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Ransomed Hope

By Deborah Pierson Dill

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As if this week hadn’t been difficult enough.

Manuel Vega’s filthy, worn boots fell heavier than usual on the wide, hand-hewn planks of the foyer floor. He didn’t stop to reflect on the bare Christmas tree in the great room, ten feet tall and still not reaching the ceiling. Regardless, the sight raised a fresh wave of grief that went immediately to war with the indignation of being called in from the feeding, summoned like a truant ranch hand to face Brandon and Mr. Cole. Seemed like this could have waited at least another few days. Until the memory of the funeral wasn’t quite so immediate.

Manuel stopped at the door, removed his hat, and quickly ran a hand through his hair. What was Brandon up to, anyway? Hard enough to keep the place running on an even keel at this point. No doubt, he was ready to establish his authority in a big way. A deep breath filled Manuel’s chest, and then he reached for the knob.

Bright afternoon sunlight poured in through the enormous office windows, just the way Franklin had liked it. Today the sky was clear, the air crisp, and Manuel could see hilltops for miles from the house’s perch atop the highest hill on the ranch.

Franklin had sent the contractor into a fit during the addition of this part of the house by insisting on the removal of windows that had already been installed. The change meant reframing most of two walls to accommodate bigger windows. He’d wanted more light.

Manuel let the memory wash over him along with a peaceful sorrow as he approached the room’s center. Franklin had always said that if he had to be cooped up inside an office, he at least wanted to be able to look out his window and see his livestock grazing in the pastures.

“So, when will you be leaving?” True to form, Brandon Tennent wasted no time in getting to his self-absorbed point. He didn’t turn from the window when he spoke.

Manuel swallowed down the ache rising in the back of his throat as the image of Franklin standing in the same spot, staring out the same window, dissipated like mist. Manuel glanced from Brandon’s back to Cole, the family attorney. “Excuse me?”

“I assume”—Brandon turned from whatever held his attention outside and faced Manuel—”now that my father’s gone, and there’s no longer anything here for you, you’ll finally be moving on.”

“What do you mean there’s nothing here for me?” He glanced back at the attorney who shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

“Just that, Manuel. There’s nothing here for you now.” Brandon took a seat in his father’s chair behind the massive oak desk, his contempt nearly tangible. “You probably think you’re in the will, am I right?”

Manuel stood silently. Why wouldn’t he be named in the will? This was his home. He may be on the payroll, but Franklin Tennent had been his legal guardian until he’d turned eighteen, and in the four years since then had treated him as nothing less than family.

“Well, you’re wrong.” Brandon actually smiled, seeming to take a great deal of pleasure in the revelation.

Manuel took a step back and instinctively turned to Mr. Cole. “I…I’m not in the will?”

“The will is twenty-five years old.” Cole looked down. “It was drawn up the year Brandon was born. Brandon is the only beneficiary.”

Manuel hated the confusion that must have registered plainly on his face as he glanced from the attorney back to Brandon. “What about Ashley?”

“What about Ashley?” Brandon snapped the question back at him. “There’s nothing here for you. Least of all, Ashley. Do you think my sister is love-struck enough to marry a man with nothing? She may be young and irrational where you’re concerned, but she’s not stupid. Where would you have her live, Manuel? Your pickup? Or that pile of rocks Dad gave you that you and she like to call a house?”

Manuel turned to Mr. Cole. “Does Brandon get the whole estate and she gets nothing?”

“I’ll make sure Ashley’s taken care of.” Brandon leaned forward in his chair. “She’s not your concern.”

“How?” Manuel held his temper tightly in check, but his disdain could not be restrained. “We all know you wouldn’t hesitate to cheat your own sister if you thought you could get away with it.” He turned back to Cole. “This isn’t right. If the whole estate goes to him, he’ll gamble it away within a few years’ time. A will can be contested, right? We can go in front of a judge and fight it, can’t we?”

“Who is we?” Brandon shot up out of the chair.

“Me and Ashley.” Manuel stepped toward Brandon, but the attorney rose to intercept him before he could reach the desk.

“You could. But it would be tied up in court for years. And ultimately a judge would end up deciding who got what.” Cole’s grip on Manuel’s arm loosened hesitantly. “Everything could be ordered sold and the money split evenly. And, Manuel, you would probably still walk away empty handed.”

Manuel glanced back at Brandon, who settled into Franklin’s leather chair, the picture of smug satisfaction.

“Then she really would have nothing, wouldn’t she?” Brandon sounded almost pleased by that idea.

Not exactly nothing. She’d have half of a sizeable estate. Even after attorney fees and court costs, it would be plenty for them to start over. But this ranch had been in her family for five generations. To have a judge order the property sold because Manuel had insisted on contesting something that wasn’t rightfully his in the first place…it wouldn’t be right.

Mr. Cole tucked a file folder into his briefcase, snapped it shut, and laid a sympathetic hand on Manuel’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, son. I’ll leave you two to discuss this.”

Manuel took a deep breath, struggling for calm. “No point in that. I guess I’ll get back to work.”

“Uh, no.” Brandon eased further back in his chair and smiled again. “I’m letting you go. Consider it a nudge from the nest.”

“Letting me go? I’m not just some hired hand. I’m family.”

Brandon laughed.

Manuel shot a desperate look at Mr. Cole, who pressed his mouth into a grim line and shook his head.

Brandon’s laughter faded and his features hardened. “You have until six o’clock tonight to clear out.”

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