I tackled the files on the left-hand side of his desk, which held the most recent bills and bank statements. Ten years ago I’d set up an emergency-cash fund for the ranch after Dad let it slip things were tight. Despite his pride, he agreed to borrow money from me rather than the county bank. Dad grew up hearing stories about the dirty ’30s and he didn’t really trust banks, so he also squirrel-holed a chunk of cash in the safe, just in case the banks went bust again.
No one knew about the financial arrangement but us. I’d never demanded an accounting of how he’d spent the funds. Yet seeing that account $85,000 less than the last time I’d checked made my eyes bug out of my head.
No doubt we were cash poor. Thank God the county provided his health insurance and he’d purchased a modest life insurance policy before his diabetes diagnosis or we’d be in big financial trouble. He’d spent two months in a nursing home. I feared he’d been sentient enough to know he hadn’t been dying on his beloved ranch.
As I stacked the last file, I noticed a manila envelope sticking out from under the desk blotter. An oversight on Dad’s part? Or had he hidden it for a specific reason? My heart pounded a little as I opened it.
Nothing incriminating, just loose paper, handwritten notes and business letters. The first note scrawled in his precise penmanship read:
The Swamp Rats-investment company based in Florida
Had the Swamp Rats contacted Dad? Or had he contacted them?
No. He’d never sell. Wouldn’t even consider it.
Would he?
I flipped to the next page. For several seconds I blinked in disbelief. My eyes had to be playing tricks on me. I tracked the legal gibberish on a contract with a Montana real estate assessment firm to assess the value of the Gunderson Ranch.
Dated six months before he’d died.
Goddammit. Why hadn’t Dad told me? And if he’d paid for the assessment, where was it? I knew it hadn’t been in the stack of legal documents dealing with the estate. What was this place worth? My best guess-somewhere around $30 million-was probably way short of the mark.
I carefully picked through the rest of the paperwork. Nothing more.
My coffee had gone cold. In just a couple of hours I’d basically cleared the desk. I stood, stretched, and looked around the cluttered room. It wouldn’t take long to get this space spic and span. Dad wasn’t big on sentimentality.
Six pictures decorated his desk. A wedding photo. Not a stiff pose of the couple poised on the altar-rather, a close-up of young Sunny and Wyatt, gazing into each other’s eyes, smiling like crazy-in-love fools. Another one of him and me, posing next to the eight-point buck I’d shot the year I’d turned twelve. Hope’s senior photo. A pic of me in my uniform after graduation from basic training. A snapshot of him and Hope; she cradled a red-faced baby Levi, and he grinned with grandfatherly pride. Levi’s most recent school picture.
Anger supplanted my melancholy. Levi had his whole life ahead of him and someone snuffed it out. Why was I sitting in this stuffy office when I should’ve been out finding answers?
While I stewed, the front doorbell rang. Weird. No one used the front door.
I opened it to see Kit McIntyre soiling my welcome mat. He didn’t bother trying to charm me. “Can I come in and talk to you?”
“About?”
“A couple things. Please. I won’t stay long.”
Stupid inbred midwestern hospitality: I let him in. He headed for the kitchen. By the size of his belly he was probably trolling for Sophie’s famous gingersnap cookies.
“So, why are you here?”
“Lots of people are talking about what happened the day of Levi’s funeral. When you run off them out-of-state guys.”
“They didn’t show any respect for my family. Someone needed to let them know we don’t put up with that.”
Kit nodded vigorously. “I know what you’re saying. I had the same problem with those folks who bought the old Jackson place. Not a friendly one in the lot. I stopped there. Even though they bought the place from me last year, they ain’t got the time of day for me.”
I frowned. I couldn’t imagine they’d be reselling so soon. “Why were you there?” Iris had kept hounding me about heading over and seeing the damage they’d done in hopes I’d sign her petition, but I’d put social visits on the back burner.
He paused.
And then I knew. I waited for the lie.
“Just being neighborly.”
The west side was the most accessible section of our land that showcased the river flowing through the canyon. Of all the places on the ranch, that gorgeous vista would bring top dollar. So I figured Kit tried to schmooze the owners of the old Jackson place into letting him onto the Gunderson Ranch. Why? Because I’d denied him access and he wanted to prove my threats were idle?
I didn’t know whether to be pissed off or pissed off. And… pissed off won.
“Kit, I told you what I’d do if I caught you trespassing.”
Out came the good-ol’-boy grin. “Now see, Mercy, that’s where you and I don’t see eye to eye. I don’t think of it as trespassing. I think of it more as a sneak peek at the potential uses for such a unique piece of property.”
“It is a shame and a waste of your time. No one needs a peek because the Gunderson Ranch is not for sale.”
His face fell. “But… I thought you told them guys no because we had an agreement that you’d at least consider the offer from my investment group first. And Hi said you’d stopped by his place. How can you say no when you haven’t even heard it?”
“Because it doesn’t matter. You could offer me $100 million and I wouldn’t sell a single inch to you.”
He sneered, “It ain’t worth that kinda money.”
I didn’t respond. Just waited for him to pull the noose a little tighter.
“So that’s it?”
“Yep. I’ll show you out.” I stood and walked to the kitchen door.
His big belt buckled scraped the table edge as he pushed away. “Trey was right. You are stone cold.”
He’d succeeded in jarring me. “You know Trey?”
“Could say that. The boy’s been working for me for the last year.”
Kit’s nasty smile curled my innards.
A thought occurred to me: had Trey knocked me out that night at Clementine’s on Kit’s orders? Then “found” me and offered to take me home? He’d actually slept in my room, in my bed, right next to me. The opportunistic little fucker could’ve slit my throat in my sleep.
Just like Sue Anne’s.
A worse thought arose: had Kit or someone else killed my nephew in the ultimate ploy to cause us additional grief? Thinking neither Hope nor I would want to stick around after such tragedies befell us? He’d threatened me. Had he executed his threat by executing my nephew?
My violent streak surfaced. I pushed him hard. The sudden move knocked Kit’s hat off his head, as well as the John Wayne collectible plate off the wall. Using a wristlock, I whipped him around and rammed his face against the wall. “Did you kill Levi? Or did you use that rhinestone cowboy Trey?”
He squirmed. “What is wrong with you?”
I shoved harder, trying to catch his bulbous nose on the nail that had held the plate. “I’m pissed off, Kit. So if I were you, I’d start talking before you see what I’m like when I’m”-another push from me-”extremely pissed off.”
“W-wh-what do you want to know?”
“To know if you had anything, and I mean even a fucking whisper, to do with Levi being murdered.”
“No! What kind of a man do you think I am?”
“Slimy, but I assumed you weren’t stupid enough to mess with me.”
“Let me go.”
The vicious part of me longed to inflict more damage. I had to force that part to let go of his hands. Immediately I backed up, in case he decided to come out swinging.
Kit grunted as he bent down and plucked up his hat. He fingered the bent brim and wouldn’t meet my eyes. Embarrassed to have been shown up by a woman. Too bad.