The lawyer arrived on a Tuesday, which Tessa should have expected. Arlo had been telling her for weeks that Tuesdays were trouble.
She was in the barn giving Chairman Meow his morning insulin—a procedure she could now perform in under ninety seconds with only minor bloodshed—when she heard an unfamiliar engine in the driveway. Not Dillon’s truck, which she’d learned to identify by its rumble and the way Loretta brayed at it like a long-lost relative. Not Arlo’s ancient Chevy. Something quieter and more expensive.
She set down Chairman Meow on a bale of hay, and for once, he didn’t take off like he’d been shot out of a cannon. He did regard her with his customary expression of imperial contempt, of course. But she’d come to understand the look was his version of affection.
“You’re welcome,” she told him formally.
He flicked his tail dismissively and turned his back.
Cats. Humans are just inconvenient staff to them.
Outside, an expensive black sedan parked behind her car. A man in a charcoal suit stood beside it, surveying the property. He was clearly not evaluating how the lake glittered through the pasture oaks or the way Sik-sika Mountain rose majestically behind Apple Pie Creek across the lake.
Nope. She knew that look. It was the same look her father got when he assessed a real estate property for potential investment returns. This man was measuring value. Acreage and mineral rights and what the land would look like stripped of everything that made it alive.
Bonnie and Clyde positioned themselves between Tessa and the stranger like feathered bodyguards, necks extended, hissing softly. For once, Tessa was grateful for them. They might be jerks, but today they were her jerks.
The man smiled at her even as he eyed the geese nervously.
Ahh, yes. She’d grown up around smiles just like that—polished, practiced, calibrated to project warmth without actually containing any.
“Mrs. Lawrence? I’m Craig Westerfeld, an attorney with Stillwater Basin Energy.” He extended a hand with buffed and manicured nails. His cufflinks were silver with a diamond winking at her from each one. His Testoni alligator skin shoes had clearly never touched mud.
Tessa shook his hand politely, acutely aware that her hands were stained with antiseptic and smelled of cat. Not to mention her jeans were filthy—she’d just cleaned stalls—and her gray T-shirt had visible sweat stains.
A few weeks ago, she would have been mortified. Today, she noticed Craig Westerfeld noticing and didn’t care. She was a lady, and a lady could wear a burlap sack and still be a lady.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Westerfeld?” she asked with just the right amount of cool precision to convey that she was in charge of this conversation.
He held out a business card. “I believe you spoke with our representative, Dale Hutchins.”
“I did. I told him the property can’t be sold at this time due to come rather unusual conditions in my mother-in-law’s will.”
Craig’s smile didn’t waver. “You’ll be pleased to know we’ve recently come into possession of a document that calls Mrs. Lawrence’s will into question. Do you have a few minutes to discuss it?”
She led him to the porch where Hamlet sprawled across the top step with serene entitlement. Westerfeld stared at the pig in dismay. The pig stared back. Tessa could swear Hamlet was smirking. God bless him.
“You’ll have to step over him,” she said lightly. “He doesn’t move for strangers.”
Craig stepped over the pig gingerly. Tessa gestured to Fern’s rocker which he wedged himself into, his knees sticking up awkwardly. She sincerely hoped he was as uncomfortable as he looked. She leaned against the porch rail with her arms crossed, intentionally remaining standing, in a position of power over the seated lawyer.
She didn’t offer him a drink. In her world—and the world this man also seemed to run in—such an omission was a clear statement that his social status was so far beneath hers that she didn’t deign to extend social nicety to him.
Westerfield opened his briefcase and produced a single sheet of paper he handed to her with barely disguised relish.
It was a photocopy of a letter, handwritten on lined notebook paper in a cramped, slanted hand she didn’t recognize. Addressed to Dale Hutchins. Dated fourteen months ago. The substance of it was simple. The writer was interested in discussing a potential sale of property on the south shore of Lake Stillwater. The property was described by its parcel number. At the bottom, a signature.
Fern A. Lawrence.
Tessa read it twice. She’d seen plenty of Fern’s writing in the farm journals—all those notes about feed schedules and animal medications and Makayla’s birthday wishes. This writing looked nothing like Fern’s. But that she didn’t mean she could just dismiss this letter as a forgery.
“This letter demonstrates Mrs. Lawrence’s intent to pursue a sale prior to her passing,” Craig said. “As such, we’ve filed a motion to review the legality of her will.”
Tessa’s face remained composed but her pulse was chaotic.
“On what grounds?” she asked pleasantly.
“On the grounds that the restrictive conditions don’t reflect her final wishes.”