“How are you doing, Michaela?”
“I’m okay, thanks, Jake. Yesterday was hard—I guess mostly because it was so final. Thank you again for coming. And thank your family for me, too.” It had surprised her that so many folks had come to her father’s internment. She hadn’t thought he’d made that many friends, especially during the last few years of his life.
“You’re welcome.” Jake tilted his head slightly as he looked at her. “They came as much for you as for your father. Harold had become a bit of a…curmudgeon these last few years.”
“I don’t think either he, or Mom, ever got over losing Daniel.” Michaela struggled, determined not to shed any more tears.
“I think it must be the hardest thing in the world, to lose a child. I thank God every day that I don’t know what that’s like. I’ve spoken to some who have and do, and I can tell you it’s a loss they never fully recover from. There’s always that hole in their hearts and that sense of someone missing. But it’s also a loss one can find solace for by focusing on a child who remains.” He took a moment and sipped from his glass.
“I’ll only say this once. Your father made a mistake not appreciating that he still had a child—a daughter—who needed him. Your coming home when I called? That gratified me, that despite his treatment of you, you upended your life for him. And I think, deep down, Harold was glad you came.”
“He was my dad.” Jake hadn’t said anything she hadn’t thought over the last few days, weeks, and months. “I know he wasn’t perfect, but then I’m not, either. I hope now, at least, he’s at peace.”
“I’m certain that he is.”
He reached for a folder and opened it. “I could read his will aloud, word for word, or I can just give you the high points and the bottom line.”
Michaela braced herself. She wanted the bottom line but, at the same time, was really afraid of what that would be.
“High points and bottom line, please.”
“All right, here it is. Your father left you everything. The farm—which does not have a mortgage—and all of his cash and possessions. I can tell you there’s about a thousand in his bank account, but that’s it. The land taxes have been paid for this year. I have a folder for you with the paid receipts and the tax bills and the electric bills, along with the rest that he had me take care of for him. There’s an insurance policy, one that appears to have been paid up when Daniel died. The value of that is around twenty-five thousand dollars. I’ve begun the claim process, on your behalf.
“I’ve also included a business card from a real estate agent by the name of Terry Gowan. He came by to see me just after your father passed. He seemed very interested in buying the place.” Jake frowned. “I think I saw him yesterday at the funeral, but when I went to find him…well, maybe I was mistaken.”
Michaela wondered. “Was he about five seven, short brown hair, with a face that looked like it could use a good smile?”
“So you saw him, too? He told me that he’d had a verbal agreement with Harold, but one thing I can say for your dad. He was a very careful man when it came to dollars and cents. If he’d been seriously interested in selling, I’d have known about it. And he’d have asked me to vet the agent and maybe look for another so he could play the two off against each other.”
Something in the way Jake said that caught her attention. “Why do I get the feeling that you’re vetting the man, regardless?”
Jake grinned at her. “Because you’re a smart woman. Are you interested in selling? Because if you are, I may know of someone who’d give you a good price, someone for whom you will not need the dubious services of Mr. Gowan.”
“There are many who would tell me that selling the place would be the smart thing to do. Even Dad thought so.”
“Why do I get the feeling that you’re going to eschew the so-called smart thing?”
“Probably because you’re a smart man.” Michaela sighed. “My dad considered himself the last of the Powell line, but I’m not going to accept that. I’m still here, and I’m a Powell. That farm or ranch or whatever he thought of it as, though it’s seen better days, has been in the Powell family since great-great-grandfather Jonas bought the land and built the first homestead back in the 1870s.” Michaela had never really had a dream in life. For a short time, a few years before, she’d thought she might get married and give her father the new son he yearned for and then, maybe even one day, a grandson. But that hadn’t worked out all that well. The young man she’d gotten engaged to had had his own reasons for asking for her hand. Fortunately, they both realized that they didn’t have the right reasons to get married. They’d parted amicably. After that near miss, she’d spent the next couple of years focusing on her education and her job. And then she’d come home to take care of her dad.
Now, in the course of the last few days, she’d discovered a new dream, a real dream that was all hers, for her. She was a Powell, and she damn well could be enough, all on her own, to steward the legacy she’d inherited.
“Family heritage can be a strong force,” Jake said. “I’m living on land that my great-greats carved out as their own, at about the same time as Jonas Powell was building his homestead east of here.”
“So maybe you can understand. I’m not willing to let my heritage go. The place needs
