Page 80 of Tessa and Nash

The word doesn’t leave my mouth, but it burns there.

“Why didn’t anyone tell me?” I ask, and the edge in my voice surprises even me.

Mom’s gaze hardens. “Because it wasn’t your burden. And because digging at old wounds tends to make them bleed.”

“Well,” I snap, “they’re bleeding now.”

Rusty grunts in agreement.

Mom holds my stare for a long beat.

Then she stands, moves to the cabinet, and pulls out an old binder. Not the neat ones Dallas keeps. This one is battered. She sets it down with a thud.

“McCoy land records,” she says. “Everything we have filed. Everything your father kept. Everything that was ever… questionable.”

My throat tightens. “Questionable?”

Mom’s eyes sharpen. “Nash, if you’re going to build, you need to know what you’re standing on.”

I flip the binder open, hands suddenly trembling.

Maps. Deeds. Survey lines. Old photocopies with dates that make my brain ache.

I scan for the east parcel.

For the creek line.

For anything that says Long.

It takes me five minutes to find it.

A reference in the margin.

A note in my father’s handwriting.

Not much. Just a name.

Long Extension Property — check access rights before development.

My skin goes cold.

I stare at the words until they blur.

Dad knew.

I swallow hard. “Why would the Longs have land tied to our boundary? We’ve run cattle there for decades.”

Mom’s face is tight. “Because decades don’t erase history.”

My mind flashes back to Founders’ Day. Virgil’s voice. Dottie’s story about pride and hunger and choices you don’t talk about later.

I rub a hand over my face.

“Did Tessa know about this?” I ask again, and the way her name leaves my mouth is a fault line.

Mom watches me closely. “I don’t know what Tessa knows.”

That’s not an answer.