The truth is, he saved me too.
A man who is trusted by no one eventually becomes the kind of man nobody can trust.
Giving Clay that first job reminded me that mercy is not weakness.
If he is still beside you when this letter reaches your hands, believe him.
Your father,
Jacob
Tessa folded the letter.
Footsteps approached through the grass.
Clay stopped beside the creek.
Neither spoke for a while.
Finally Tessa asked:
“Where is the trust deed?”
Clay sat on a flat stone.
“Denver.”
“With whom?”
“A law firm.”
“You’ve known the entire time?”
“No.”
She looked at him.
“Your father gave me a sealed envelope containing the law firm’s name.
I opened it after the foreclosure notice was posted.”
“So you knew the bank couldn’t legally take the ranch.”
“I knew your father believed that.”
“Why not simply produce the deed?”
“Because Wren asked me not to.”
Tessa’s anger returned.
“You all seem very fond of asking me to suffer for the sake of evidence.”
Clay accepted that without protest.
Then he said:
“If we had produced the trust immediately, your ranch would have been safe.”
“That sounds preferable.”
“And four other families would still believe they legally lost theirs.”
Tessa fell silent.
Clay looked across the water.
“Puit would have burned his records and disappeared.
Sturgis would have vanished.
We needed them confident enough to finish what they’d started.”
“You used my ranch as bait.”
“Yes.”
“You used me.”
Clay looked at her.
“Yes.”
The answer hurt more because he did not hide from it.
Tessa stared at the creek.
“I hate that.”
“You should.”
“I may hate you.”
“That would be inconvenient.”
She almost smiled.
Almost.
“What happens Monday?”
“The state files criminal charges.
The bank books are seized.
Every foreclosure Sturgis touched will be reopened.”
“And Morgan Creek?”
Clay’s expression became strange.
“That brings us to one last problem.”
She closed her eyes.
“Of course it does.”
Clay stood.
“At the auction yesterday, I entered a legal bid.”
“Yes.”
“If the foreclosure itself is void, the sale is void.”
“So you get your money back.”
“Eventually.”
“And I keep the ranch.”
“Yes.”
Tessa looked at him.
“Then what’s the problem?”
Clay did not answer.
Instead, he withdrew another folded paper from his pocket.
Tessa groaned.
“If that is another secret document, I may shoot you.”
“Reasonable.”
She took it.
It was her financing commitment.
The twenty-two-thousand-dollar commitment she had carried into the auction.
She recognized every word.
But this copy had additional pages attached.
“What is this?”
“Read the lender’s name.”
She looked.
FRONTIER STOCKMEN’S CREDIT ASSOCIATION.
“I know the name.”
“Do you know who owns it?”
“No.”
Clay looked suddenly uncomfortable.
Tessa stared at him.
Then understood.
“You?”
“Partly.”
“How much is partly?”
“Enough.”
Her mouth fell open.
“You approved my loan?”
“Our board approved it.”
“You knew my auction limit.”
“Yes.”
“That’s how you knew when to start bidding.”
“Yes.”
Tessa stepped toward him.
“You infuriating, dishonest—”
“Careful.
I’ve been called worse by professionals.”
“You stood behind me while I bid twenty-two thousand five hundred dollars knowing you controlled the institution lending me the money?”
“I don’t control it.”
“Clay.”
“I influence it considerably.”
She slapped the papers against his chest.
“Why?”
His expression softened.
“Because small ranchers were tired of banks like Puit’s deciding whether they survived.”
“You created a lending association?”
“Me and eighteen cattlemen.”
