Page 1 of Make Her Mine
Chapter One
Brandon
Carthage, Texas – Panola County
January 1st
The limousine moved slowly, almost stoically, through the newly fallen snow that covered the road. My younger brothers and I were on our way to a new life. A life we’d never even imagined.
On Christmas day I got a phone call from an Allen Samuels, an attorney in Carthage. My family came from Carthage—that much I knew. What I didn’t know were the reasons we’d never met our grandparents.
Later that day, Mr. Samuels sat in front of us in the limo looking through a folder he’d brought with him when he picked us up at the airport. A private plane had brought us to Carthage from Dallas. Being that Dallas wasn’t that far from Carthage, we all wondered why the extravagant lift was necessary.
“The whole of the estate that includes Whisper Ranch, a thirty-thousand square-foot mansion, and all the vehicles, including the Cessna Citation II you came in on, belongs to you three gentlemen now.” The attorney looked over his shoulder, then tapped on the dark glass that separated us from the driver. The window rolled down with a quiet swish. “Davenport, we need to make a stop at Mr. Gentry’s bank, please.”
“Sure thing, sir.” The driver rolled the window back up, giving us privacy once more.
Mr. Samuels looked at me, probably because I was the oldest. “Brandon, what have you been told about your paternal grandparents?”
“Not much.” That was no lie. My parents rarely spoke about either set of their parents. “My mother’s famous quote was that if one couldn’t say anything nice about a person, they shouldn’t say anything at all. We’d assumed our grandparents weren’t very good people.”
Clayton took over, “Yeah, we stopped questioning Mom and Dad when we were very young. Just asking them who our grandparents were put them in a foul mood.”
“I see.” He looked out the window as we pulled into the parking lot of the Bank of Carthage. “Here we are. You will become the Ranch’s accountholders. We can transfer the remainder of your grandfather’s funds into accounts each of you will open here.” His eyes scanned us all. “If that’s okay with you. Certainly, you can open accounts elsewhere if you’d like to. Your grandparents used this bank exclusively for years. I can assure you that the president appreciates Whisper Ranch’s business and does everything to keep their customers happy.”
Looking at my brothers who flanked me on either side of me, I shrugged. “This bank seems as good as any. What do you guys think?”
Dyllan, the youngest at twenty-two, ran his hand through his thick, dark hair that hung to his shoulders in waves. “Sounds fine to me. It’ll be my first bank account anyway.”
Clayton, only a couple of years younger than me at twenty-five, shrugged. “Sounds fine with me, too. All I’ve got in my bank is about twenty bucks. Hell, I might not even have that. I bought a bottle of Jack before getting on the plane that might’ve overdrawn my account, actually.”
“This bank will do for us, Mr. Samuels.” We started getting out of the car since the driver had opened the door for us. “Thanks. Your name is Davenport, right?”
The older man nodded. “Yep. I can also drive the various tractors and trucks at the ranch. You need a ride, call me, and I’ll get you there.”
I thought it kind of funny that the man was clearly a farmer and not a chauffeur at all. And to be called Davenport seemed on the comical side. “If you don’t mind me asking, what’s your first name?”
“Buddy.” He smiled at me. “Your grandfather liked to put on airs.”
“We’re not like that. Mind if we call you Buddy instead?”
He shook his head. “Not at all. It would be nice, in fact.”
Clayton clapped the man on the back. “Nice to meet you, Buddy. I’m Clayton, this is Brandon, and the feller there is Dyllan, the youngest of the Gentry family.”
None of us were kids anymore, and Dyllan always took offense at how Clayton teased him. “Clayton, you’re the littlest out of all of us, you jerk.”
Flexing his left bicep while threading his fingers through his dark hair, Clayton replied, “By a smidgeon of an inch, Dyllan. You’re shorter.”
“Also, by a smidgeon of an inch.” Dyllan walked ahead of us. “This bank is pretty fancy.”
“It’s the best one in town,” Allen said as he hurried to get in front of Dyllan to open the door. “Here we go. Mr. Johnson is the bank president; he’ll handle this for us.”
“Thepresidentwill handle all of this?” That was unorthodox. “How much money are we talking about?”
Cocking his head to one side, Allen looked confused. “Are you telling me that even with the jet, the mansion, and the ranch, you still don’t understand how much capital your grandfather was worth?”
“Not a clue,” Clayton said as he stepped into the bank’s lobby. “Whoa. Posh.”
