The trial is set for September.
But before the trial, somethin' happens that changes everythin'.
It's a Friday afternoon. I'm in the barn, organizin' tools—somethin' I do now, apparently; I organize tools; I'm a rancher; my past self would be horrified—when my phone buzzes.
A text from an unknown number.
UNKNOWN: Miss James. You don't know me. My name is Thomas Brennan Jr. I'm Callum's brother.
I stare at the phone.
Callum's brother.
Callum has a brother.
Callum never mentioned a brother.
I read the rest of the message.
I've been followin' the story about Wade Prescott. I have information that might help your case. Can we meet?
I set the phone down.
I pick it up again.
Set it down.
Pick it up.
There should be a formal procedure for discovering the man you love has an entire sibling he filed under none of your business.
I call Darla first.
"Does Callum have a brother?"
There is one beat of silence.
"Well," she says, "good morning to you too."
"Darla."
"Yes. Tommy. Younger. Smart as a whip and twice as likely to cut himself with it."
"Why did nobody mention him?"
"Because Callum doesn't. In Copper Creek, silence is sometimes treated like a property line. Folks know where it is and avoid steppin' over it."
"That is a terrible system."
"I didn't say it was healthy. I said it was local."
She tells me Tommy left six years ago after sellin' the last Brennan parcel. He moved west, built software, and sent Christmas cards to people who did not show Callum.
"Is he dangerous?" I ask.
"No. Hurt people ain't automatically dangerous, Harlow. Sometimes they're just hurt in opposite directions."
I hate when Darla turns diner wisdom into a direct hit.
"I'm meetin' him at Magnolia's."
"Then I'll put you in the back booth and clean the same counter for the entire conversation."
"That is eavesdroppin'."
"That is table maintenance."
Only then do I call Callum.
Callum has a brother.
A brother he never told me about.
A brother who's apparently been followin' the Prescott story from wherever he is and wants to help.
I pick up the phone and call Callum.
"Callum," I say. "Who is Thomas Brennan Jr.?"
The silence on the other end of the line is the loudest thing I've ever heard.
Louder than the truck engine that woke me up the first mornin'. Louder than the rooster at 5:47. Louder than Wade Prescott's threats or the Dallas Morning News story or the fundraiser crowd.
"Where did you hear that name?" Callum asks, and his voice is flat. Closed. The door-shut, wall-up voice that I haven't heard in weeks.
"He texted me. Says he's your brother."
A long pause.
"Callum."
"I have a brother," he says. "Younger. By four years."
"You never told me."
"I know."
"We said no more secrets."
"I know."
"Callum—"
"It's complicated."
"Everythin' about us is complicated. That's not a reason to hide things."
Another pause. Longer this time. I can hear him breathin'—slow, deliberate, the breaths of a man who's tryin' to keep himself under control.
"Tommy and I don't talk," he says. "Haven't talked in six years. Not since—"
He stops.
"Not since what?"
"Not since he did somethin' I couldn't forgive."
"What did he do?"
"He sold our daddy's land. The piece that was left after Earl bought the eastern half. Tommy sold it to a developer from San Antonio. Took the money and left."
"He sold your family's land."
"Took the money and moved to California. Started a business. Forgot where he came from." His voice is bitter. The kind of bitter that comes from wounds that never healed. "I haven't spoken to him since."
"And now he wants to help."
"He wants somethin'. I don't know what. But men like Tommy don't help for free."
"You don't know that."
"I know my brother."
"You knew him six years ago. People change."
"Not people like Tommy."
I close my eyes.
"Callum, I'm gonna meet with him."
"Harlow—"
"Not because I don't trust your judgment. But because if he has information that can help us fight Wade Prescott, I need to hear it."
"He could be workin' with Prescott."
"Why would he?"
"To get close to you. To get the ranch."
"You don't know that."
"And you don't know that he's not."
I take a breath. "I'll be careful. I'll meet him in public. I'll bring someone with me."
"Bring me."
"If I bring you, you'll scare him off before he says anythin'."
"I want to be there."
"I know. And I love you for that. But this is something I need to do."
The silence stretches.
"Fine," he says finally. "Meet him. But call me the second you're done. And if he says or does anythin'—"
"I'll call."
"And Harlow?"
"Yeah?"
"Be careful."
"I will."
I hang up.
Callum arrives before sunset.
He does not call first. His truck stops hard near the porch, and he crosses the yard with the contained speed of a man afraid anger will arrive before language.
"Show me the message."
I hand him the phone.
He reads it once. Again. Then checks the number as though six years might be hidden in the area code.
"It's him," he says.
"You have his number memorized?"
"Some numbers stay even when you delete 'em."
We sit at the kitchen table.
Not across from each other. Beside each other, both facing the phone.
"Tell me what happened without turnin' him into a villain first," I say.
Callum's head turns. "You think I'm lying?"
"No. I think pain edits. Mine does. Yours does too."
He pushes back from the table, then stops himself from leaving.
That matters.
"After Daddy died, the west parcel had debt on it," he says. "I wanted time. Tommy wanted to sell. He signed with a developer before I agreed."
"Could he legally do that?"
"His name was on half."
"Did he take your half of the money?"
"He sent a bank envelope. I never opened it."
I stare at him.
"Callum."
"I didn't want his money."
"You don't know what was in the envelope."
"I know he left."
There it is. The actual wound beneath the deed.
"Then tomorrow may not be about land."
"It is to me."
"No. The land is the part you can measure."
His palm presses flat to the table.
"You always do this."
"Do what?"
"Find the sentence under the sentence."
"Occupational damage."
He does not smile.
After a moment, he says, "I don't want him near you."
"Because he is dangerous?"
"Because I don't know who he is anymore."
"Then let me meet who he is now."
Callum looks toward Earl's desk, the cedar box, all the proof of what families lose when men confuse silence with protection.
"Darla stays in the room," he says.
"Darla was gonna clean the same counter for three hours whether we asked or not."
"And you call me after."
"I will."
"Even if he tells you somethin' about me you don't like."
"Especially then."
The last of his resistance leaves in one slow breath.
"Alright."
He touches the back of my neck before he goes. Not a kiss. Not a claim. A quiet request to come back from the conversation still trustin' him.
I turn my face into his palm.
"No more unopened envelopes," I say.
His thumb moves once beneath my ear.
"No more unopened envelopes."
I look at the text again.
Thomas Brennan Jr.
Callum's brother.
A man with information.
A man with a history.
I text back.
ME: Where and when?
TOMMY: Magnolia's Diner. Tomorrow. Noon.
ME: I'll be there.
I put the phone in my pocket.
I walk to the porch. Sit in the swing. Look at the land.
The sun is settin'. The sky is on fire—orange and pink and gold, streaked across the horizon like someone took a brush and painted with abandon. The cattle are beddin' down in the pasture. The old blades move above the pasture.
Ranger puts his head on my knee.
"Well," I say to him. "This just got more complicated."
He licks my hand.
The screen door bangs shut in the breeze.
It sounds like a question mark.