“Can I tell you one thing now?”
She hesitated.
“One.”
“When you stayed away from the ranch, I hated breakfast.”
She blinked.
“What?”
“Coffee tasted wrong.”
The Fiancée snorted.
He ignored her.
“The stable felt too quiet.”
The Younger Sister stared.
“I started inventing reasons to visit your house.”
Her cheeks reddened.
“I hated every blue dress in Red Hollow because none of them were yours.”
The Fiancée called, “That was more than one thing.”
The Cowboy looked over.
“I’m working.”
She laughed.
The Younger Sister covered a smile.
The Cowboy looked back at her.
“I did not fall in love because you saved my ranch.”
His voice softened.
“I fell in love because once you left, I realized I had started measuring home by whether you were in it.”
Her eyes filled.
He stopped there.
No kiss.
No demand.
She had asked for time.
So he gave it.
They reached the county recorder near midnight.
The recorder was a widow who lived above the office.
She answered the door holding a revolver.
“Who is dying?”
The Cowboy smiled.
“Possibly a property claim.”
She was not amused.
Then the Fiancée showed her the copy.
The recorder became fully awake.
Within twenty minutes, lamps burned across the office.
Ledgers covered a table.
The Younger Sister watched as two versions of her mother’s deed appeared.
The official record gave everything to their father before eventual transfer to the elder daughter.
A notation indicated the mother personally amended her original division.
But the amendment’s witness signature belonged to a man who had been dead six months before the date.
The recorder stared.
“That is not good.”
The Fiancée laughed without humor.
“That is excellent.”
“For you, perhaps.”
The recorder looked toward the Younger Sister.
“Do you have the original?”
“Safe.”
“Keep it safe.”
Their father arrived twenty minutes later.
He entered without knocking.
“You have no authority to reopen—”
The recorder stood.
“This is my office.”
He stopped.
She was five feet tall.
He was six.
Nobody doubted who controlled the room.
The recorder adjusted spectacles.
“You filed this amendment twenty-eight years ago.”
Their father’s face went still.
“Yes.”
“The witness was dead.”
Silence.
“He signed before death.”
“Then your filing date is false.”
No answer.
“Which is it?”
The father looked toward his daughters.
“You have no idea what you are destroying.”
The Fiancée answered.
“A lie.”
The Younger Sister said nothing.
That disturbed him more.
He turned toward her.
“This ranch will split.”
“Yes.”
“The water rights will become impossible.”
“We will negotiate.”
“You?”
The contempt returned.
The Cowboy stepped forward.
The Younger Sister held up one hand without looking.
He stopped.
She answered.