Page 2 of Cowboy Heat
For the most part, at least.
“So I know it’s a little weird to have a basement on the property, but the previous owner had it put in because of weather concerns. It was no small undertaking, but as you can see, it definitely worked out. Tons of extra storage.” The woman talking to me, Miss Lawson, doesn’t recognize my face. Not that I expect her to, but being recognized happens more than people would think. To her, I’m just Beau Montgomery, an out-of-towner with an inheritance to collect. Miss Lawson looks to be around her early twenties and was touted as being a career local of Robin’s Tree, so hearing about the Montgomery boys probably isn’t something she’s had the chance to do.
Now, if she recognized me from what all happened in Orlando last year, that would be the real surprise. The only appearance I’d made in the news as an adult before or after had been a picture of me receiving my detective’s badge. So far, I haven’t had anyone come up to me asking about that. A trend I hoped to keep going. I look at the basement, clean and gray and empty. It smells stale, but the whole house does since Ryan left the living months prior. The man owned an entire ranch but managed to have a heart attack in his car on the way to the Walmart in the city over. I see a humidifier in the corner of the room and bet it works double time, considering it’s in a basement in the middle of Louisiana marshland.
“Ryan’s house in Alabama was destroyed by a tornado when he was a kid,” I tell her. “He was always obsessed with basements after that. I’m not surprised he had one put in.”
Miss Lawson looks at me and then zips her attention to the notebook she’s been referring to since I met her at the ranch’s main gate. She’s a real estate agent and fresh for it, second week on the job she told me. Mainly here because the woman who was supposed to be handling such an “interesting” job went and had her baby early.
The woman doesn’t look like any real estate agent I’ve dealt with before. The word “conservative” died in the ranchland behind her. She’s wearing wide-legged black slacks, a neon-green tank top that dips into them, and a gray 80s-Style blazer that runs long. Her jewelry is a lot of gold and silver rings and colorful necklaces hanging over each other with thin gold hoops in her ears. Her shoes are clean, red Converse, and there’s a thick headband pushing her big, blonde curls back. It’s covered in flower print.
All in all not a bad look, it’s just not what I was expecting.
She has more energy too. Not all of it cheery.
“I didn’t realize Mr. King came from Alabama,” she says, referring to her notes. “I do remember him being very private once he purchased the ranch. A lot of the locals still aren’t sure what it is he did up here.”
I follow her back through the kitchen and out to the front porch. The ranch, named Blue Lolita, had seen much better days. That went double for the big house we’re at. Centrally placed, not maintained. Our first half of the tour was spent navigating spiderwebs and dead bugs.
Miss Lawson does her showcase hands again and motions beyond the porch. Her mud-covered Jeep looks more natural with the grown-up grass and weeds than the shiny, four-door rental that I drove in. Both are parked near us. Hers is empty; mine has everything I own packed inside.
“Other than the oddity of the basement, Blue Lolita has the potential to become a functional ranch again. Before Mr. King owned it, Blue Lolita was a cattle ranch, and then one that catered to horse boarding. There’s a section of land about ten miles that way that used to serve a nonprofit animal shelter and also gets rented out to the town for markets and special events. Mr. King made a deal with several people involved to keep the ongoing contracts active until the new owners made a decision about that piece of land’s future.”
She side-eyes me. She wants to ask me several questions but is trying to stay professional. I throw her a bone.
“My brothers and I have no intention of terminating any contracts,” I say. “None of us had even heard of Robin’s Tree before Ryan passed and left this place to us. We’re not about to make changes and throw people out.”
Miss Lawson nods. More to herself than me. “Good. That’s good,” she says. “Speaking of new owners, I should point out that as-is, Blue Lolita would still sell for a pretty penny. There’s always been interest in the ranch, even before Mr. King bought it. I’m sure Margaret mentioned that already, but I wanted to make sure I said it at least once.”
We don’t talk about selling the property past that, and I don’t tell her that my oldest brother, Maximus, has already said that he isn’t selling the piece of land Ryan left him. Or that he told us there was no pressure or guilt if we decided not to hold on to ours.
“Ryan meant something to all of us, and it’s up to you to figure out what the land means to you now,” he’d told us just outside of the estate lawyer’s office after the funeral. “No shame in making a decision either way.”
That’s why I’m here in Robin’s Tree, Louisiana, now. To figure out how Blue Lolita fits into my life. Or, really, if it could be a place I can start over.
A place where I won’t see the Girl Beneath the Floorin every dark corner.
A place where I won’t hear the explosion or the silence after.
A place where my scars might get a chance to rest.
But I don’t tell Miss Lawson that, and she doesn’t dig deeper. Instead, we go over a photocopied, hand-drawn map of the land. She shows me dirt roads and offshoots of long-ago washed-out paths and some abandoned structures on the property. There’s a stable that’s in good spirits, according to her, but the barns and rest need some tough love and elbow grease.
When she’s done with her explanation, the sun is almost set. She eyes it with a strong sense of annoyance. Then her phone before she’s talking again. “I wanted to show you the other house on the property, but I’ll be honest, the drive there isn’t the greatest when it’s light out. I’m not sure we should do it at night.”
I nod. “That’s fine with me. I’m in no rush.”
I can see it again—the urge to ask me several questions but refraining—cross her dark-blonde brow. But she looks at her Jeep, and I can tell she has something else on her mind.
“I was just going to head out to grab some things at Walmart in the city before turning in for the night. I can follow you back out now if you don’t mind.”
She’s surprised at the news. “You’re staying here? Tonight? I thought you were at a hotel.”
I shake my head. “This is home now.”
“Oh. Okay.” She looks uneasily at the main house. I know she’s thinking about the state it’s in. It falls under “needing tough love and elbow grease” category too. I’ve seen worse.
“I used to camp a lot as a kid,” I tell her instead. “At least this place has power and water. The rest isn’t an issue.”
