A Place to Call Home (Harlequin Heartwarming)

by Reese, Cynthia

“Irrigation. That’s a natural pond, and there’s a stream that ends up in a small creek. It’s what my uncle used to irrigate this section of his farm. Your grandfather used it for a water supply for his migrant workers and to deprive my uncle of a way to water his crops.”

  “So that’s what this is about?” Penelope compressed her lips and kicked at the dirt. “You want the water? Fine, run irrigation from it. I’m not using it. But a piece of advice—next time you want to sweet-talk someone into letting you access her water, don’t accuse her grandfather of being a crook.”

  “It’s not just the water. I want the land. The land is ours, well, Uncle Jake’s. I want it back for him. I tried to buy this land for him at auction, and you ran the cost up. I should have known Murphy had something to do with it. You certainly don’t need thirty acres of prime farmland.”

  She stood stock-still, the solution to her money crunch within her grasp. “I don’t need all this land, you’re right. If you want it so badly, then maybe we can work out a deal. I’ll sell you all but, say, five acres.”

  If she’d expected Brandon to extend a tanned forearm in a glad handshake and say Sold! he didn’t. Instead he muttered under his breath and shook his head.

  “Hey, you want it. I’m offering. I’ll even—” Penelope shrugged. “I’m fair. I’ll sell it for what I paid for it. You can’t beat that, can you?”

  Brandon’s eyes darkened. “What you paid for it was at least twice what Murphy paid my uncle. He paid him, to the dime, the taxes and penalties and interest the county said he owed.”

  “Well, why didn’t your uncle fight it?”

  “He did. How do you think he lost what he did? Rotten lawyers took his savings and then in the end, he didn’t have proof that he’d paid. My uncle’s—” Brandon winced. “Ah, forget it. I thought I could make you understand.”

  “Brandon...” Maybe it was the way his pain and loss seemed at odds with his big frame. But something made her reach out and touch his arm. “I can’t pretend to understand what your uncle went through. But I know how I feel, seeing my grandfather losing all his land and in so much legal trouble. I know how helpless I feel. It must be twice as bad for you.”

  “I do feel helpless. I want to fix it, you know?” Brandon pushed his fingers through his hair then dropped his hand. He shrugged. “I’m sorry I wasted your time.”

  “Maybe you haven’t. I’m serious about selling part of the land.” Penelope couldn’t meet his eyes as she recalled the letter she’d received earlier in the day. “Let’s just say I’m in sudden need of money.”

  “But—” Brandon frowned.

  “But what?”

  “What about your sculpture? I thought all you had to do was weld three pieces of stainless steel together and, presto, you were fifty grand richer.”

  She sighed. “They canceled the commission. I’ve already bought the materials, and if I returned them, I’d have to pay shipping and a hefty restocking fee. So I’m going to build it anyway. But I need money. You want the land. Why not make everybody happy?”

  Brandon nodded, and she could see from his expression he was considering it. She clenched her fists in anticipation, slipped her index finger across her middle finger.

  Please, please, please, buy this land.

  But then his eyes lit on the fence again, and his expression hardened. “Okay. On two conditions. One, you have to sell it to me for fair market value before you ran up the price—that’s all the bank would lend me. And two, that not one dime of my money goes to Richard Murphy.”

  “Are you out of your tree? You can’t tell me what I do with the money after you get the land, any more than I can tell you what to do with the land.”

  “So I’m right, then? That’s why you need the money? For Murphy?”

  “No, I need the money to survive on, to pay my bills. But if my grandfather needs help, you can bet I’ll share what I have. He’s old, Brandon, and frail and I don’t want him in prison.”

  “Frail? Richard Murphy frail? He’s healthy as a horse—no, make that an ox. You make him sound like he’s on his last legs.” Brandon narrowed his eyes. “No. As bad as I want this land back in my family, I will not pay Richard Murphy, not a red cent. And I sure won’t add to his legal defense fund. He may be your grandfather, but he belongs in jail. And I’ll do everything I can to make sure he ends up there.”

