they push east, if they start building near the creek, it puts pressure on Long holdings too.”
I pause, mug halfway to my lips. “Which holdings?”
He doesn’t hesitate. “Juniper House.”
That gets my attention in a way the rest of it hasn’t.
“The place on Old Mill Road?” I ask. “That property hasn’t been touched in years.”
“Exactly,” Thomas says. “And I intend to keep it that way. But if the McCoys start developing nearby, we could be dealing with zoning changes, fights over access roads, and arguments about water rights. Suddenly, Juniper House isn’t isolated anymore. It’s vulnerable.”
I study him over the rim of my mug. “You’re worried about a house no one lives in?”
“I’m worried about precedent,” he snaps. “About encroachment. About history repeating itself.”
Grandma sets her teacup down with a soft click. “History doesn’t repeat,” she says calmly. “People do.”
Thomas ignores her. His gaze locks on me. “That property matters, Tessa. It always has.”
I don’t argue, even though I want to. Even though Juniper House has always felt more like a ghost than an asset, something locked away and quietly avoided. A place I’ve never been a part of.
“I’ll help,” I say finally. “But arguing won’t change what the records say.”
“You’re upsetting yourself before breakfast,” Grandma interjects in her typical, calming way. “Just eat something, Thomas.”
“This isn’t about breakfast,” Thomas snaps. “This is about protecting what’s ours.”
I lean back against the counter, mug warming my hands. “You don’t even know what the rumor is.”
“That’s why we need to go through the archives,” he says. “Everything. Deeds, surveys, correspondence. Anything tied to McCoy Ranch. If they’re trying to expand—”
“You want me to find proof of something you haven’t confirmed exists,” I say.
“Yes.”
I sip my coffee. “That tracks.”
He glares. I meet it calmly. We’ve done this dance before. He pushes. I don’t budge. He fumes. I organize.
“Tessa,” he says, trying to sound more reasonable. “This is important.”
I look at my grandmother. She gives me a small nod. Not permission exactly. More like trust.
“Like I said, I’ll do what I can.”
Thomas exhales deeply. “Good. We’ll start in my office.”
Thomas grabs his sweater from the back of the chair, movements sharp and decisive now that he’s got what he wants. He doesn’t look at either of us as he heads for the door.
“Don’t take too long—every hour matters,” he says before he leaves.
The door shuts behind him with a firm click.
I let my shoulders drop, tension sliding out of me like air from a valve. I hadn’t even realized how tight I’d been holding myself until the silence settles back in.
Grandma hums softly, a familiar tune I’ve heard all my life, and turns back to the kettle.
“You didn’t have to agree so quickly,” she says gently.
I watch the steam curl up between us. “Yes, I did. You know how he gets.”
She smiles, small and knowing. “I do. I raised him.”
I snort. “That explains a lot.”
She laughs under her breath and slides a plate toward me with a piece of buttered toast already waiting. I didn’t see her make it, but there it is anyway. She always feeds people before they can talk themselves out of it.
“Your mother could always deal with him.”
I smile even though my heart sinks. I don’t remember my father; he was long gone before I could recall anything, but losing Mom at twelve was brutal.
Thank goodness Grandma took me in.
I pick at the edge of the toast, the butter already melting into the crumb.
“She could,” I say quietly. “She never raised her voice. She’d just wait him out.”
Grandma’s lips curve. “Drove him mad. He never knew what to do with patience.”
“She knew when to push,” I add. “And when to walk away.”
“Yes.” Grandma’s gaze drifts to the window, to the pale wash of morning settling over the yard. “Your mother had a way of seeing people clearly. Including herself.”
I swallow. “I wish I remembered her better.”
Her eyes come back to me at once. “You remember exactly what matters.”
I shake my head. “I remember the end. The hospitals. The smell of disinfectant. Everyone whispering, as if being quiet enough might keep her from dying.”
Grandma reaches across the table and covers my hand with hers. “You were a child. Loss has a way of taking up all the space.”
“My father didn’t even come back,” I say. The words are flat. “He just sent a card. Like we’d drifted apart instead of him leaving.”
Nell’s jaw tightens, just a touch. “He was never brave enough for responsibility. Your mother knew that.”
“And still tried,” I say.
“And still loved,” she replies. “That was her choice. Loving deeply, even when it hurt.”
I stare down at our hands, at the contrast between her skin and mine. “Sometimes I think that’s why Thomas is the way he is. He mistakes control for safety.”
Grandma nods. “Fear can wear a very convincing mask.”
I take a breath, the knot in my chest easing just enough to function again. “I don’t want to be like him.”
“You aren’t,” she says immediately. “You question. You listen. And you care about the truth, not just the outcome.”
The words settle into me, quiet and solid.
“I should go,” I say after a moment. “I can already hear Thomas working back there. I need to be thorough. Or he’ll spiral.”
