farm to Murphy. Before then, he and I were partners. He still farms—well, I do most of the heavy work—but it’s just really small-time. See, this summer Murphy planted dodder vine in Uncle Jake’s cotton, and he didn’t have crop insurance.”
Penelope folded her arms across her chest. “Grandpa Murphy’s told me all about the way the federal government is saying that he’s some sort of criminal mastermind, all because some noxious weed got brought in by a drifter from Texas.”
Brandon’s chuckle was bitter. “Yeah, right. I’m sure the way Murphy tells it, he didn’t have a thing to do with either coercing JT Griggs into bringing dodder vine here or swindling Uncle Jake. But let me tell you something—Richard Murphy’s no sweet old grandfather. He’s always working the angles.”
Brandon’s tone was so scornful that Penelope ignored his yammering about people she didn’t know and concentrated instead on the situation at hand. “Okay, so let’s use logic on this. Why on earth would my grandfather go to all that trouble? Land’s land, right? Why would he risk going to jail to get this particular tract?”
Brandon lifted his shoulders. “I gave up trying to figure out Murphy a long time ago. But my idea is that pond over there.”
“The pond?” Penelope squinted. She shaded her eyes and took in the large pond that stretched back from the land’s dip toward the creek and an old abandoned rail spur. “What good would that do him?”
“Irrigation. That’s a natural pond, and there’s a stream that ends up in a small creek. It’s what my uncle used to irrigate this section of his farm. Your grandfather used it for a water supply for his migrant workers and to deprive my uncle of a way to water his crops.”
“So that’s what this is about?” Penelope compressed her lips and kicked at the dirt. “You want the water? Fine, run irrigation from it. I’m not using it. But a piece of advice—next time you want to sweet-talk someone into letting you access her water, don’t accuse her grandfather of being a crook.”
“It’s not just the water. I want the land. The land is ours, well, Uncle Jake’s. I want it back for him. I tried to buy this land for him at auction, and you ran the cost up. I should have known Murphy had something to do with it. You certainly don’t need thirty acres of prime farmland.”
She stood stock-still, the solution to her money crunch within her grasp. “I don’t need all this land, you’re right. If you want it so badly, then maybe we can work out a deal. I’ll sell you all but, say, five acres.”
If she’d expected Brandon to extend a tanned forearm in a glad handshake and say Sold! he didn’t. Instead he uttered an oath and shook his head.
“Hey, you want it. I’m offering. I’ll even—” Penelope shrugged. “I’m fair. I’ll sell it for what I paid for it. You can’t beat that, can you?”
Brandon’s eyes darkened. “What you paid for it was at least twice what Murphy paid my uncle. He paid him, to the dime, the taxes and penalties and interest the county said he owed.”
“Well, why didn’t your uncle fight it?”
“He did. How do you think he lost what he did? Damn lawyers took his savings and then in the end, he didn’t have proof that he’d paid. My uncle’s—” Brandon winced. “Ah, forget it. I thought I could make you understand.”
“Brandon…” Maybe it was the way his pain and loss seemed at odds with his big frame. But something made her reach out and touch his arm. “I can’t pretend to understand what your uncle went through. But I know how I feel, seeing my grandfather losing all his land and in so much legal trouble. I know how helpless I feel. It must be twice as bad for you.”
“I do feel helpless. I want to fix it, you know?” Brandon pushed his fingers through his hair then dropped his hand. He shrugged. “I’m sorry I wasted your time.”
“Maybe you haven’t. I’m serious about selling part of the land.” Penelope couldn’t meet his eyes as she recalled the letter she’d received earlier in the day. “Let’s just say I’m in sudden need of money.”
“But—” Brandon frowned.
“But what?”
“What about your sculpture? I thought all you had to do was weld three pieces of stainless steel together and, presto, you were fifty grand richer.”
She sighed. “They canceled the commission. I’ve already bought the materials, and if I returned them, I’d have to pay shipping and a hefty restocking fee. So I’m going to build it anyway. But I need money. You want the land. Why not make everybody happy?”
Brandon nodded, and she could see from his expression he was considering it. She clenched her fists in anticipation, slipped her index finger across her middle finger.
Please, please, please, buy this land.
But then his eyes lit on the fence again, and his expression hardened. “Okay. On two conditions. One, you have to sell it to me for fair market value before you ran up the price—that’s all the bank would lend me. And two, that not one dime of my money goes to Richard Murphy.”
“Are you out of your tree? You can’t tell me what I do with the money after you get the land, any more than I can tell you what to do with the land.”
“So I’m right, then? That’s why you need the money? For Murphy?”
“No, I need the money to survive on, to pay my bills. But if my grandfather needs help, you can bet I’ll share what I have. He’s old, Brandon, and frail and I don’t want him in prison.”
“Frail? Richard Murphy frail? He’s healthy as a horse—no, make that an ox. You make him sound like he’s on his last legs.” Brandon narrowed his eyes. “No. As bad as I want this land back in my family, I will not pay Richard Murphy, not a red cent. And I sure won’t add to his legal defense fund. He may be your grandfather, but he belongs in jail. And I’ll do everything I can to make sure he ends up there.”
With that, he stalked back toward the house and his truck, leaving Penelope speechless.
CHAPTER FIVE
B RANDON HADN’T REALIZED how tight his fists were until his knuckles started aching. He stood by his truck and sucked in a purposeful breath. In. Out. In again. Slow exhale.
Better. The idea that he’d let one cent of his money go to Richard Murphy’s lawyers…
No. Calm down. Think.
The vinyl seat crackled under him as he slammed the door with one hand and punched in Ryan MacIntosh’s number on his cell phone with the other.
“Ryan? You got a few minutes? If you do, I’m on the way over.”
His best friend didn’t hesitate. “Come on. Mee-Maw’s got lunch on the table and Becca can put out another plate. We’ve got Sean Courtland here, too, so we can all hear what he has to say about the investigation.”
Brandon didn’t know what cheered him up more. Was it the idea of Ryan’s grandmother’s legendary meals? Or the possibility that in the course of the dinner, Sean, the FBI agent who’d been
