longer matters since you inherited Hank’s part of the land.” Emery twisted one corner of his thick white mustache. “Do have a copy of the lease in that magic box of yours?”
“Yeah.”
“I didn’t write this agreement,” Emery said as he took the folded paper from Jordan. “Lucy was sick then.”
“I remember,” Jordan said. Emery’s wife had died not too long afterward, sending Emery into a tailspin. “That paralegal that hooked up with Lucy’s nurse wrote it.”
“Wonderful fellow, young Jasper.”
“Lucy’s nurse seemed to think so.”
“But her husband didn’t.” Emery scanned the paper. “Fairly straightforward. Hank leased the meadows and fields for operations. He had rights to the barn, the tool and equipment sheds, the equipment itself...everything south of the east-west fence line.” Emery waved his hand and read on silently. “He had rights to seasonal recreational use.” The old man cracked a smile and met Jordan’s eyes. “Damn, but I loved those hunting trips. Remember how fast Dr. Hartley could butcher a deer? And how Milton Dexter wore those damned electric socks that kept shorting out?”
“Oh, yeah,” Jordan said, even though he’d probably only been ten or eleven at the time. “Anything else in there?”
“You had to maintain fences to keep livestock out of the fields. Money would exchange hands yearly.” He looked up. “Have you gotten money?”
“A check went into the bank January first. I never got around to returning it.”
“That check may well be yours.”
“I don’t want it.”
“You may not have a choice.”
Jordan’s gut twisted. “I don’t get this. If Miranda has the farm lease, then why was Shae McArthur there? It isn’t like she’s going to jump on a tractor or anything.”
“I do remember Shae as being a bit too prim for farm work. Her sister, on the other hand...”
“Yeah. Liv was okay,” Jordan agreed absently. “Am I jumping the gun, Em? Any chance that she didn’t inherit and we’re reading a whole lot into this?”
“There’s a chance.” Emery’s frown deepened as he again studied Jordan’s face. Jordan knew he honestly did look like hell and it wasn’t because of the scars. The quick look he’d taken in the rearview mirror had startled him. Heavy stubble covered the unscarred part of his face and the lines around his eyes and mouth were deeper than before, his cheeks gaunter. He looked skeletal. He felt skeletal—as if everything that mattered had been stripped away, leaving him nothing but a shell of what had been and would probably never be again.
Jordan took a sip of the overly sweetened tea. “I’m going to have to talk to her.”
“Let me do it. As your lawyer.”
Whom he couldn’t pay. “No. I can handle this.”
“You don’t have to,” Emery repeated.
Jordan shot him a speaking look. “I know I look like I just stepped out of the asylum, but that’s what a cross-country trip and three breakdowns will do to a guy. I’m fine.” He somehow got the lie out while staring Emery down. It even sounded convincing. “All I want is the truth so that I know how to proceed.”
“Proceed with what?”
“Making Miranda miserable.”
“And yourself?”
Jordan scowled at the lawyer, not comprehending.
“Making Miranda miserable is going to come at a cost,” Emery explained.
“Believe it or not, I’m quite familiar with misery.”
“Yeah, boy, I bet you are,” the old man said softly, folding the documents and sliding them across the table. “Sorry I wasn’t in contact after the accident.”
Jordan dropped his gaze, studying the pit marks in the ancient mahogany table. “I...didn’t want contact.” He’d sent his cousin Cole away when he’d come to visit.
“And now?”
Jordan just shook his head, still focused on the tabletop. “I don’t know what I want other than some solitude. That’s why I came here.” He placed both palms on the table and looked up at the ceiling. Looked anywhere but at Emery, who he was afraid was going to suggest the obvious. “I hadn’t expected this.”
Emery then did exactly what Jordan had dreaded, yet expected. “There are some resources here, you know. The VA—”
“No.”
“But—”
“No.” Jordan’s voice held an edge of steel that he hoped hid the anxiety he felt at the mention of help. He’d been helped the conventional way and it hadn’t taken. He wasn’t beyond trying again, just not yet. Not...yet.
Emery was staring at him now, his lips pressed tightly together beneath his white mustache as if he was trying very hard to keep from speaking.
“Sorry,” Jordan muttered.
“Nothing to be sorry for. I imagine you’ve been to hell and back.”
“A couple times.”
“Pain still bad?”
“Getting better.”
“What’re you going to do now?”
Jordan started putting his papers back in the metal box. “I guess I’m going to start moving onto my ranch.”
“I mean for a living. You were never good with free time.”
Jordan almost said that he’d changed, but after the VA discussion he decided against it, saying instead, “Maybe I’ll drive by Claiborne’s place and see if he has any rank colts.” Which was how Jordan had made spending money during high school and college—starting those ornery animals.
Emery gave a short laugh. “When doesn’t he have rank colts?” he asked, seeming relieved to have a safe subject to talk about after delving into matters that edged into personal territory. “I’ve never seen a guy with so many wild two-, three-and four-year-olds. And every year he produces more foals. The guy’s got more money than brains.”
“He promised he was going to stop breeding when I left.”
“He lied.” Emery got to his feet and, once Jordan had the box locked, walked with him to the car, stopping in his tracks when he saw Clyde’s nose pressed up against the driver’s-side window. “You’re a poodle man now?”
“Stray,” Jordan said. “He’s been good company—seen me through a few rough spots on the trip. Subaru broke down a couple times.”
“I’m
