Claiming The Cowboy (Meier Ranch Brothers 3)

“There is one thing.”

At her questioning gaze, her father stared back at his crossed hands, his lap, so unlike the opinionated and forthright man who raised her to be the same.

“You,” he said simply. “We haven’t so much as moved a pillow since she’s been gone. And you should have your own place. You’re the mayor, and you still wash an old man’s underwear.”

“Dad, we’ve been through this. I’ve lived in tiny little rooftop apartments where I could see the Pacific from my balcony. I house-sat a six-million-dollar estate in Atlanta while I was studying for the bar exam. I lived on a houseboat in Italy the summer after my senior year. None of them did for me what this porch does. What you do. This place centers me. Someday I’ll move on, maybe get elected to Austin, but right now, I need you more than ever.” She took his hand in hers and squeezed. “Besides, single-family dwellings are at a premium here, and the developers who have expressed interest are waiting for the employment scales to tip.”

“You mean like the addition of a quarter of a million-dollar bottling operation that employs dozens of people in construction, maintenance, service, and entertainment?”

“Not you, too.”

“Takes both sides—”

“To build a bridge. I know.”

“That kind of growth is hard to turn down. I want to make sure you’re doing it for the right reason. If it were a textile or cottonseed operation, you wouldn’t bat an eye.”

“Textiles and cottonseeds don’t kill people.”

“Neither do businesses. What happened was human error, a bad decision. He’s moved on, Gretchen. Made peace with the little life he has left since he got out of prison. You should, too.”

“This has nothing to do with the man who killed Mom. All those places I lived? They challenged me, but they also made me see how much this town needed…someone. Every time I came home, another store on Main had gone out of business, another broken bridge or silo crumbled on the landscape. No one else stepped up to be that someone. I couldn’t watch it deteriorate anymore. Not this place that meant so much to her.”

Her father kissed her temple. She placed her head on his shoulder. The night stretched. Lincoln snored.

“I’ve known you were meant to do great things since the day you came home from school and had convinced the superintendent to sell advertisement space on the side of school busses to pay for upgraded computers. You’re the most amazing person I know. If there’s anyone who can turn this town around, it’s you, but don’t let smoke from that fire inside you obscure your view.”

Those tears that had threatened all day ramped up again, but she would wait.

“I’m going to bed.” Her father gathered his belongings and made his slow trek toward the front door. “Too many fireworks at the city council meeting for these old bones.”

Fireworks? Had they attended the same meeting?

“I thought all the concerned citizens were on their best behavior,” she said.

“They were. Those weren’t the fireworks I was talking about.”

Oh.

Oh.

Ew.

Her stomach crumpled in on itself. There was something wrong about discussing her love life—or lack thereof—with her father. More disturbing was that he, a man who needed coaching on the remote to the satellite dish to record his cop shows, thought her a tad more ob

vious than Bettye Lindsey.

Lincoln gave an understated wrooo-oof. Likely because Dad was going inside. Also because opinions around the de Havilland house were never in short supply.

“Darcy left you a box on the steps.” Her father held the screen door open enough for Lincoln to slip through, and they both disappeared inside.

Gretchen lugged the box over to the wicker sofa and began to sort papers, grateful for the stillness of the night. In one pile, she placed information about the lineage of the Clarks and Pettigrews, descendants of the two men named in the land dispute in 1839—essentially the founding fathers of Close Call. In another pile, she gathered everything related to the parcel of land on the 1100 block of Main. True to her awesomeness, Darcy had bundled and labeled official documents related to landholder changes over the hundred and fifty-year history in chronological order. At the base of the box, Gretchen found papers containing the names Andrew C. Clark and Oscar Pettigrew.

According to Judge Marshall’s notes, “Andrew C. Clark, Esq., claimed he and his wife, Mary, expectant with child, had arrived two fair seasons prior, to clear the land in question, construct a foundation upon which their homestead was to be built, and plant corn, cotton, sugarcane, and Irish potatoes. One month later, Mrs. Clark became ill. Unable to find proper medical care, the Clarks returned to St. Louis. Shortly after, Oscar Pettigrew and family arrived at the same parcel of land, believed it to be abandoned based upon the early stage of construction, severe neglect of the crops, and statements made to witnesses that Andrew Clark did not like Texas and did not intend to return. Pettigrew filed claim to the land through proper channels. Andrew and Mary Clark returned to the property in September 1837, having lost their unborn child and wishing to resume settlement upon the land. Although Mr. Clark showed intent for residency through preliminary work against the land, his claim that the paperwork he completed in May 1837 was deliberately misfiled remains unsubstantiated. Andrew C. Clark has failed to satisfy ownership of the land in question. This court finds in favor of the defendant, Oscar Pettigrew, as rightful owner of the land.”

One more note followed the ruling: “Pettigrew testified that a fire was set at sundown on the evening of December 5, 1838, under suspicious circumstances, after he and his wife had gone to bed, and that escaping with their lives proved to be a close call. This court finds no evidence to support Pettigrew’s allegation that Andrew Clark set the fire.”

Gretchen shuffled a few more papers until she found a photocopy of a hand-drawn map outlining the river, Pettigrew’s house and crops, the lineage Darcy outlined…oh, God.