Chapter 2 - THE ENVELOPE ON THE TABLE
I stopped in the doorway.
Travis didn't stand.
He didn't even look embarrassed.
He simply rested both hands on the back of a kitchen chair and watched me.
The manila envelope sat between us.
“What is that?” I asked.
“Something you need to see.”
I didn't take off my coat.
After the reunion, I had spent two nights replaying the same moment.
Darcy's hand on my shoulder.
My back against Dad's fence post.
Mom telling me to apologize.
Travis telling me to stop ruining the reunion.
And then the photographs.
Every photograph except one had somehow included everyone but me.
I walked to the table.
“Who gave it to you?”
“Brock.”
That answer was enough to make me stop.
“Why?”
“He says this can end the dispute.”
I laughed once.
There was nothing funny about it.
“Brock thinks there's a dispute because I asked to read a document?”
Travis sighed.
“Cass, this has gotten bigger than it needed to be.”
“No. It got bigger when Darcy put her hands on me.”
His jaw tightened.
“You know what I mean.”
I looked at the envelope.
“Open it.”
“You open it.”
I pulled out the papers.
The first was a proposed irrigation-rights transfer.
The second was an appraisal.
The third was a map of Dad's 120 acres.
My eyes moved across the page.
A red line had been drawn through the northern irrigation easement.
Then I saw something that made my stomach tighten.
The proposed transfer wasn't going to Brock's farm.
It was going to Quinn Ag Holdings LLC.
I knew that name.
It belonged to Brock's brother.
I looked at Travis.
“This isn't Brock's property.”
“I know.”
“So why is he transferring Dad's irrigation rights to his brother?”
Travis rubbed his forehead.
“He says it's temporary.”
“Temporary rights don't usually come with a twenty-five-year assignment.”
He didn't answer.
I flipped the page.
The effective date was six weeks earlier.
Before the reunion.
Before Darcy announced anything.
Before she asked for my signature.
“Why does this say the transfer is already effective?”
Travis looked uncomfortable.
“I don't know.”
I read the next page.
A clause stated that if any remainder owner refused to sign within thirty days, the other parties could pursue an alternative assignment structure.
I stared at the sentence.
“There.”
“What?”
“This is what Norville meant.”
Travis frowned.
“They already planned for my refusal.”
“Yes.”
“So?”
“So you told me to sign without reading.”
He looked away.
I continued through the packet.
There was an appraisal from a private agricultural consultant.
Dad's land was valued at $1.9 million with unrestricted irrigation access.
Without the certified rights?
$1.34 million.
I stared at the difference.
More than half a million dollars.
Mom was being offered twenty-two thousand.
That wasn't a family decision.
It was a transfer of value from all of us to one person.
“Did you know about this?”
“No.”
“Did you know Darcy was getting $22,000?”
“I knew about the payment.”
My eyes snapped toward him.
“You knew?”
“Brock told me.”
“When?”
“Before the reunion.”
I put the papers down.
“Then why did you stand there while Darcy called me selfish?”
“Because I thought you were overreacting.”
I looked at my husband.
The man who had once waited outside my Air Force base with coffee during a winter storm.
The man who had attended Dad's funeral beside me.
The man who knew exactly how much that land meant to me.
“You didn't think I was overreacting.”
He swallowed.
“You thought I was difficult.”
He didn't deny it.
I picked up the final document.
It was a handwritten note.
Dad's handwriting.
My heart stopped.
Cassidy—if someone ever asks you to surrender water rights permanently, ask who benefits when the land is worth less.
I sat down.
“Where did you get this?”
Travis looked at the floor.
“Brock found it.”
“When?”
“After your father died.”
I stared at him.
“And nobody told me?”
“He said it wasn't relevant.”
Something inside me went cold.
Dad had anticipated this.
Maybe not Brock.
Maybe not Darcy.
But he knew exactly what could happen to the land.
I folded the note carefully.
Then I noticed a second page beneath it.
It was a photograph.
Dad stood beside the northern fence line.
Beside him was Norville.
And behind them stood a younger Brock.
On the back, Dad had written:
THE FIRST WARNING.
I looked at Travis.
“Why was Brock there?”
“I don't know.”
“Then we're going to find out.”
He stood.
“Cass—”
“No.”
I picked up the envelope.
“I'm done apologizing for asking questions.”
My phone buzzed.
A message from Norville.
Come to my office first thing tomorrow. Bring the original envelope. Do not give it to anyone.
Then another message arrived.
And Cassidy, don't tell your mother yet.
I stared at those words.
For the first time, I understood that even Norville was afraid of what was coming.
Then I turned the photograph over again.
There was another line beneath Dad's handwriting.
May you like
One I'd missed.
Brock knows where the original survey is.
