Chapter 3: The Visitor
The next morning, the West Texas sun rose hot and unforgiving, baking the dry dirt outside my window. I got up before dawn, determined to keep my head down and do the job I was hired for.
By seven, the kitchen smelled of fresh coffee and warm biscuits. The twins were awake, sitting in their high chairs and happily smearing jam on their faces. Even Ben seemed a little brighter, though he kept his distance, watching me from the kitchen table with wide, cautious eyes.
Daniel entered the kitchen just as I was pouring the coffee. He looked like he hadn't slept at all. Dark circles bruised the skin under his eyes, and his jaw was set in a tight, defensive line.
"Morning," I said, placing a plate of food in front of him.
He mumbled something incoherent, took a cup of coffee, and immediately headed out the back door toward the barns. He didn’t look at me once.
"He doesn't eat breakfast anymore," Miss Evelyn said, limping into the kitchen a few minutes later. She sighed, looking at the untouched plate. "Ever since Claire passed, he just works until he drops."
"Miss Evelyn," I said, keeping my voice low so Ben wouldn't hear. "What really happened to Claire?"
The old cook paused, her hands hovering over the sink. She looked around the kitchen before leaning in close. "They say the horse threw her near the ravine. But Claire was a champion rider, Rosa. Raised on a ranch herself. She knew those trails better than anyone. And the sheriff... well, he closed the case mighty fast."
Before I could ask more, the sound of a heavy engine rumbled down the long dirt driveway.
I walked to the window and pulled back the curtain. A sleek, late-model black SUV was pulling up to the main house, kicking up a thick cloud of dust. It was completely out of place among the battered pickup trucks and rusty tractors of the Mercer ranch.
A man in a sharp grey suit got out, adjusting his sunglasses as he surveyed the property with an air of quiet ownership.
"Oh, no," Miss Evelyn muttered behind me, her voice trembling. "Not him again."
"Who is he?" I asked.
"Thomas Vance," she whispered. "The man who wants this land. And the man Claire was arguing with the night before she died."
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Just then, Daniel came marching out of the barn, his boots kicking up dust, his posture rigid with anger. Through the glass, I saw Thomas Vance smile—a cold, polite smile—and hold up a piece of paper, gesturing toward the house.
I looked down at Ben, who had crawled under the table, his arms wrapped around his knees, staring out at the driveway with absolute terror.
