That night, I pulled the metal box out again, laying the documents across the table. Mineral surveys, legal deeds, contracts waiting to be finalized. Megan could play dirty, but this was proof. Hard evidence. If she wanted a fight,she was about to get one, and I wasn’t walking away.
The wind picked up outside, rattling the shutters. I locked the door and loaded the old hunting rifle Dad had left in the closet. Not because I planned to use it, but because it reminded me of something the army drilled into me over and over: You don’t leave yourself exposed.
When the house was quiet again, I stood at the window, looking out at the dark tree line. Somewhere out there, Megan’s people were circling, but I wasn’tgoing anywhere.
The next morning, I drove into Albany with the documents tucked into my bag. The closer I got to the city, the tighter my grip on the steering wheel became. I wasn’t nervous about courtrooms or lawyers. I’d stared down Taliban fighters in dusty alleys. But sitting across from legal sharks and greedy family, that was a new battlefield.
