Cynthia Reese - Not on Her Own

She stood stock-still, the solution to her money crunch within her grasp. “I don’t need all this land, you’re right. If you want it so badly, then maybe we can work out a deal. I’ll sell you all but, say, five acres.”

If she’d expected Brandon to extend a tanned forearm in a glad handshake and say Sold! he didn’t. Instead he uttered an oath and shook his head.

“Hey, you want it. I’m offering. I’ll even—” Penelope shrugged. “I’m fair. I’ll sell it for what I paid for it. You can’t beat that, can you?”

Brandon’s eyes darkened. “What you paid for it was at least twice what Murphy paid my uncle. He paid him, to the dime, the taxes and penalties and interest the county said he owed.”

“Well, why didn’t your uncle fight it?”

“He did. How do you think he lost what he did? Damn lawyers took his savings and then in the end, he didn’t have proof that he’d paid. My uncle’s—” Brandon winced. “Ah, forget it. I thought I could make you understand.”

“Brandon…” Maybe it was the way his pain and loss seemed at odds with his big frame. But something made her reach out and touch his arm. “I can’t pretend to understand what your uncle went through. But I know how I feel, seeing my grandfather losing all his land and in so much legal trouble. I know how helpless I feel. It must be twice as bad for you.”

“I do feel helpless. I want to fix it, you know?” Brandon pushed his fingers through his hair then dropped his hand. He shrugged. “I’m sorry I wasted your time.”

“Maybe you haven’t. I’m serious about selling part of the land.” Penelope couldn’t meet his eyes as she recalled the letter she’d received earlier in the day. “Let’s just say I’m in sudden need of money.”

“But—” Brandon frowned.

“But what?”

“What about your sculpture? I thought all you had to do was weld three pieces of stainless steel together and, presto, you were fifty grand richer.”

She sighed. “They canceled the commission. I’ve already bought the materials, and if I returned them, I’d have to pay shipping and a hefty restocking fee. So I’m going to build it anyway. But I need money. You want the land. Why not make everybody happy?”

Brandon nodded, and she could see from his expression he was considering it. She clenched her fists in anticipation, slipped her index finger across her middle finger.

Please, please, please, buy this land.

But then his eyes lit on the fence again, and his expression hardened. “Okay. On two conditions. One, you have to sell it to me for fair market value before you ran up the price—that’s all the bank would lend me. And two, that not one dime of my money goes to Richard Murphy.”

“Are you out of your tree? You can’t tell me what I do with the money after you get the land, any more than I can tell you what to do with the land.”

“So I’m right, then? That’s why you need the money? For Murphy?”

“No, I need the money to survive on, to pay my bills. But if my grandfather needs help, you can bet I’ll share what I have. He’s old, Brandon, and frail and I don’t want him in prison.”

“Frail? Richard Murphy frail? He’s healthy as a horse—no, make that an ox. You make him sound like he’s on his last legs.” Brandon narrowed his eyes. “No. As bad as I want this land back in my family, I will not pay Richard Murphy, not a red cent. And I sure won’t add to his legal defense fund. He may be your grandfather, but he belongs in jail. And I’ll do everything I can to make sure he ends up there.”

With that, he stalked back toward the house and his truck, leaving Penelope speechless.

B RANDON HADN’T REALIZED how tight his fists were until his knuckles started aching. He stood by his truck and sucked in a purposeful breath. In. Out. In again. Slow exhale.

Better. The idea that he’d let one cent of his money go to Richard Murphy’s lawyers…

No. Calm down. Think.

The vinyl seat crackled under him as he slammed the door with one hand and punched in Ryan MacIntosh’s number on his cell phone with the other.

“Ryan? You got a few minutes? If you do, I’m on the way over.”

His best friend didn’t hesitate. “Come on. Mee-Maw’s got lunch on the table and Becca can put out another plate. We’ve got Sean Courtland here, too, so we can all hear what he has to say about the investigation.”

Brandon didn’t know what cheered him up more. Was it the idea of Ryan’s grandmother’s legendary meals? Or the possibility that in the course of the dinner, Sean, the FBI agent who’d been investigating Murphy, might have news? Ostensibly, Sean was there to gather more information from one of the government’s star witnesses, Ryan’s grandmother. Sean, though, didn’t mind giving the latest to Brandon. Sean would wink and chalk it up to interagency cooperation.

During the ten minutes or so it took him to drive over to the MacIntosh farm, Brandon managed to gain a more positive attitude. Murphy was going down, and soon. Maybe Sean was there to tell them that the federal indictment, which had already dragged on for a couple of months without materializing, was about to be handed down.

Besides, Brandon could never come to the MacIntosh farm without remembering how Ryan and Becca, Ryan’s new wife, had finally put Murphy in the government’s crosshairs. And if that wasn’t cause to celebrate, he didn’t know what was.

The smell of country-fried steak and gravy enveloped him as Mee-Maw opened the door for him. Her lined face was wreathed in smiles.

“Well, if it ain’t my favorite deputy! C’mon in, Brandon! We’ve got plenty. Wash up and go fix your plate.”

He heard the hubbub of conversation at the kitchen table as he scrubbed his hands in the bathroom sink.

If only I could wash away the memory of Penelope Langston defending her grandfather. It just went to show that you couldn’t judge a person by how she looked, no matter how pretty.

Penelope’s dark eyes, snapping with fire, came back to him. She was as easy to read as a mood ring: when she was mad, her eyes went almost black. Otherwise they were warm and brown, almost a melted caramel.

At the table, Brandon pulled out a ladder-back chair and settled in it.

Becca grinned. “Now this is better than any lunch in town, isn’t it?” she asked as she passed him a bowl of creamed potatoes. “I swear, Mee-Maw’s cooking was half the reason I married Ryan.”

Brandon chuckled. He knew better than that. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to see that Ryan was head over heels for Becca—and vice versa. He wondered if, when they had kids, the children would inherit Becca’s blond hair or Ryan’s red.

Sean Courtland lifted up a big fluffy biscuit and inspected it. “Ma’am, these are so good that I might have to report it as a gourmet gift. It’s lucky this is my day off and I’m not on duty.”

Mee-Maw beamed. “Aw, just a little something I threw together. Next time I’ll cook you some good fried chicken. Brandon, how’s your Uncle Jake doing?”

Brandon’s creamed potatoes suddenly looked a lot less appetizing. He pushed the food listlessly on his plate. “He’s okay, I guess. Same as always. Impatient to hear what the latest is on Murphy.”

Sean swallowed the bite of biscuit he’d just taken before answering. “U.S. attorney still wants more. You know these guys, they don’t indict anything less than a slam-dunk case. They don’t want to sully their conviction rate with a not-guilty verdict.”

“How much more do they need? I thought we’d given them enough for their slam-dunk conviction. If I can’t see Murphy go to jail for swindling Uncle Jake, I want to at least see the feds take him down for his crop insurance fraud.” Brandon set the gravy boat down harder than he should have, netting a scolding look from Mee-Maw. He double-checked to make sure no gravy had splashed on her tablecloth.