The rain hit the leaded glass windows of the study, smelling of damp earth and old cedar.

Graham pushed the manila folder across the mahogany desk.

His fingernails were perfectly manicured, contrasting with the dirt-caked boots he wore.

“Sign the quitclaim, sis,” Graham said, his voice flat. “Before we have to make this difficult.”

“Blackthorn Ridge belongs to me,” I said. “Grandmother Eleanor made her wishes clear.”

Graham laughed, a dry, grating sound that barely carried over the storm.

“Your Richmond buyers backed out this morning,” he said, leaning back. “They realized a lawsuit over access rights wasn’t worth their time.”

My hands tightened around my coffee mug.

“You threatened them,” I said.

“I merely informed them of the realities of this county,” Graham replied, adjusting his collar.

He stood up, leaving the documents on the desk, and walked out of the room.

I left the house an hour later to meet Harper Sloane at the lower pasture.

The gravel crunching under my boots was the only sound besides the wind.

Harper stood beside a sleek black SUV, her raincoat zipped to her chin.

Beside her was Marisol Keene, a developer whose reputation for ruthless acquisitions preceded her.

Marisol wore expensive leather riding boots and looked at the rolling hills of the forty-eight-acre estate with calculating eyes.

“It is a beautiful piece of land,” Marisol said, her voice smooth and quiet.

“It has been in my family for three generations,” I said, shaking her gloved hand.

“And your brother?” Marisol asked, tilting her head. “I hear he has other plans for the valley.”

“My brother does not own the ridge,” I said.

Harper stepped forward, gesturing toward the eastern boundary.

“The soil tests are clean, and the water rights are secured, Marisol,” Harper said.

Marisol walked toward the old stone wall, her fingers tracing the wet granite.

“There is potential here that goes beyond agriculture,” Marisol said, almost to herself.

She turned back to me, her eyes narrowing slightly.

“I will make an offer, but I need to know your title is secure,” Marisol said. “I don’t buy into family feuds.”

“The title is clear,” I told her, though my chest tightened.