father has six siblings,” she replied.
Jeremiah sighed. “Kitty, when my daed—my dad—died, everything he had went to my mother. But if she’d died first...”
“The estate would be divided equally among his children.” Kitty bit her lower lip, then said, “Unless Rudy left a written and witnessed will that specifies otherwise.”
Mercy’s heart sank toward her knees as she realized where the conversation was going. If Grandpa Rudy hadn’t left a valid will naming her as his heir, the property would belong to her father, her four aunts and her two uncles.
“Do you have names and contact information for your father and his siblings?” asked Kitty.
“I can find them. All but one aunt have telephones.”
The Realtor smiled. “I’m glad to hear that. It’ll make getting in contact with them much easier. However, paperwork will have to be mailed to them for their signatures. I’m not sure, at this point, whether the signatures will have to be notarized. The probate court will let us know.”
“We have to go to court?” asked Jeremiah.
Mercy heard his consternation and understood. It usually wasn’t the way of plain folks to deal with courts and lawyers. Matters were settled privately and through prayer, but estate matters were different. She wondered whom her grandfather had hired to draft his will...if he had one.
She was out of her depth. Ask her about the needs of inner-city kids and the benefits of them enjoying a summer in the country, and she could expound for an hour. Since Sunni’s arrival in her life, she’d learned a lot about intercountry adoption and physical therapy and the adventures of the little girl’s beloved characters in her favorite books.
But she knew nothing about what would happen with the farm.
“If you agree, Jeremiah,” Kitty went on, “I’ll share the contract with my agency’s lawyer. I’d like him to review it and give us advice to aid us in bringing the contract to a closing.” She sighed. “To be honest, this won’t be quick. Obtaining an agreement from seven people will take time, and we can’t be certain of the outcome.”
“Is there another farm for sale in the area?” Jeremiah asked.
“None that I know of. I can make inquiries, if you’d like.”
“Ja.”
Her eyes cut toward Mercy. “I’ll do what I can, Jeremiah, but I can’t make promises. Not about this farm or any other.”
“I know,” he said again.
“And there’s one other complication. Your money in escrow may be held by the probate court until there’s an agreement among the heirs.”
He blanched. “I can’t put in another offer until the money is released.”
“Yes, though if someone is eager to sell, we might be able to work something out.” Kitty sighed. “However, like I said, I don’t know of other farms for sale near Harmony Creek. There’s one over by Scotts Lake, seven or eight miles from here.”
“Too far for me to be part of this settlement.”
“So I figured.” She stood.
Mercy clasped her hands on her lap. If the closing went ahead, Jeremiah would own the farm. If the sale had to be approved by Grandpa Rudy’s heirs, would Dad and his brothers and sisters decide to sell it to Jeremiah? Two of his siblings would be eager to use their share of the proceeds to invest in their businesses. What about the others? And how many had to say no before Jeremiah couldn’t close on the farm? Was it a simple majority or could a single no vote give her the chance to buy the farm herself?
But how? The money she had was already earmarked to fix the house and the buildings to be approved for bringing children to visit. In addition, she needed to buy horses and other farm animals to give the youngsters a true farm experience. Perhaps she could convince her family to let her pay them bit by bit.
She heard Kitty say she’d contact them when she had further information. The click-click-click of Kitty’s shoes headed toward the door, and Jeremiah went, too, talking with his Realtor.
Mercy didn’t move. There had to be a solution to her dilemma, but what?
Unless Rudy left a written and witnessed will that specifies otherwise.
Kitty’s words resonated in Mercy’s head, and she gasped. What if she found a will? There were many rooms, and she hadn’t dared to go into the ones with weak floors. What if she found her grandfather’s will and it proved her assertion he wanted her to have the farm?
She got up and took a single step toward the formal staircase at the front of the house. Pausing, she looked over her shoulder when she heard Jeremiah’s deep voice rumbling in the other room. If he knew of her intention to search the house, would he help her or try to halt her? Until she knew for sure, she couldn’t let him know what she was doing. She didn’t like secrets, but keeping this one might mean the difference between her dreams coming true and their destruction.
Last night Jeremiah had discovered the tenant house was in worse condition than he’d guessed. It hadn’t taken him long to explore it, using his flashlight. A tiny kitchen and a cozy living room filled the first floor. Upstairs were two cramped bedrooms and a bath. Every ceiling had brown water stains, and one wall of the entry hall was pulling away from the house. He’d been able to see light from the rising moon through the crack, and a puddle of slush was piled on the linoleum beside it.
This morning he woke to find the house cold and damp. He’d been grateful for a woodstove in the living room and a few logs stacked nearby. He’d used the rag rug by the stove as a mattress. He’d folded a blanket as a makeshift pillow. He’d told himself, though it wasn’t likely it’d be comfortable, he’d endured worse when he’d camped in the woods when he wasn’t much older than Sunni.
He’d been wrong.
Every muscle ached, and moving in the icy air seemed to make his bones creak as if he’d aged fifty years overnight. It was dark, but he guessed it was around 4:00 a.m. It was the time when he usually woke to help with chores before leaving for his woodworking shop.
His tools would be arriving today or tomorrow. He should have waited until he closed on the property before he had the crates trucked up from Paradise Springs. But how could he have imagined the debacle waiting for him in Harmony Creek?
With a groan, he pushed himself up to sit. He grimaced as the frigid air gripped him as the thick blanket fell away. Standing, he went to the stove, which was barely warm. He opened the door and saw the banked embers had burned themselves out.
Jeremiah sent up a prayer of thanks when, after he’d started a new fire in the stove, the air close to the stove warmed quickly. Something worked in the house.
After his quick inspection his first night at the house, he knew not much else did. No water had flowed into the sinks, and flushing the toilet had resulted in strange creaking sounds in the walls as if the pipes were trying to break out. The propane
