Page 101 of Roaring Fork Wrangler

I followed Hammer’s vehicle, periodically glancing over at Buck, who sat in the front passenger seat. When I did, I couldn’t get the image of Joe Wilkins Sr. out of my head. It was crazy how much he looked like the guy. Not that anyone would’ve known it until they saw a photo of him when he was younger.

I still had no idea how my brother would react when he learned Roscoe most likely wasn’t his father. At least biologically. Not that it would change what he’d gone through as a kid. I wondered if he’d blame our mom. I hated to think he would.

After we climbed out of the vehicle, Hammer led us and Decker into a suite where he told us to take a seat. There were bottles of water already on the table in front of us, so I passed them out to everyone.

“You wanna start, or do you want me to?” Hammer asked Decker.

“I will.” The attorney handed him an envelope from which he pulled several documents. “This is the first time any of us, with the exception of Hammer, will see the Roaring Fork Trust in its entirety.”

“And I only did about twenty minutes ago,” the lawyer clarified.

“What was missing in the previous copies were the introduction as well as the final two pages.”

“Does this say who the trustee is?” I asked, immediately turning to the last pages of what was stapled together.

“It does not. However, it gives insight into why we haven’t been able to find out,” Decker responded.

“The two most important pieces of information contained in what you’re looking at is that the trust is not your father’s.”

I raised my head, as did all of my siblings with the exception of one—Porter. If anything, he looked like he wanted to slide under the table and disappear into a black hole.

“What’s the second thing?” Buck asked.

“The trust was filed in New Mexico, one of only three states where what’s called a ‘ghost trust’ is legal. Essentially, what that means is it was written and filed in such a way that the identity of the trustee or trustees is protected,” Hammer explained.

“Back to this not being our father’s trust,” I said. “I don’t understand.”

“Your father’s death was the trigger that set the trust in motion. Otherwise, nothing I can find indicates he was even aware of it,” said Hammer.

“But his will…” I began, trying to recall what Six-pack had read to us. The one thing that stuck in my mind was that it had been drafted twelve years ago. I turned to the first page of the document I now held in my hand. It was dated twenty-one years ago, which was two years before our mother died.

“Your father had no assets of his own to distribute to any of you. Everything you might’ve believed was his was property of the trust.”

My eyes met Buck’s. He had to be piecing together the same thing I was. The trust was our mother’s, and someone was carrying out wishes that appeared to come from beyond her grave.

“Could Cena Covert have been the trustee?” I asked.

“She might’ve been at one time,” answered Deck. “However, according to Langley, the reason he asked everyone but Cord to meet at his office this afternoon is because another codicil was delivered.”

That meant Cena may have had something to do with my being summoned to the Lilacs, but depending on what this new document contained, it seemed unlikely she could’ve orchestrated it as well.

“The LLC is in good standing and in compliance with all the requirements set forth by the State of New Mexico,” Hammer reported.

I glanced around the table, stopping when I got to Porter. I’d bet my share of the inheritance that he already knew some of what the rest of us were just now learning. I had nothing to back my belief other than the feeling in my gut.

“You mentioned getting Six-pack disbarred,” said Buck. “Is any of how he handled this grounds for it?”

Hammer took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “No.”

Buck looked down at the table where his hands rested on the edge. “So all this time, I thought it was the old man trying to stick it to us like he always did. Instead, it was our mother.”

Our mother. The trust was created two years before she died. Two years.

I closed my eyes and covered my ears when the blood rushing through my system caused so much pressure in my head that I felt like I might have a stroke.

All I knew was I couldn’t allow myself to lose sight of what was happening around me. I lowered my hands. It wasimperativeI pay attention to every nuance, every deep breath or sigh, every furrowed brow, scrunched eyes, or down-turned mouth. It was what I’d always done, paid attention. My nerve endings were on high alert, my eyes—now open—were laser-focused, and my hearing so in tune that when a paperclip hit thetable, I jolted.

“Cord? What’s wrong?” I heard someone ask from what sounded like far, far away. I couldn’t answer, though. My mind was racing too fast.

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