Inheritance

The letter arrives on a Tuesday.

I'm between depositions, inhaling a salad at my desk, when my assistant drops a cream-colored envelope on my keyboard.

"Came certified," she says. "From Texas."

Texas.

I haven't thought about Texas in fifteen years. Not since my mother dragged me to New York and told me we were never going back.

The envelope smells like dust and old paper. The return address is a law firm in some town I've never heard of.

I open it.

---

*Dear Ms. Parker,*

*We regret to inform you of the passing of your grandmother, Evelyn Ruth Parker, on March 3rd of this year...*

I stop reading.

Grandmother.

I barely remember her. A woman with callused hands and a hard mouth who cried when we drove away.

I was fifteen. I didn't look back.

---

The will is simple.

Two thousand acres. Four hundred head of cattle. The house, the equipment, everything.

And $200,000 in debt.

"There's a condition," the lawyer says over the phone. "You have to live on the property for six months. If you don't, or if you leave before the time is up, everything goes to auction."

"Six months."

"Starting from when you take residence."

"And if I stay?"

"Then the ranch is yours. Free and clear." He pauses. "Well. The debt is yours too."

---

I tell my firm I need a leave of absence.

They're not happy. I'm three years from partnership. This isn't how it's done.

"Family emergency," I say.

"You don't have family," my boss points out.

He's right. My mother died two years ago. Cancer. Quick and brutal.

Now I have a grandmother who's dead and a ranch I don't want.

But $200,000 in debt attached to property I'll inherit means creditors calling forever. Means complications. Means my name on things I can't control.

I have to at least see it.

Figure out what to do.

---

The drive from the airport takes three hours.

Three hours of flat roads and endless sky and a creeping feeling that I've made a terrible mistake.

The ranch appears like a mirage. Faded sign, gravel drive, a house that looks like it hasn't been painted since my mother was born.

I step out of the rental car.

My heels sink into mud.

"Welcome to the Rocking H," says a voice.

A woman stands on the porch. Silver hair, weathered face, arms crossed.

"I'm Rosa. Your grandmother's housekeeper." She looks me up and down. "You'll want to change those shoes."

---

From the fence line, I feel eyes.

A man on horseback, watching from the neighboring property. Too far away to see clearly.

But I can feel his judgment from here.

"Who's that?" I ask Rosa.

"Cade Brennan. Owns the land next door." She pauses. "He's been trying to buy this place for ten years."

"Why?"

"Water rights. His property's landlocked. He needs access."

I watch the figure for another moment.

He doesn't wave.

Neither do I.

---

That night, I sit in my grandmother's kitchen.

Everything smells like her. Like dust and leather and something floral I can't name.

Six months.

I can survive six months.

Can't I?