The reporter calls two days later.
I'm in the barn, feedin' the chickens—the rooster is still named Junior and he still hates me and I've accepted that this is a permanent condition of my life—when my phone rings. I look at the screen.
Mateo Vasquez — Dallas Morning News.
"Mateo," I say, answerin' with my free hand while Junior tries to peck my ankle. "What've you got?"
"I've got a story, Harlow. A big one."
"How big?"
"Front page big."
My heart kicks up.
"Tell me."
"Wade Prescott. I've been diggin' for three weeks. Found nine properties across four counties. Same pattern every time—target vulnerable owners, offer below market, harass when they say no. But here's the kicker."
"What?"
"I found the money trail. The shell companies. The inflated appraisals. The whole thing traces back to an investment group in Houston that's been fundin' Prescott's deals for a decade."
"An investment group."
"A big one. And one of the partners—get this—is a former county commissioner from Gillespie County. The same county where two of Prescott's properties are."
"A corrupt official."
"A corrupt official who's been helpin' Prescott get favorable zoning decisions and suppressin' complaints from property owners."
"That's fraud."
"That's fraud, conspiracy, and about six other things I'm gonna let the lawyers name. The story runs next Sunday. Front page. Above the fold."
I close my eyes.
"Mateo," I say. "Thank you."
"Thank you, Harlow. You gave me the story. You pointed me in the right direction. This is gonna make a difference."
"It better."
"It will. But Harlow?"
"Yeah?"
"Be careful. Men like Prescott don't go quietly. When this story runs, he's gonna be lookin' for someone to blame. And you're gonna be at the top of his list."
"I know."
"Do you have security out there?"
"I have a sheriff who thinks locks are a personality trait and a town where three women notice every unfamiliar license plate."
"That was not a yes."
"No. It was regional context."
Mateo gives me the direct number for the Morning News attorney and makes me promise to save every message.
After we hang up, I call Sheriff Dale Monroe.
He arrives in a county SUV with a sun-faded light bar and the expression of a man interrupted during lunch.
"You got a threat?" he asks.
"Not yet. I have a reporter who says a powerful man is about to become publicly unhappy with me."
"That ain't illegal."
"I know. I want a record before it becomes illegal."
He studies me, then nods once. "Smart."
We walk the property. He checks the gate, barn doors, house locks, and the camera Callum installed near the drive without tellin' me until after he had already done it.
I save that argument for later.
"Don't make your routine easy," the sheriff says. "Tell somebody when you leave. Keep lights on. If Wade comes here, don't meet him alone."
"I met him alone twice."
"Then stop improvin' your average."
By the time he leaves, I feel less safe and more prepared.
Those are not the same thing, but prepared is useful.
I hang up.
I stand in the barn, phone in hand, heart poundin'.
The story runs next Sunday.
One week.
In one week, Wade Prescott's world is gonna come crashin' down. And when it does, he's gonna come after me. I know this because I know men like Wade. I've worked with 'em. I've been fired by 'em. I've seen what happens when you threaten a man who's used to gettin' his way.
He fights.
And when he fights, he fights dirty.
I go inside and call Callum.
"The story runs next Sunday," I say.
"Good."
"Mateo says Prescott is gonna come after me."
"I know."
"So what do we do?"
"We prepare."
"How?"
"I'll be there tomorrow. We'll talk about it."
"Callum—"
"I'll be there tomorrow, Harlow."
He hangs up.
Callum arrives at six the next morning with two motion lights, three window alarms, and a written list.
"You made an emergency plan?"
"Sheriff made one. I improved it."
The list includes phone numbers, gate procedures, where to meet if we have to leave the property, and a rule that says HARLOW DOES NOT CONFRONT ANYONE ALONE.
I tap that line.
"This sounds less like a plan and more like editorial commentary."
"It is bold because it is important."
"You installed a camera without asking me."
"I did."
"We had a whole conversation about not makin' decisions for me."
He sets the alarm package down.
"You're right. I should've asked."
The apology arrives without defense, which leaves me with nowhere useful to put the speech I prepared.
"I would have said yes," I tell him.
"I know. That made askin' feel unnecessary. It wasn't."
"Good answer."
"Can I install the lights?"
"Yes. Can I change the emergency-plan language?"
"No."
We compromise by adding CALLUM DOES NOT TURN CONCERN INTO A HOSTILE TAKEOVER beneath it.
Then we walk the property together and decide where each light goes.
Prepared, I learn, can be a form of intimacy when both people get a vote.
That evening, the new motion light comes on because Earlene drives through the gate without callin'.
She gets out carryin' a pie and a baseball bat.
"Why do you have a bat?" I ask.
"Security."
"You are sixty-seven."
"And Wade Prescott is soft around the knees."
Callum takes the bat before she can demonstrate.
Earlene leaves the pie, inspects every alarm, and writes her number at the top of the emergency list in red ink.
"First call the sheriff," she says. "Then call me. Sheriff has rules."
After she leaves, Callum and I eat pie on the porch beneath a light bright enough to interrogate cattle.
"You scared?" he asks.
"Yes."
He nods, as if fear is information instead of failure.
"Me too."
"Good. I would hate to be the only sensible person in this relationship."
He reaches for my hand.
The gate stays empty.
The alarms stay quiet.
For one night, preparation is enough.
I sit at the kitchen table and look at the box of letters. My grandfather's letters. Elise's letters. The adoption certificate that changed everythin' I thought I knew about my family.
I open my grandfather's last letter again.
Stay. And you'll find what you're lookin' for.
"I'm stayin', Grandaddy," I whisper. "But I'm scared."
The house is quiet. The windmill turns outside. Ranger puts his head on my knee.
And somewhere—in Houston, in a glass office tower, in a world that's nothing like Copper Creek—a man named Wade Prescott is makin' plans.
I can feel it.
The way you feel a storm comin'.
Heavy.
Dark.
Close.
I close the letter. Put it back in the box. Stand up.
"Alright," I say to Ranger. "Alright."
He wags his tail.
I go to the porch. Sit in the swing. Look at the land.
My land.
The land I'm gonna fight for.
The land I'm gonna protect.
No matter what it costs.