By Saturday mornin', the lawsuit has its own file box on Mr. Caldwell's conference table.
Mr. Caldwell calls me on a Saturday mornin' with the news. His voice is calm—lawyer calm, the kind of calm that comes from decades of deliverin' bad news without flinchin'.
"It's a nuisance suit," he says. "Designed to drain your resources and intimidate you into settling. He's asking for five million dollars in damages."
"Five million dollars."
"That's what the filing says."
"I don't have five million dollars."
"He knows that. That's the point. He wants you to feel like you can't fight. So you give up. Sell the ranch. And walk away."
"That's not gonna happen."
"I didn't think so. But I want you to understand what you're up against. Wade Prescott has deep pockets and expensive lawyers. This case could drag on for months. Maybe years."
"I've got ninety days."
"The lawsuit doesn't stop the clock on the will. You've still got your ninety-day requirement. But the lawsuit is a separate matter. It'll continue whether you're here or not."
"Then I'll fight it from here."
"Harlow." He uses my first name for the first time. "This is going to be expensive. Legal fees. Court costs. Depositions. I can represent you at a reduced rate—Earl was my friend and I owe him that much—but it's still going to cost."
"How much?"
"Conservatively? Fifty thousand. Possibly more."
Fifty thousand dollars.
I close my eyes.
My severance check from Brandt & Associates was fifteen thousand. I've got savings—about thirty thousand—from eight years of workin' and bein' careful with money. But fifty thousand dollars for a lawsuit I didn't start, against a man with more money than God and less scruples than a raccoon?
"I'll figure it out," I say.
"Harlow—"
"I said I'll figure it out, Mr. Caldwell. I always do."
I hang up and sit at the kitchen table with my head in my hands.
Fifty thousand dollars.
Where am I gonna get fifty thousand dollars?
Ranger puts his head on my knee. Scout sits by the door, watchin' me with those eyes that are less skeptical now and more... concerned. Like he can tell that somethin's wrong and he's tryin' to decide whether to be worried or just sit with me.
"I don't know how we're gonna do this," I tell them. "I don't know how we're gonna fight a man with millions when we've got—"
I stop.
We.
I said "we."
Not "I."
"We."
Because it ain't just me anymore. It's Callum. And Darla. And Earlene. And Mabel. And the whole town that stood up at that meeting and said no more.
I pick up the phone and call Darla.
"Darla," I say. "I need help."
"Name it, baby."
"I need to raise money. For the lawsuit. Wade Prescott is suin' me for five million and I need fifty thousand just to fight it."
A pause. Then: "I'll be at your place in an hour. Don't move."
She hangs up.
I sit at the table and wait.
An hour later, Darla's truck pulls up. She gets out wearin' an apron that says "I DIDN'T CHOOSE THE CASSEROLE LIFE, THE CASSEROLE LIFE CHOSE ME" and carryin' a box.
"What's that?" I ask.
"Supplies." She sets the box on the kitchen table. Inside are flyers, markers, a laptop, and what appears to be an entire case of sweet tea in mason jars. "We're gonna have a fundraiser."
"A fundraiser."
"A big one. Barbecue, live music, auction, the works. We'll do it at the community center. Charge fifty dollars a plate. Get every business in town to donate. Make it an event."
"Darla, that's—"
"That's what we do, baby. When one of us is in trouble, all of us show up. That's the deal. That's the community."
I stare at her.
"I can't ask people to pay for my lawsuit."
"You ain't askin'. I'm askin'. And trust me, honey—everybody in this town has been waitin' for a chance to fight Wade Prescott. You just gave 'em the excuse."
The fundraiser comes together in four days.
Four days.
That's all it takes.
Darla organizes the food—barbecue donated by every rancher in the county, sides from Magnolia's, desserts from the church ladies, and a pecan pie from me that I'm now confident enough to call "good" without feelin' like I'm lyin'.
Earlelene handles the publicity—which means she tells everyone who walks into Hank's Gas & Go, which means she tells the entire town by noon on day one.
Mabel Crutcher organizes the auction. She calls every business in a fifty-mile radius and convinces them to donate items. A weekend at a bed-and-breakfast in Fredericksburg. A custom saddle from the leather shop in Johnson City. A year's worth of feed from the Copper Creek Feed Store. A hand-painted portrait from an artist in Wimberley.
Earl Junior handles logistics—tables, chairs, sound system, a stage for the band. He enlists his entire extended family, which appears to consist of about thirty people, all named Earl or some variation thereof.
Bob Henderson donates a whole steer for the barbecue.
Reverend Mike offers the church parking lot for overflow.
Ruth Patterson—my grandfather's casserole-bearin' church lady friend—organizes a silent auction table that includes, among other things, a quilt she's been workin' on for three years and a set of hand-carved wooden ducks that she says "bring peace to any home."
And Callum—
Callum does what Callum does.
He shows up. Every day. With tools and lumber and his truck and his hands and his quiet, steady presence that says more than words ever could.
He builds the stage for the band.
He sets up the tables.
He hauls the barbecue pit from Bob Henderson's ranch to the community center on a trailer that he borrowed from Dale at the hardware store.
He does all of this without bein' asked. Without expectin' anythin' in return. Without even seemin' to notice that he's doin' it—he just does it the way you breathe, the way your heart beats, the way the windmill turns.
I watch him lift tables Wednesday afternoon and think: This is the man my grandfather trusted. The man who kept his secrets and showed up for ten years when an old man needed him.
And now he's showin' up for me.
"Stop starin'," Darla whispers, elbowin' me in the ribs.
"I'm not starin'."
"Baby, you are starin' so hard I'm surprised his shirt ain't on fire."
"I'm assessin' the structural integrity of the tables."
"Uh-huh. And I'm the Queen of England."
"The Queen of England is dead."
"Exactly. And yet I'm still more alive than your excuse for starin' at that man."
I elbow her back.
She laughs.
And somewhere deep in my chest—under the worry about the lawsuit and the fear about Wade Prescott and the weight of the adoption certificate and the grief for my grandfather and my mother and the family I never knew I had—somewhere under all of that, there's a warmth that feels like gratitude.
Not the polite kind.
The deep kind.
The kind that fills you up and makes you realize that you are not, and have never been, alone.