“Which is an expensive way of saying you’re contesting the will,” she said a little less pleasantly.
Craig’s smile thinned. “We understand this is unexpected. Stillwater Basin has no desire to create conflict. We simply believe the court should have an opportunity to consider all relevant evidence before the estate is administered. It was our responsibility to come forward with any pertinent evidence, and it’s really for your benefit.”
“Mr. Westerfeld.” She held the photocopy distastefully between two fingers. “I grew up in a household where the dinner conversation regularly involved billion-dollar takeovers and leveraged buyouts. I know a legal threat dressed up as concern when I see one, and I’ve watched better men than you make threats since I was in diapers.”
Surprise flickered briefly in Westerfield’s eyes. She could almost see his mental debate with himself. Was she a liar or not the bumpkin she looked like?
“I’m not going to comment on whether this letter is forged—” She paused delicately and then added in the most acidly polite tone she was capable of, “—Although you and I both know the truth.”
He opened his mouth with clear intent to protest and she cut him off smoothly, saying icily, “Any further communication with me regarding this matter needs to go through my attorney. If you or anyone else from your company sets foot on this property again, I’ll call the sheriff and have you charged with trespassing. Do I make myself clear?”
She didn’t have an attorney. She didn’t have money for an attorney. And she had no idea if Sheriff Wheeler would arrest anyone from a big, powerful oil company. But Westerfeld didn’t know any of that.
He stood and extended his hand again. She stared down at it with such cool disdain that even Chairman Meow would have been impressed.
The oil man’s hand fell awkwardly and he bit out, “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Lawrence. We’ll be in touch . . . through your counsel.”
She gave him her best imitation of Judith’s chilly, you-are-less-than-nothing smile and watched him navigate over Hamlet—a more precarious proposition going down stairs than up—and walk toward his sedan.
What she wouldn’t give to see Bonnie and Clyde attack him?—
The geese must be psychic, for at that exact moment, they burst out of the bushes, wings spread, necks stuck out like spears, making an unholy ruckus of honks and hisses. Westerfield bolted for his fancy sedan, his silk tie flapping over his shoulder and his briefcase slamming his thigh.
The fancy car tore down the driveway, and the sound of its engine faded until the only noise was the faint percussion of a woodpecker in an oak along the fence line.
Tessa sat down in the wicker chair, wishing for a rocker that fit her so she could work out some of her agitation rocking angrily in it.
She looked at the photocopied letter in her hand.
Fourteen months ago, Fern had been healthy, running this farm and writing acerbic journal entries. Had she really considered selling? Did the will represent a change of heart after her health failed? Or was this letter someone else’s handwriting?
She needed help she couldn’t afford to get answers she desperately needed.
She pulled out her phone and did what would’ve been unthinkable a month ago but now felt as natural as checking Chairman Meow’s insulin.
She called Dillon.
His truck pulled less than fifteen minutes after he picked up her call. Relief flooded her as she watched Dillon settle his hat and walk toward the porch with his usual, unhurried stride.
He’d been finishing up a call. She could tell by the yellow-orange iodine stain on his forearm and the fact that his sleeves were still rolled to the elbow. He hadn’t taken time to clean up. He’d just come.
He stopped at the bottom of the steps and paused to drink in the sight of her the way he always did. His gaze moved to the hat on her head and a momentary smile lit his eyes.
She handed him the photocopy without saying a word. He read it standing there, one boot propped on the bottom step.
She’d seen him irritated, amused, uncomfortable, and—once, yesterday, on this same porch—stripped of every defense he carried. She had not seen him angry before. But when he looked up from the letter, his expression was hard.
“That’s not her handwriting,” he said bluntly.
“You’re sure?”
“Fern wrote my name on every check she ever gave me for vet services. She wrote notes in the margins of every medication instruction I left her. I’ve seen her handwriting a hundred times.” He tapped the signature. “The F is wrong. Fern crossed her capital F low, almost at the baseline. This one’s crossed in the middle. And she never wrote her middle initial. She told me once that middle initials were pretentious.”
The relief that washed through Tessa was so intense she had to lean against the porch rail to steady herself.
“That won’t stop them, of course,” she said. “They’ve already filed a challenge to the will. I need a lawyer, and I can’t—” She stopped. The sentence she’d been about to finish was one she’d never said aloud to anyone in Cobbler Cove. Not to Charlotte. Not to the WoWS. Not even to herself, except at two in the morning when the math wouldn’t lie to her.
I can’t afford one.