My Nephew Sold Hunting Rights to My Late Husband’s 80 Acres—So I Was Waiting in the Deer Stand When His First Customers Arrived

PART 3

The man removed his orange cap. “My name’s Richard Miller. This is my son, Evan.” Evan gave me a small nod. “We drove from Omaha yesterday afternoon,”

Richard continued. “Cody told us the cabin was his, and he said his uncle had left the land to him. He showed us pictures of the property on his phone. Said he hunted here growing up.”

“That last part is true,” I said. Richard looked relieved for half a second.

Then he realized what I’d actually said. “You mean Cody did grow up hunting here?”

“He did. My husband loved that boy. Taught him to track deer, clean a rifle, repair a fence, and respect the land. When Cody’s father left, Wes made sure he always had somewhere to go.”

I looked at the boy’s lunch sack again.

“And now Cody has apparently decided that love and ownership are the same thing.”

Neither of them answered.

The cold had begun to creep through my gloves. I poured coffee into the three cups, and the steam rose between us.

“Please,” I said. “Drink before it gets cold.”

Richard hesitated.

“I don’t want to take advantage of your hospitality, ma’am.”

“You already paid someone six hundred dollars to be here. I think the least I can do is offer you a cup of coffee while we sort out who that someone was.”

He finally accepted the cup.

Evan took his with both hands.

For a moment, we stood there beneath the bare branches, three people who had come to the same piece of land for entirely different reasons.

Then Richard reached into his coat.

“I have the receipts.”

He pulled out his phone and opened a payment confirmation. There were two separate transfers, each for three hundred dollars, both sent to Cody’s account.

The description on the second payment read: Two-day guided hunt, private family property.

Private family property.

I read those words twice.

My husband used to say that a man could tell you what he valued by what he was willing to put his name on.

Cody had put his name on my land.

I handed the phone back.

“Did he give you a written agreement?”

“Yes. He sent it by email.”

“Would you mind forwarding it to me?”

“Of course.”

He did it immediately.

My own phone buzzed inside my coat.

The document arrived with a little notification sound that seemed absurdly cheerful for the circumstances.

I opened it.

There was Cody’s full name, his phone number, the dates of the hunt, the price, and a paragraph stating that he was the lawful owner of the property and had full authority to grant hunting access.

At the bottom was a signature.

Cody Whitaker.

I felt something tighten beneath my ribs.

Not anger, exactly.

Anger is hot. It makes you want to shout, slam doors, and demand explanations.

What I felt was colder.

Wes had spent thirty-six years caring for that ground. He’d replanted trees after a storm took down the eastern windbreak. He’d repaired the bridge over the creek with his own hands. He’d once spent an entire Saturday helping a neighbor find a calf that had wandered through a broken fence.

He had done all those things because he believed that taking care of something meant more than simply claiming it.

And Cody had reduced it to a signature on a phone screen.

I put my phone away.

“Richard, I need to tell you something. I own this land. My husband did not leave it to Cody, and I have never given Cody permission to charge anyone to hunt here.”

Richard’s face hardened.

“Then he lied to us.”

“Yes.”

He looked at his son.

Evan had stopped drinking his coffee.

“Dad,” he said quietly, “does that mean we have to leave?”

Richard looked at me.

“That depends on what you want us to do, ma’am. We’ll leave immediately if you want us to. We never intended to trespass.”

I glanced toward the ladder.

Wes had built that stand for two people. There was a notch on the left rail where he’d once caught his wedding ring while climbing up. He’d sanded it smooth afterward, complaining that he was getting too old to be careless with his hands.

The last time we’d sat together in that stand, he’d brought a thermos of coffee and a folded newspaper. We’d seen three deer and taken no shots.

He’d spent most of the morning talking about the garden.

That was how Wes had been. He could sit in the woods for four hours and come home happier about a conversation than about anything he’d seen.

I looked back at Richard.

“You and your son are not going to hunt today.”

He nodded at once.

“But you’re also not going to lose another six hundred dollars without at least giving the man who took it a chance to explain himself.”

Richard looked confused.

I took my phone out again.

“I’m going to call Cody.”

I pressed his number.

He answered on the fourth ring.

“Aunt Marlene?”

His voice was bright. Too bright for seven in the morning.

“Morning, Cody.”

“Everything okay?”

“I’m sitting on Wes’s property.”

There was a pause.

“Which part?”

“The eighty acres.”

Another pause.

“Okay?”

“There are two hunters standing here. A man named Richard Miller and his fifteen-year-old son. They tell me they’ve paid you six hundred dollars for two days of hunting.”

The silence on the other end lasted long enough for me to hear a car horn in the background.

Then Cody laughed.

It was a short, nervous laugh, the kind people use when they think they can turn a serious situation into a misunderstanding before anyone has time to examine it.

“Aunt Marlene, I can explain that.”

“I expect you can.”

“They’re friends of a friend. I was just helping them out.”

“Helping them out by charging them three hundred dollars a day?”

“It’s a private property fee.”

“Your private property?”

He exhaled sharply.

“Aunt Marlene, come on. You know what I mean.”

“I know exactly what you mean. I want you to come here.”

“Right now?”

“Right now.”

“I have plans.”

“So did Richard. He paid you six hundred dollars to spend two days here. His son mowed lawns all summer to save for this trip.”

I saw Evan’s eyes lift toward me.

Cody didn’t answer.

I continued.

“Bring whatever documents you have that prove Wes gave you this property.”

“Aunt Marlene, you’re making this into something it isn’t.”

“Then you shouldn’t have any trouble clearing it up.”

He lowered his voice.

“Look, can we talk about this privately? There’s no reason to involve other people.”

I looked at Richard, who was standing beside his son with his cap in his hands.

“Other people are already involved, Cody.”

Then I ended the call.

For a few moments, nobody spoke.

Richard rubbed his forehead.

“I’m embarrassed,” he said. “I should have asked for proof of ownership.”

“You trusted someone who told you he owned a place he knew well. That’s not the same as being foolish.”

He looked at me, and I could see how badly he wanted to believe that.

Evan finished his coffee.

“Your husband built this stand?”

“Yes.”

“It’s nice.”