She smiles. “You’ve always been thorough.”
I stand and lean down, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Thank you. For… everything.”
She squeezes my hand once more. “You were never a burden, Tessa. You were a gift.”
I pause at the door long enough to look back at her, then turn down the short hallway, past the sitting room no one ever really sits in, and stop in front of the heavy oak door at the back of the house.
The one most guests assume is a closet or a relic of some forgotten renovation.
Thomas’s office.
The archives.
He’s rolling up his sleeves as if we’re about to perform surgery instead of dig through paper.
“Lock it,” he says without looking up.
I do, more out of habit than obedience.
The room smells of old wood, lemon polish, and paper that’s been cared for properly. Floor-to-ceiling shelves line every wall, boxes stacked with precision. Each one labeled in my handwriting. Each one indexed, cross-referenced, preserved.
This is my domain, even if Thomas likes to pretend otherwise.
I pull on the cotton gloves from the drawer, my posture straightening automatically as I scan the shelves.
“McCoy,” I murmur. “M… Mc… ah.”
Third shelf down. Exactly where it should be. Everything the Longs have kept over the decades: boundary surveys, water right filings, old correspondence… copies Thomas requested any time a McCoy signature touched a courthouse ledger.
I pull the first box free and set it on the long table in the center of the room. Thomas hovers at my shoulder, restless energy radiating off him, while I lift the lid and start laying documents out in neat rows.
Deeds. Surveys. Hand-drawn plats from before Buckhorn was Buckhorn. Correspondence so old the ink has browned with age.
I move quickly, but carefully. Alphabetical order first. Then chronological. Then, cross-checking adjacent properties, because land rarely exists in isolation, no matter how much people want it to.
Minutes turn into hours.
Thomas paces. Sits. Stands again. Taps his fingers against the edge of the table, trying to hurry the truth along.
“There has to be something,” he mutters. “Something they’ve missed.”
“If they’ve missed it, it won’t be here,” I say without looking up. “Records don’t forget. People do.”
I flip another page. Then another.
Nothing.
Boundaries unchanged. No new filings. No quiet land grabs hiding in the margins.
Finally, I straighten, rolling my shoulders back.
“There’s nothing here,” I say. “Nothing that can help you with an application… especially when you don’t know what it is yet.”
“I need to get ahead of them,” Thomas snaps.
I pull my gloves off and tuck them back into the drawer. “I’ll check the library.”
Thomas’s eyes sharpen. “Today.”
“Yes,” I say. “Today.”
He nods once, satisfied enough to let it go, for now.
The Buckhorn Library sits on the corner of Main and Cedar, squat and brick and stubbornly unchanged since the eighties. I push through the glass doors, the bell chiming overhead, and the warmth hits me immediately. Radiators humming, paper and binding glue, faintly sweet from the staff coffee pot.
And there she is.
Maeve O’Connell is perched behind the front desk, cardigan sleeves pushed up, dark hair piled into a messy bun that means she’s already been here too long. She’s stamping returns with theatrical flair.
She looks up.
Her grin is instantaneous and dangerous.
“Well,” she says, drawing the word out. “If it isn’t Buckhorn’s most joyless archivist.”
I drop my bag onto the nearest chair and lean an elbow on the desk. “Good morning to you too, librarian menace.”
She squints at me. “You’re here before two. That’s either a crisis or a man.”
“Rude,” I say. “It’s a crisis about a man.”
Her eyes light up. “I knew it.”
I lower my voice, even though the library is mostly empty. “My uncle thinks the McCoys are plotting world domination. Or at least zoning violations.”
Maeve presses a hand to her chest. “Truly shocking news.”
“I’m serious,” I say. “He dragged me through the archives for hours. We found nothing.”
“Of course you didn’t,” she replies. “Because Buckhorn rumors are fueled by boredom and caffeine, not facts.”
I glance around, then lean in closer. “I told him I’d check the library.”
Her grin widens. “And you came straight to me instead of the microfilm?”
“Please,” I say. “If I wanted to punish myself, I’d alphabetize my spice rack again.”
She laughs, bright and unrestrained, then tilts her head. “So. What’s the real reason you’re here?”
I sigh and rest my forehead briefly against the edge of the desk. “I needed a break. And gossip with my bestie. Preferably in that order.”
Maeve beams. “Say no more.”
She gestures toward the back reading table. “Coffee’s terrible, opinions are strong, and I have thoughts.”
I follow her, already feeling lighter, the tension from the house and the office loosening its grip. Whatever my uncle is afraid of, whatever history is hiding, this—Maeve, warmth, laughter—is the part of Buckhorn that makes it all bearable.
She drops into the chair across from me and lowers her voice conspiratorially.
“So,” she says. “Let me tell you what I heard about who Laura Tucker supposedly went on a date with last week…”