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Cash dropped onto the bench across from us and reached for the wounded meringue. "Fine. We can sell the place to Ashford and you can spend the rest of your lives wondering whether I would've made us rich."

The air changed.

Not much.

Enough.

That morning I had seen an envelope on the main-house hall table.

Heavy white paper. Machine-stamped address. ASHFORD DEVELOPMENT printed in the return corner.

Unopened.

I had been putting my clinic bag beside the door. Wyatt had come through from the kitchen, seen where I was looking, and turned the envelope facedown.

"We'll deal with it after the branding," he had said.

Not hide it.

Not don't worry.

After.

That was progress too, though the envelope had sat inside my thoughts all morning.

Now Cash took another bite of pie.

Too casual.

"Opened mine," he said.

Wyatt's pencil stopped.

Boone's hand stayed on the syringe-case latch.

"Yours?" I asked.

Cash looked at me.

A small pause.

"They sent one to each of us."

Separately.

Nobody said the word.

I heard it anyway.

Separate letters. Separate offers. Separate pressure applied to three brothers who had spent months learning not to carry fear alone.

"How much?" I asked.

Boone's knee pressed harder into mine.

Cash named the number.

Once.