Page 79 of Tessa and Nash

Faith pauses, then adds, softer, “And Nash… don’t spiral.”

I look at her. “I don’t spiral.”

She squeezes my arm once. “Go. I’ll start pulling public record references I can access. Text me if you find anything.”

I nod.

Then I get in my truck and drive back to the ranch with my hands tight on the wheel and my mind running faster than the tires on the road.

Long property.

Creek line.

Old Mill Road extension.

Handshakes.

Virgil’s warning presses against my ribs.

Ask questions before you build things that wake old fights.

Home is warm when I step inside, the scent of coffee and lemon cleaner mixing with something hearty simmering on the stove. Rusty lifts his head from his bed, looks at me, and immediately decides I’m not okay.

He stands, stretches, and follows me, a furry parole officer.

Mom is at the kitchen table with a stack of papers spread out, waging war against bureaucracy. She looks up when I enter, eyes sharp.

“You’re home early,” she says.

I drop into the chair across from her. “Meeting didn’t go like I thought.”

Mom sets her pen down. “That’s usually how meetings go.”

“Mayor Caldwell was receptive,” I say, then the bitterness catches in my throat. “Until she wasn’t.”

Mom’s gaze narrows. “What happened?”

I take a breath. “She said there’s a Long family property tied to the land I want to build on.”

Silence hits the kitchen.

Her face doesn’t change much. Maggie McCoy doesn’t do dramatic, but emotion tightens around her mouth.

“Long property,” she repeats.

I nod. “Did you know about it?”

Mom looks down at the papers in front of her as if they might offer an escape route.

Then she looks back up and says, very quietly, “I knew there were stories.”

My stomach drops.

“Stories?” I echo.

Mom exhales. “Your father used to say the land wasn’t as clean as the deeds made it look. That there were… old agreements.”

Handshakes.