I found the number in the glove compartment, written on the back of a feed receipt in Walt’s crooked pencil. My hands shook as I dialed. A gruff voice answered on the second ring. “Silas Whitehorse.” I took a breath. “This is Marjorie Calloway. Walt told me to call you if anyone ever locked me out of the ranch.” The line went completely silent, and then he said, very quietly, “Mrs. Calloway, I have been waiting four years for this call.”

He told me to stay put and keep my phone on. Forty minutes later, a dusty green truck rolled up beside mine, and an elderly man with a silver braid stepped out carrying a worn leather folder. Garrett’s voice crackled over the intercom again. “Marjorie, who is that? You are trespassing.” Silas walked up to the keypad, pressed a button, and said calmly, “Garrett Hale, you are about to learn why Walt Calloway never signed anything without me.”