Page 7

“You’re serious.” I turn to Goody. “Garrett left the ranch toher.”

Goody nods as she folds a manila file. “That’s what the will says, yes.”

“Then we’re fucked.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do, though. If he’d left the ranch to me—” My voice catches. I look away, tapping the bottom of my fist against the table. “I’d take care of it. The people. The land. The animals. She’s in charge, all of that goes to shit.”

“You don’t know that,” Goody repeats. She opens a zippered pouch on the table beside the folder.

“She wore pink cowboy boots, Goody.” I wince. “Shiny ones.Newones.”

“Be that as it may, let the dust settle, and then we’ll see what happens. We have to respect Garrett’s wishes.”

Pushing up to my feet, I grab my hat. “I respect Garrett more’n anyone. That’s why I won’t let this stand.”

“He did leave you something.”

“What’s that?”

She digs into the pouch and holds out a key. “A lockbox. It’s here at the Lonestar.” The Lonestar Bank & Trust Co. is the only bank that has a branch in Hartsville.

Looking down at the key, my chest twists. What the hell was Garrett smoking when he wrote this will?

“Any idea what’s in it? The lockbox?” I ask.

Goody shakes her head. “Only thing he told me is that it was precious to him. He didn’t want to risk losing it, so he brought it to the bank.”

I screw up my face, more confused than ever. Garrett wasn’t warm and fuzzy. He definitely wasn’t sentimental. Can’t imagine he owned any family heirlooms, much less stowed them safely away in a lockbox.

That mean he put cash in there? Jewelry or guns? But none of that seems right, either.

Whatever the case, it’s not gonna be what I want—the ranch.

“I’ll give it a look.” I tuck the key into my pocket. “Thanks, Goody. Tell Tallulah I said hi.”

Goody gives me a warm smile. “She misses seeing you at The Rattler, you know.”

I was a Friday night regular at Hartsville’s infamous dive bar, until a line-dancing accident sent me to the hospital six years ago. The concussion kept me from working on the ranch for weeks, and shit hit the fan while I was away. Can’t risk that happening again.

My knees and feet throb as I head down the hallway and out the door. I’ve been up since three and was on horseback, working cattle, at half past four. I’m so tired I could fall the fuck over, but I don’t have the luxury of collapsing. Especiallynow that my plans for my family’s future just went up in flames.

I draw up short when I see the fancy SUV parked next to my truck. That wasn’t there when I ducked into the pharmacy before heading to Goody’s office earlier. The vehicle belongs to Mollie, no question. People in Hartsville drive practical cars. Ones that don’t have $500 tires and cost an arm and a leg to fix.

The Range Rover is just as shiny and ridiculous as its owner.

Rounding the front of my Ford, I jam my hat onto my head and resist the urge to roll my eyes at the grumble of the Rover’s supercharged engine.

Mollie’s got the dang AC going full blast at all times, no doubt. A princess like her would wither in the heat.

Did she drive this thing to the funeral? The one none of us—the people who knew Garrett best—were invited to?

The SUV is white. Its paint, tires, and lights are dusty from the drive from Dallas, but the vehicle is obviously brand-new.

It’s also enormous, equipped to scale mountains or, in Mollie Luck’s case, troll parking decks at malls in ritzy suburbs. Thing must’ve cost well over a hundred K.

The only six-figure sum I’ve ever seen was on the first Lonestar Bank & Trust Co. statement I opened after my parents passed. It detailed the amount of the home equity loan they’d taken out to cover the ranch’s losses after beef prices took a nosedive in 2010.