PART4

He put his glasses back on.

“I’ve reviewed the correspondence. Some of the financial questions are unusually sophisticated for someone who supposedly has no experience in land development.”

He tapped the folder.

“Someone may be advising her.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know yet.”

After he left, I remained at the kitchen table.

I looked at Frank’s old photograph on the wall.

He was standing beside the original sixteen cattle, wearing the same ridiculous hat he refused to replace.

I touched the edge of the frame.

“Frank,” I whispered, “what happened to our boy?”

Three days later, Derek came to the ranch.

This time, he didn’t arrive alone.

Britney sat in the passenger seat of his pickup.

Sandra was in the back.

I watched them approach from the kitchen window.

They stopped outside the main gate.

Derek climbed out and walked toward the chain.

I didn’t open it.

Instead, I stepped onto the porch.

“What do you want?”

He looked up.

“Mom, we need to talk.”

“We’ve talked.”

“Not properly.”

I folded my arms.

“Then speak.”

He glanced toward Britney.

She remained inside the truck.

“Look, I know things got out of hand at the wedding.”

“Things got out of hand?”

He rubbed his forehead.

“I shouldn’t have embarrassed you.”

“You shouldn’t have touched me.”

He looked away.

“Fine. I’m sorry.”

The apology came so quickly that I wondered whether he had practiced it during the drive.

“Is that all?”

“No. We need the keys.”

I almost smiled.

There it was.

Not an apology.

Not a conversation.

The keys.

“Why?”

“Because we’re moving some things into the equipment shed.”

“Which things?”

“Britney’s storage containers. Furniture. A few things from her mother’s house.”

“That isn’t happening.”

His jaw tightened.

“Mom, you can’t keep treating us like children.”

“I don’t.”

“Then let us have access.”

“Derek, you don’t own the equipment shed.”

“It’s part of the family ranch.”

“It’s part of my property.”

He shook his head.

“You’re making this impossible.”

I stepped closer to the gate.

“No. I’m making it clear.”

For a moment, neither of us spoke.

Then Britney opened the truck door.

She walked toward us, holding a large cream-colored handbag.

“Georgia, this is getting ridiculous.”

I looked at her.

“Good morning, Britney.”

“We’re family now. Why are you acting like we’re strangers?”

“Because strangers usually ask before they move their belongings into someone else’s property.”

She sighed dramatically.

“You know, Derek has been very patient with you.”

I stared at her.

“Patient?”

“Yes. Most sons would have stopped visiting years ago.”

Derek looked uncomfortable.

I wondered whether he even heard what she had said.

Then she added something that made my hands go cold.

“Besides, we have people waiting on this property. We can’t keep delaying everything because you refuse to accept reality.”

I looked at her.

“What people?”

She froze.

Derek turned toward her.

“Britney?”

She quickly recovered.

“I mean the people interested in the development. You know that.”

I took a slow breath.

“How many people?”

“That’s none of your business.”

I nodded.

“You’re right. My land is my business. Your development plans are not.”

I turned toward the house.

Derek called after me.

“Mom!”

I stopped.

He raised his voice.

“If you don’t give us access, you’re going to regret it.”

I turned around.

For the first time, I saw something in his face that I hadn’t seen since he was a teenager.

Not sadness.

Not disappointment.

Anger.

The kind that comes when someone realizes they cannot control the outcome.

I looked at him through the iron bars.

“Then I suppose we’ll both have to live with our decisions.”

I walked inside.

But before I reached the kitchen, my phone rang.

It was Harrison.

“Georgia, don’t panic,” he said.

I stopped.

“What happened?”

“Someone just filed an application with the county planning office.”

“For what?”

“A preliminary development review covering approximately 640 acres of Morrison Ranch.”

I gripped the phone.

“Who filed it?”

There was a pause.

Then Harrison answered.

“Your son, Georgia.”

I closed my eyes.

“Are you certain?”

“I’m looking at the application right now.”

He lowered his voice.

“And there’s something else you need to see.”

“What?”

“The applicant attached a document claiming that you had already agreed to transfer management authority to Derek.”

My blood ran cold.

“That’s impossible.”

“I know.”

“Then who signed it?”

Harrison was silent for two seconds.

Then he gave me a name.

“Georgia, the document carries your husband’s name.”

I felt the floor shift beneath my feet.

Frank had been dead for twenty-two years.

And someone had just used his signature to try to take our ranch.

THE SIGNATURE OF A DEAD MAN

For several seconds, I couldn’t speak.

Frank Morrison had been dead for twenty-two years.

Yet someone had submitted a document bearing his signature, claiming he had approved the transfer of management authority over Morrison Ranch to our son.

“Harry,” I finally whispered, “are you telling me someone forged my husband’s signature?”

“I’m telling you that the document appears to contain his signature. But I haven’t established who created it or how it was obtained.”

I sat down at the kitchen table.

Frank’s photograph was hanging above the fireplace.

He was smiling, one hand resting on the back of a young Derek’s neck.

I remembered that day.

Derek had been ten. Frank had taken him into the eastern pasture to teach him how to ride his first horse.

That evening, Frank had told me something while we washed the dinner dishes.

“Georgia, never let anyone convince you that land is just something you can sell.”

I had laughed.

“Who would try to convince me of that?”

He had dried his hands and looked at me seriously.

“Someone who sees the price but doesn’t understand the sacrifice.”

Twenty-two years later, those words were sitting in front of me.

And the person trying to take the ranch was our son.

“Harry, what do we do?”

“First, we file a formal objection. Then we request an investigation into the document. I also want you to preserve every email and message involving Derek, Britney and Ridgerest Development.”

“Do it.”

“One more thing, Georgia.”

“What?”

“Don’t confront them until we understand the entire situation.”

I looked toward the gate.

Derek’s pickup was still parked outside.

“I think we’re already past that point.”

The following afternoon, Harrison arrived with two additional documents.

The first was the fraudulent management authorization.

The second was a letter from Ridgerest Development.

They were offering $8.4 million for the eastern 640 acres, subject to approval and a clear title review.

I read the letter twice.

Eight million four hundred thousand dollars.

It was more money than Frank and I could have imagined when we were living in that single-wide trailer with frozen pipes.

But the amount wasn’t what frightened me.

It was the attached correspondence.

Harrison pointed to a line near the bottom.

“Look at the proposed distribution.”

I leaned closer.

CONTINUE FOR NEXT PART5…