Chapter 1 - THE MAN ON HIS KNEES
My suitcase hit the floor hard enough to crack the cap on a bottle of perfume.
My father jolted beside the coffee table, one knee planted in spilled broth and crushed eggs. At sixty-seven, Norman Bennett still repaired fences alone on his Nebraska farm, but that afternoon he looked smaller than I had ever seen him. His plaid shirt was wet at the cuffs. A dirty rag trembled in his hand.
“Dad, get up. Why are you cleaning for them?”
My mother-in-law, Susan, rose from the sofa. My sister-in-law, Heather, stayed seated, a grape pinched between two fingers.
“He spilled it,” Heather said. “His farm food reeks.”
Dad tried to stand before I reached him. His foot slipped on the wet hardwood.
I caught him beneath the arms.
“Easy.”
“I’m all right, sweetheart.”
He would not look at me.
Susan adjusted her silver bob and recovered the calm expression she used whenever she wanted cruelty to sound practical.
“Your father appeared without warning. He dropped that basket and insisted on cleaning it himself.”
“You were both watching him.”
“He made the mess.”
“This is my house.”
Susan’s lips tightened. “Kyle said you wouldn’t be back for another month.”
I turned toward her.
“What exactly did Kyle say?”
For one second, fear showed in her face.
Then Heather stood and folded her arms. “He said your trip was extended. Why are you acting like we committed a crime?”
I had spent twenty-eight days in Salt Lake City closing an automation contract for the industrial firm where I worked as a project director. The negotiations ended early, so I changed my flight and came home to Scottsdale without telling anyone.
I had imagined surprising my husband.
Instead, my father was kneeling on my floor while Kyle’s family mocked him.
“Where is Kyle?” I asked.
“He had an appointment,” Susan said.
“What kind?”
“He didn’t tell me.”
I reached for my phone.
Dad caught my wrist.
“Don’t call him.”
His grip was weak, but the fear behind it stopped me.
“Dad, what’s wrong?”
He glanced at Susan and Heather.
“Can we talk alone?”
I led him to the guest room and locked the door. He sat on the edge of the bed, breathing as though he had climbed a hill.
“Sweetheart,” he said, “you’re not being detained?”
I stared at him.
“Detained where?”
“In Utah. Kyle said there was trouble with company money. He said federal investigators wouldn’t let you leave until everything was repaid.”
The words were absurd, but Dad’s face was not.
“Kyle told you this?”
“He said your accounts were frozen. He said if I contacted you, I could make the case worse.”
I sat beside him.
“There is no case. I closed the contract this morning and got on a plane.”
Dad reached into his shirt pocket and unfolded a wrinkled document.
“Kyle said three million dollars would keep you out of prison.”
It was a notarized power of attorney authorizing Kyle to mortgage Dad’s farm outside Kearney, Nebraska. The farmhouse where I grew up sat on 480 acres of cornfields and pasture. My mother’s ashes were buried beneath the cottonwood near the west fence.
“You signed this?”
“I thought I was saving you.”
“When?”
“Last Thursday. Kyle arranged the notary here.”
My father covered his face.
“I asked why I couldn’t speak to you. He said every call was being monitored.”
I forced myself to read the entire document.
The authority became effective immediately. Kyle could negotiate a loan, sign security instruments, and direct the proceeds.
“Has the loan funded?”
“Not yet. The final appraisal came back yesterday. Kyle said the money should be released this afternoon.”
I stood too quickly.
Dad grabbed my hand.
“If you call him, he’ll know.”
He was right. If Kyle was already at a lender or title office, one warning might be enough for him to redirect the money or destroy evidence.
I took the document and photographed every page.
Then I opened the guest-room door.
Susan and Heather were no longer pretending to watch television. They were standing in the hallway.
I folded the paper and slipped it beneath my jacket.
Susan’s eyes followed the movement.
“What did Norman give you?”
“His bus schedule.”
Dad understood immediately.
I walked him to the front door and ordered a car to the airport hotel, where he could stay under Megan’s reservation until we decided what to do. I hugged him beside the driveway.
“I’m getting the farm back.”
“I should’ve called you.”
“You believed my husband.”
Dad looked toward the house.
“So did you.”
After his car disappeared, I returned to the living room.
Susan smiled cautiously. “Did your father calm down?”
“He was embarrassed about the spill.”
Heather laughed. “He should be.”
I picked up my suitcase.
“When Kyle comes home, don’t mention that Dad and I spoke privately.”
Susan studied me.
“Why wouldn’t we?”
“Because Dad wants to apologize to Kyle himself.”
That answer pleased them.
I carried my suitcase upstairs, locked the bedroom door, and called the number printed on the power of attorney.
A woman at the Nebraska title company answered.
When I gave her Dad’s name, she said, “Mr. Bennett’s loan package is being signed in Scottsdale right now.”
May you like
Kyle was not on his way home.
He was attempting to mortgage my father’s land while I stood twenty minutes away.