  With that, he stalked back toward the house and his truck, leaving Penelope speechless.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  BRANDON HADN’T REALIZED how tight his fists were until his knuckles started aching. He stood by his truck and sucked in a purposeful breath. In. Out. In again. Slow exhale.

  Better. The idea that he’d let one cent of his money go to Richard Murphy’s lawyers...

  No. Calm down. Think.

  The vinyl seat crackled under him as he slammed the door with one hand and punched in Ryan MacIntosh’s number on his cell phone with the other.

  “Ryan? You got a few minutes? If you do, I’m on the way over.”

  His best friend didn’t hesitate. “Come on. Mee-Maw’s got lunch on the table and Becca can put out another plate. We’ve got Sean Courtland here, too, so we can all hear what he has to say about the investigation.”

  Brandon didn’t know what cheered him up more. Was it the idea of Ryan’s grandmother’s legendary meals? Or the possibility that in the course of the dinner, Sean, the FBI agent who’d been investigating Murphy, might have news? Ostensibly, Sean was there to gather more information from one of the government’s star witnesses, Ryan’s grandmother. Sean, though, didn’t mind giving the latest to Brandon. Sean would wink and chalk it up to inter-agency cooperation.

  During the ten minutes or so it took him to drive over to the MacIntosh farm, Brandon managed to gain a more positive attitude. Murphy was going down, and soon. Maybe Sean was there to tell them that the federal indictment, which had already dragged on for a couple of months without materializing, was about to be handed down.

  Besides, Brandon could never come to the MacIntosh farm without remembering how Ryan and Becca, Ryan’s new wife, had finally put Murphy in the government’s crosshairs. And if that wasn’t cause to celebrate, he didn’t know what was.

  The smell of country-fried steak and gravy enveloped him as Mee-Maw opened the door for him. Her lined face was wreathed in smiles.

  “Well, if it ain’t my favorite deputy! C’mon in, Brandon! We’ve got plenty. Wash up and go fix your plate.”

  He heard the hubbub of conversation at the kitchen table as he scrubbed his hands in the bathroom sink.

  If only I could wash away the memory of Penelope Langston defending her grandfather. It just went to show that you couldn’t judge a person by how she looked, no matter how pretty.

  Penelope’s dark eyes, snapping with fire, came back to him. She was as easy to read as a mood ring: when she was mad, her eyes went almost black. Otherwise they were warm and brown, like melted caramel.

  At the table, Brandon pulled out a ladder-back chair and settled in it.

  Becca grinned. “Now this is better than any lunch in town, isn’t it?” she asked as she passed him a bowl of creamed potatoes. “I swear, Mee-Maw’s cooking was half the reason I married Ryan.”

  Brandon chuckled. He knew better than that. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to see that Ryan was head over heels for Becca—and vice versa. He wondered if, when they had kids, the children would inherit Becca’s blond hair or Ryan’s red.

  Sean Courtland lifted up a big fluffy biscuit and inspected it. “Ma’am, these are so good that I might have to report it as a gourmet gift. It’s lucky this is my day off and I’m not on duty.”

  Mee-Maw beamed. “Aw, just a little something I threw together. Next time I’ll cook you some good fried chicken. Brandon, how’s your Uncle Jake doing?”

&n
bsp; Brandon’s creamed potatoes suddenly looked a lot less appetizing. He pushed the food listlessly on his plate. “He’s okay, I guess. Same as always. Impatient to hear what the latest is on Murphy.”

  Sean swallowed the bite of biscuit he’d just taken before answering. “U.S. attorney still wants more. You know these guys, they don’t indict anything less than a slam-dunk case. They don’t want to sully their conviction rate with a not-guilty verdict.”

  “How much more do they need? I thought we’d given them enough for their slam-dunk conviction. If I can’t see Murphy go to jail for swindling Uncle Jake, I want to at least see the feds take him down for his crop insurance fraud.” Brandon set the gravy boat down harder than he should have, netting a scolding look from Mee-Maw. He double-checked to make sure no gravy had splashed on her tablecloth.

  “Brandon’s right,” Ryan said. “They’ve got the crop insurance adjustor, they’ve got, what, two of the farmers who were conspiring with Murphy. They’ve got JT Griggs willing to testify that Murphy made him bring in the dodder vine with intent to defraud the government.”

