"No."
"You going to let a rig chew through your pasture to pay for a truck you don't need?"
"No."
The thought of those rigs on my land makes me physically sick. The way they destroy and take until there is nothing left.
"Then here is what we do." He leans forward, his eyes fixing on mine, making it feel like a handshake has already happened. "I sign over the mineral rights. We make it legal and clean and quiet, so when a man with a tie shows up with a folder and a smile, he runs face-first into a wall he didn't know was there. In return, I want one thing," Walton says.
"Name it."
"All I ask in return is one cow a year. Butchered. Fill my freezer and Willy's, same as my granddad used to do when he needed a favor."
Relief is a physical thing. It loosens my spine and drops my shoulders and makes my breath come easy for the first time in a week. I would give him ten cows and a horse, too, if it meant fixing this whole mess. "Then we have a deal," I say. My voice scrapes like it has been dragged through gravel, but I don’t care.
Willy slaps the table, delighted. "Knew it. Knew you would say yes before he finished asking. You always were that kind of boy."
I huff out a breath that might be a laugh. "I'll take that as a compliment."
"Good." Willy's brother leans back, satisfaction flickering across his face. "I'll draw up the papers. We should be able to move fast on this and have it finalized in the next forty-eight hours. You keep doing what you're doing. Protect that land. Protect your family."
We finish in five minutes because men like this do not linger on goodbyes. Willy waves as if he’s on a porch and not on a screen. His brother gives one short nod that feels like a blessing, a warning, and a welcome all at once. The call ends, and the room goes silent except for the old fridge kicking on.
Closing the laptop, I stand. The house feels strange around me. Lighter in some places and heavier in others. The slice of a casserole Mom left sits on the counter reminding me to eat. Taking a bite with a fork straight from the dish, I need salt and heat and something ordinary. The door bangs, and Zach walks in without knocking because he is worse than Mom that way.
"You on the phone with someone important?" he asks, eyes cutting to the laptop.
"Willy," I say, not a lie.
"What did he want?"
"To talk about cows," I say, which is a lie but sounds like a truth we would tell. Zach decides he doesn’t care enough to push and steals a forkful of casserole with pure raccoon energy. He chews and looks at me, as if preparing to poke a bruise.
"Finn says you were out early and back late and looked like sin the whole time," he says. "You finally let someone take pity on you?"
"You boys need hobbies," I say.
"This is our hobby," he says, amused. He leans back against the counter. "You happy?"
The question lands sideways. Not are you in trouble. Not can you handle it. Happy. I do not know what to do with that, so I don’t try to answer the way a man in a book would answer. "I’m busy," I say.
Hearing what I won’t say makes him grin like a fool. "Huh," he says, pushing off the counter. "Well, if you start smiling in your sleep, we are moving you to the barn. It will scare away the coyotes."
When the door swings shut behind him, the house goes quiet again. I stand with the fork in my hand and the lie about cows between my teeth and think about calling him back in. I could lay the deed on the table and point to the line that saves us. Then I could watch my brothers' faces change from joking to serious and feel the shape of the burden shift from one set of shoulders to three.
I want that. But then I picture Finn telling Mom without meaning to, and Mom telling Jenna because she needs a second brain. Jenna tells Josh because that is marriage, and Josh tells Ben because he will want a lawyer's name. By supper, there will be ten people who know a thing that only works if it is quiet. The fewer people who know, the better. That is what Walton said without saying it.
Washing the fork in the sink, I rinse it clean. Then I dry it and put it back in the drawer because small order helps when big things are loud. I remind myself I will tell them all when the papers are signed. When the ink is dry, the file is where it needs to be, and the county clerk has stamped it with a numberthat makes it real. Until then, it stays with me. With Willy and Walton and the lawyer who does not talk in town. That’s the circle. Tight as a cinch.
I step onto the porch with my phone in my hand, looking toward the south pasture. The cows are dots in the light, and the lake beyond them throws back a hard shine. I think about Kassi again. About the way she told me what she heard, even though fear sat in her throat. She is part of why this matters. She is a reason and not a risk. Keeping this quiet keeps her safer too. If anyone in that office starts sniffing around where word is leaking from, I don’t want it to point toward her or toward my kitchen table.
There is still plenty that can go wrong. The developers will not fold because one door is closed. They will look for another. They will test fences.
When my phone buzzes, it’s Walton's lawyer with a time to meet and a list of what to bring. My answers are short and polite, and I hang up with a clock set in my head. Forty-eight hours. If I have to, I can hold my breath that long.
Time is running out. I’m running with it. But I am not empty-handed anymore. I have a name on a page and a promise on a porch and the good sense to keep both close until they are strong enough to stand in the open.
Chapter 23