Page 8 of Tessa and Nash

“That’s why we need to go through the archives,” he says. “Everything. Deeds, surveys, correspondence. Anything tied to McCoy Ranch. If they’re trying to expand⁠—”

“You want me to find proof of something you haven’t confirmed exists,” I say.

“Yes.”

I sip my coffee. “That tracks.”

He glares. I meet it calmly. We’ve done this dance before. He pushes. I don’t budge. He fumes. I organize.

“Tessa,” he says, trying to sound more reasonable. “This is important.”

I look at my grandmother. She gives me a small nod. Not permission exactly. More like trust.

“Like I said, I’ll do what I can.”

Thomas exhales deeply. “Good. We’ll start in my office.”

Thomas grabs his sweater from the back of the chair, movements sharp and decisive now that he’s got what he wants. He doesn’t look at either of us as he heads for the door.

“Don’t take too long—every hour matters,” he says before he leaves.

The door shuts behind him with a firm click.

I let my shoulders drop, tension sliding out of me like air from a valve. I hadn’t even realized how tight I’d been holding myself until the silence settles back in.

Grandma hums softly, a familiar tune I’ve heard all my life, and turns back to the kettle.

“You didn’t have to agree so quickly,” she says gently.

I watch the steam curl up between us. “Yes, I did. You know how he gets.”

She smiles, small and knowing. “I do. I raised him.”

I snort. “That explains a lot.”

She laughs under her breath and slides a plate toward me with a piece of buttered toast already waiting. I didn’t see her make it, but there it is anyway. She always feeds people before they can talk themselves out of it.

“Your mother could always deal with him.”

I smile even though my heart sinks. I don’t remember my father; he was long gone before I could recall anything, but losing Mom at twelve was brutal.

Thank goodness Grandma took me in.

I pick at the edge of the toast, the butter already melting into the crumb.

“She could,” I say quietly. “She never raised her voice. She’d just wait him out.”

Grandma’s lips curve. “Drove him mad. He never knew what to do with patience.”

“She knew when to push,” I add. “And when to walk away.”

“Yes.” Grandma’s gaze drifts to the window, to the pale wash of morning settling over the yard. “Your mother had a way of seeing people clearly. Including herself.”

I swallow. “I wish I remembered her better.”

Her eyes come back to me at once. “You remember exactly what matters.”

I shake my head. “I remember the end. The hospitals. The smell of disinfectant. Everyone whispering, as if being quiet enough might keep her from dying.”