Dad’s handwriting wavered toward the end, but his message was clear. He didn’t want Megan touching this land. He wanted me to do something with it.
I sat back sipping coffee, staring at the stack of deeds and surveys. Granite, feldspar, and even notes about lithium deposits. That was no small deal in today’s market. Dad hadn’t just left me property, he’d left me leverage Megan would kill for.
A knock on the door broke my focus. I stood and opened it cautiously. Jack Reynolds was back, holding a tool belt this time.
“Morning, Captain,” he said. “Figured you’d need some basics if you’re staying a while. Hammer, nails, flashlight. Nothing fancy, but it’ll keep the place standing.”
“Thanks,” I said, stepping aside. “Come on in.”
Jack placed the belt on the counter and gave the cabin a quick scan. The way vets do when they walk into a new space, checking exits, windows, angles. Habit dies hard.
“Your dad told me not to spill too much,” he said, lowering himself into a chair. “But he wanted you to know this land’s not just a cabin by the lake. He said it could change your future if you handle it right.”
I nodded.
“I found the box and the survey.”
Jack gave a slow grin.
“Good. Then you already know. Most people out here think this land’s just pretty scenery. But your Grandma Rose, hell, she was smarter than the geologists I worked with overseas. She knew exactly what was under our boots.”
“You knew Rose?” I asked, surprised.
He chuckled.
“Not personally. She died before I moved here. But everyone in these parts knows the stories. Tough as nails. The kind of woman who could argue a county commissioner under the table and still bake a pie before sundown. She passed that toughness to your dad. And now, I guess, to you.”
I leaned forward.
“Jack, tell me straight. If Megan finds out about what’s under this land, how bad could this get?”
He didn’t hesitate.
“Bad. Families tear themselves apart over less. Developers will swarm like vultures if they sniff money here. You’ll need a good lawyer and thicker skin than you already have.”
I almost laughed.
“Thicker than the army gave me?”
“Blood cuts deeper than bullets,” he said simply.
That stuck with me.
After he left, I spent hours going through more papers, maps with handwritten notes, old photos of Rose with survey equipment, even a contract draft between Dad and the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers. He must have been preparing something before he died.
