Two million dollars had already been deposited into escrow.
Buyer’s earnest money.
Nonrefundable.
I looked at Margaret.
“Who owns North Valley?”
“That’s why I came.”
She glanced toward the road again.
Headlights appeared in the distance.
Fast.
Too fast for our gravel lane.
Margaret’s face drained of color.
“Lock the door.”
Rachel grabbed the envelope.
“Who owns the company?”
The headlights grew larger.
Margaret backed away from the window.
“Jack, North Valley isn’t owned by Trish Kessler.”
“Then who?”
The vehicle raced through my gate.
A black Suburban.
Another followed behind it.
Margaret whispered one sentence.
And for the first time since I had found strangers building a corn maze on my property, I genuinely forgot how to breathe.
“North Valley was created by your father.”
The first Suburban stopped outside the machine barn.
Doors opened.
Four men stepped out.
Margaret grabbed my sleeve.
“There’s one more thing.”
I looked at her.
Her eyes were fixed on the envelope in Rachel’s hands.
“Your father didn’t die owning Mercer Farm.”
A fist slammed against the locked barn door.
And Rachel pulled one final sheet from the envelope.
A deed.
Dated six years ago.
Three days before my father died.
Transferring all 612 acres to a name I had never seen before.
