The Appraisal Put A Price On Garland's Threat To Sell

Felicity read the new filing at our kitchen table until the light outside turned gray.

“Can he do it?” she asked Lenora on speakerphone.

“A co-owner can ask for partition,” Lenora said. “That doesn't erase your share or Callum's lien. It also doesn't mean a sale happens tomorrow.”

“But we could lose the ranch.”

“Yes. We should plan for that possibility.”

I was glad she didn't soften it.

We had enough trouble caused by people telling Felicity what they thought she could bear to hear.

The appraisal arrived two days later: $480,000 for the property as it stood. It included the cottage and the well improvements. The appraiser had found serious roof wear and priced that in.

Garland's proposed $390,000 sale had been $90,000 below that value.

“Was he just going to keep all of it?” Felicity asked.

Lenora spread Mara's sale papers beside the appraisal.

“His proposed seller proceeds showed no distribution to you.”

Felicity touched the edge of the page.

“He told me Mom left my share to keep me safe.”

“She did leave it to you,” I said. “It's still yours.”

We met with a local lender that financed rural property. I wore my work shirt because I had a service call afterward. Felicity brought her pay statements, our tax returns, and a neat list of the ranch's actual costs.

We didn't ask the lender to treat alpacas like a pot of gold. Felicity's wages and my service business had to support the payment.

“What happens if fiber sales are zero?” the loan officer asked.

“We still make the payment,” she said. “Here's that budget.”

I had fourteen regular service accounts. The lender asked for the contracts, two years of returns, and proof of insurance. I supplied them all.

There were things we couldn't afford. We crossed a new ranch truck off the list. We would patch the feed shed roof before replacing it. Felicity refused to cut the animal care allowance to make the budget look better.

“If we have to hide a cost, we can't do this,” she said.

The loan officer kept that version of the budget. I took an extra Saturday service route while we waited for her answer.

Lenora worked through the purchase math with us.

At the appraised value, Garland's half was worth $240,000. If he agreed that his unpaid $78,000 debt could count toward buying that half, the remaining purchase money would be $162,000.

Felicity already owned the other half.

“That credit requires an agreement,” Lenora said. “You can't just announce that the debt bought you land.”

“Understood,” I said.

The figures were simple. Making Garland accept them would be the work.

While the lender reviewed our file, I found him alone at the feed shed. He had been opening a grain sack with a pocketknife. He stopped when he saw me.

“You know what I wanted?” he asked.

I waited.

“A small place. No fences. No midnight calls because something won't drink.”

“You could have told Felicity.”

“She'd have made it complicated.”

“She owns half.”

He folded the knife.

“There you go. That's all you two say now.”

For years, I had helped him find lost pressure, stuck valves, and buried leaks. He had liked me when I solved a problem and left him in charge.

“You asked me for a loan,” I said. “You asked her to sign the security. You knew we both had a say.”

“I thought you understood family.”

“I thought the same thing.”

I went back to the cottage without asking him to like the offer.

Three weeks later, we received conditional approval for the $162,000 purchase loan. We would pay our own closing costs from savings. Approval still required clear title, final documents, and a signed settlement.

We chose to take title together if the deal closed. Felicity's inherited equity and my loan credit would be laid out in a separate agreement between us, so neither person's contribution became a vague family favor.

She read that draft with a pencil in her hand.

“I'm glad we're writing it down,” she said.

“So am I.”

That evening, Garland called.

“Bring the bank letter to the courthouse mediation,” he said. “You and me can settle this.”

“Felicity will be there.”

“I don't need an audience.”

“She's an owner.”

He breathed into the phone for several seconds.

“Fine. But I won't be lectured in front of strangers.”

After the call, Felicity watered the narrow row of herbs we had planted beside the cottage. For months, neither of us had planted anything new.

I carried the empty watering can inside.

On the table lay the formal mediation notice. Below the case number were all three names, printed at the same size.

Lenora had clipped our bank letter to it. Then she called.

“His lawyer says he wants your original note on the table tomorrow.”