Reckless Kiss

“I’ve got it!” Holding the folder up, I open it to show the year is 1945. “Now let’s see what this is.”

She hustles up to me, and we try to read the narrow, ancient script. “It’s almost like a straight line,” she whispers.

At the top is a triangular drawing with measurements marked out.

“Find the name.” We scan the page reading closer until we hit it.

“Hathaway.” Mary shakes her head and returns the documents to the folder. “You’re going to have to go through every one of these.”

We both assess the size of the box, and I look at my watch. “I’ve got six hours.”

“You’ve got serious determination.”

“I’ve got reasons.” Putting the box on the floor, I take a seat, ready to spend as much time as I have searching.

“What’s the name we’re after?” She opens the next box and pulls out a folder.

“Treviño. Dring is good, but I’m really looking for either a combination of Dring and Treviño or just Treviño.”

Her brow furrows. “Mexican?”

“American.”

Her chin lifts and she opens the top folder, running her finger down the page. “Partnerships complicate things. They didn’t always keep the most complete records for such situations. Any chance you know the DBA?”

“As far as I know, they were ‘doing business as’ themselves.”

We search in silence, moving boxes aside as we finish going through them. We move on to 1946, page after page, until I’m better at recognizing birth records from death records from marriage licenses from land ownership.

My eyes are starting to cross. It’s way past lunch, and my stomach is growling. I’m up to 1948 when Mary freezes, scrambling to her feet with a yellowed document in her hand.

“What was that name again? Treviño?”

I’m on my feet just as fast, meeting her where she left the box. “Manuel Treviño.”

She stops, and I lean down to look closer. A map is drawn at the top of the page, and I feel my heart beating faster as I recognize what I know is my family’s land leading up to Oklahoma.

“This is it.” I take the fragile sheet of paper from her, holding it carefully, reading the dates, the agreement to purchase, the smaller section drawn out as his—although in reality, it’s not that small.

“I don’t want to be a wet blanket, but this only shows they owned it at one time a long time ago.” Our eyes meet, and she’s frowning slightly. “Anything could have happened after this. He could have sold it, lost it in some financial downturn…”

“He didn’t.” I feel more certain of it than anything.

“Still, you can’t prove he didn’t.”

I’m less worried about that aspect of the story. What I needed most is right here, proof the family’s claim is real. I have a good idea where I can find the rest of the story, and it’s in that ancient old house where Winnie lives.

“Can I have this?”

Mary winces and slowly shakes her head no. “I’m sorry, Deacon. As far as we know, that’s the only copy left.”

“Moldering here with the rats in an old warehouse where no one even knows it’s located?”

“Pretty much.” She’s apologetic, and I consider

what might happen if I bolt. “Is there a copy machine here?”

Two hours later, I’m back at Winnie’s with the original land deed and a copy in my breast pocket, hoping to catch Angel before she leaves.