Red territorial wax sealed the fold.
“No,” he said. “That is what I came here to discuss.”
The patriarch's face changed.
Only slightly.
The rancher walked toward the table.
Placed the packet beside the roast.
The cook stared at it.
“What is that?”
The rancher looked at her.
“Something you should have been shown eight weeks ago.”
The patriarch rose.
“You have no business—”
“I have exactly the business I was given.”
The rancher broke the seal.
Unfolded several sheets.
The patriarch came around the table.
“Where did you get those?”
“County recorder.”
“Those are private estate papers.”
“Not anymore.”
The patriarch reached.
The rancher moved the documents away.
“Don't.”
Something in his voice stopped the older man.
The rancher turned toward the cook.
“The late owner signed a transfer before her death.”
The cook felt the floor disappear beneath her.
“A transfer?”
“Yes.”
The patriarch laughed harshly.
“My sister was dying.”
“She was.”
“She didn't know what she was signing.”
“She did.”
“You cannot prove that.”
“I witnessed it.”
Silence.
The rancher continued.
“So did the minister.”
The patriarch's face drained.
The cook whispered, “Transfer to whom?”
The rancher looked directly at her.
“You.”
No one moved.
The cook stared.
The word made no sense.
“To me?”
“The house.”
He pointed to a line.
“The ranch.”
Another.
“The cattle.”
Another.
“The lower spring.”
Another.
“The timber parcel.”
Another.
“The equipment.”
He looked at her.
“All of it.”
The cook shook her head.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“There must be a mistake.”
“There isn't.”
The patriarch slammed his palm against the table.
“This is fraud.”
The rancher turned.
“No.”
“My sister would never give this property to a servant.”
The cook flinched.
The rancher's eyes hardened.
“She apparently disagreed.”
“She was sick.”
“Not incompetent.”
“You're not a physician.”
“Two physicians signed competency statements.”
The patriarch stopped.
The rancher placed another page on the table.
“The transfer was drafted eleven months before her death. Reviewed twice. Signed four months later. Recorded provisionally. Finalized after probate verification yesterday.”
The patriarch stared.
His sons stopped smiling.
His daughter's husband quietly put down his fork.
The cook could barely breathe.
The rancher moved toward the head chair.
The patriarch remained beside it.
“Move.”
“You cannot order me in my sister's house.”
The rancher looked at the cook.
Then back at him.
“That's the point.”
He pulled the chair free.
Turned it slightly.
Placed it where the cook could approach.
Then he looked around the table.
“Every person eating her food is sitting in her house.”
Nobody spoke.
The rancher looked at the cook.
“Now there is a chair for her.”