  At the mention of JT’s name, Sean frowned. “JT has a credibility issue, guys, and you know it. He’s served time. I think he’s telling the truth, the U.S. attorney thinks he is...but will the jury? And so that’s why they want more guys to plead out and agree to testify against Murphy. It will happen. The big news I wanted to tell you—Becca, you’ll really get excited about this—we’ve run down the guy who attacked Becca in her motel room. And his shyster lawyer is about to sign off on a plea agreement.”

  “So that’s another nail in Murphy’s coffin?” Brandon’s appetite came back with renewed gusto. “The guy is willing to say Murphy put him up to it?”

  “Well, no,” Sean conceded. “He’s saying it was the brainstorm of that other farmer, Tate. But if we put pressure on Tate, then Tate will roll over on Murphy.”

  Brandon chewed on the steak as he considered this and decided, if it wasn’t perfect, at least it was a move in the right direction. “That will complicate Murphy’s legal woes. Hey, did you guys know Penelope Langston is Murphy’s granddaughter?”

  Becca’s and Ryan’s mouths dropped open, but Brandon noted Sean didn’t look as surprised.

  “Yeah. We’d come up on that in our investigation. She’s some sort of artist, I think, from Oregon, but she’d been living in New York. Apparently she came down here to offer moral support.”

  “She’s willing to offer him more than moral support. She had the nerve to offer to sell me the land—Uncle Jake’s land, mind you—to raise money for Murphy.” Brandon took a swig of iced tea that did nothing to cool off his temper.

  “She said that?” Becca’s eyes rounded. “That’s... that’s brassy.”

  “Well, she didn’t exactly put it that way. She’s a sculptor, and she had this big sale for, I kid you not, three pieces of stainless steel welded together, but it fell through. So now she needs money. I just didn’t want any of my money ending up in Richard Murphy’s hands. When she wouldn’t agree to that stipulation, I told her no. I guess the apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree.”

  Ryan nodded as he passed the tall pitcher of iced tea to Becca. “Sounds like you can wait her out, then. If she needs money, then maybe you can pick up the land in a foreclosure deal.”

  “That’s what I was thinking,” Brandon agreed. “It galls me to even think about Uncle Jake being forced to sell to Murphy in the first place.”

  “I’m still working with the state’s revenue department on that, Brandon,” Becca said. “They’re saying now that the forced sales of both this property and your uncle’s might not be legal. So Uncle Jake might get the land after all.”

  “Now that’s more like it!” Brandon rubbed his hands together.

  “If the title’s in question...” Sean trailed off in thought.

  “Yeah?” Brandon prompted.

  “Well, I was thinking of adverse possession. If the title’s in question, and you cultivate the land for seven years, it’s yours anyway.”

  “You mean, just act like it’s mine and it turns into my land?”

  “Yeah. The key is the action has to be hostile, without permission from the landowner, but the landowner in turn has to not put a stop to it. The law says that if the landowner doesn’t care about someone else improving or cultivating land, the land should belong to the one making the investment of money and labor. Of course, seven years is a long time to wait.”

  “Maybe by then Penelope Langston will be gone,” Brandon said.

  Mee-Maw cleared her throat, and the group of them turned toward her at the head of the table.

  “Mee-Maw? You have something on your mind?” Ryan asked.

  Ryan’s grandmother tore at a biscuit in her fingers, shredding it absentmindedly. “I remember that girl. Not well, mind you. She hasn’t been around here in years. Why, I guess she was seven or eight the last time she came to visit. That little one—Penelope, you say? Not big as a minute, and always drawing. I kept her some, that last time, because of course the likes of Murphy couldn’t be bothered with entertaining his granddaughter. She had a good heart, was right faithful about helping me nurse a calf and see to the chickens.”

  “So what are you trying to say, Mee-Maw?” Brandon asked. “That she can’t have grown up to be like Murphy if she was willing to help you bottle-feed a calf?”

  Mee-Maw stretched out a gnarled finger and shook it in Brandon’s direction. “Young man, people aren’t always what they seem at first blush. Yes, sir, most times they are, and you best not expect much more out of ’em, but people’s hearts don’t change. I expect it’s Penelope’s heart that’s telling her to look after her grandfather, even if he is a black-hearted crook. I’d be more worried about her if she didn’t have some speck of caring for the man. So don’t you be too hard on her.”

  Brandon took the chastisement on the chin. But he reserved judgment. How could anyone be fooled by the likes of Richard Murphy?

  CHAPTER SIX

  “GRANDPA! No! What do you think you’re doing?”

  Just inside Grandpa Murphy’s kitchen door, Penelope made a grab for the glazed doughnut in her grandfather’s hand. Grandpa Murphy snatched it back just out of her reach, a scowl on his face.

  “Penny-girl! It’ll be all right—I’ll take an extra insulin shot. No big deal.”

  But Penelope closed the gap between them, confiscated the doughnut and the eleven still in the box. “I’ll just go put this in my car where they won’t tempt you. Grandpa, you know you’ve been having trouble with your sugar levels. You have to—”

  “Have absolutely no fun, that’s what I have to do. Penny-girl, what’s one little ol’ doughnut when I might be behind bars soon? They’re circling in for the kill, the lot of ’em.”

  Penelope wrapped her arm around her grandfather’s too-big middle and gave him an encouraging hug. “You are not supposed to be worrying, remember? You told me the doctor said that stress complicated regulating your blood-sugar levels. Those lawyers of yours will do their job. There is such a thing as reasonable doubt and innocent before proven guilty.”

  Grandpa Murphy hugged her back. “You are a sight for sore eyes. Sorry I’m such a sourpuss, girl.”

  Penelope felt a tug on the box in her hand. Grandpa stepped back, a doughnut triumphantly in his grasp and took a quick bite out of it.

  “You are absolutely incorrigible, did you know that? Who brought you those doughnuts, anyway? Now we’ve got to fuss with the test strips and check to see how much insulin you need, and you’ll probably need a shot.”

  He waved away her concerns and took another bite. “And you tell me not to worry. You’re a fine one to be talking. I bought my own doughnuts, thank you very much. Sit down here at the table. You know how many years I wanted you around so I could have the pleasur
e of you just dropping in for an unexpected visit?”

  His words blew away her aggravation. In the scheme of things, what was one doughnut as long as she could make sure his blood sugar was okay before she left? She’d missed him for so long. If only her mother could have gotten along with Grandpa Murphy. If only Mom had given him a chance.

  They sat down at Grandpa Murphy’s kitchen table and she watched as he savored the doughnut, licking the last of the glaze off his fingertips. “Bum pancreas. Don’t ever let your pancreas go to pot, girl. Worst thing in the world.”

  “Well, not the worst, surely.”

  “No, I’d guess federal prison is worse.”

  Penelope’s heart squeezed in her chest. “Your lawyers will help you, Grandpa. You’re not going to prison. You didn’t do anything wrong, right? They don’t put innocent people in prison.”

  “They do if they’re out for blood. And they are out for blood—mine. If they’ll believe that JT, a farmhand with no high school degree, somebody who’s been in the clink before, I don’t have a chance. I might as well eat that whole box of doughnuts.”

  “Are we feeling sorry for ourselves today?” Penelope met his eyes pointedly.

  Grandpa Murphy’s mouth pulled down even more, but then he lifted his chin. “Forget them. I’m not going to let them get me down. Cheer me up, Penelope, tell me something to get my mind off my troubles.”

  “Uh...” She thought about the reason she’d come over, to ask about Brandon Wilkes’s intense hatred of her grandfather.

  “That sculpture you’re working on. You got started on it yet?”

  Ouch. Another tender point. She hadn’t intended on telling him about the cancelled commission. “Well. About that. I’ve had a bit of a setback. The company has changed its mind.”

  “About buying it? Just as well you hadn’t got started on it then. Tell ’em to go jump in a lake somewhere. Bad break for you, Penny-girl, but I’ll bet you’ll get everything figured out. You’re a Murphy, after all, and Murphys land on their feet.”