PART 3
I handed it to her.
Her eyes moved across the page.
Then stopped.
“That’s not possible.”
The balance was $418,760.22.
June looked at me.
“Grandpa didn’t have that kind of money.”
“No,” I said.
“He didn’t.”
There was another sheet beneath the bank statement.
I pulled it out.
This one was a photocopy of a deed.
The property description took up half the page.
I recognized the county numbers immediately.
It was Grandpa’s farm.
Or at least part of it.
June stared at the paper.
“What am I looking at?”
“Looks like a deed.”
“To what?”
I pointed.
“Your name.”
Her face went blank.
For several seconds, neither of us moved.
Then the sound of an engine came from behind us.
June folded the papers quickly and shoved them back into the envelope.
“Don’t tell them.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“No.”
She looked toward the road.
The Silverado had stopped near the gate.
Mark got out.
Dale climbed from the Jeep.
Aunt Carol was right behind them, still wearing the black dress she’d worn to the funeral.
There was something almost ridiculous about six grown adults standing beside trucks on a dirt road because they couldn’t wait another hour to find out what an old man had left behind.
June locked the envelope inside the glove compartment.
Then she got out.
I followed.
Mark walked toward us.
“What did he leave you?”
June said nothing.
Dale laughed.
“Come on, June. We’re family.”
I almost laughed at that.
Family.
That word had been doing a lot of work for people who hadn’t visited Grandpa in months.
Aunt Carol stepped forward.
“Your grandfather clearly made some kind of mistake.”
June looked at her.
“Mr. Albright read the will.”
“He read what was written.”
“Exactly.”
Carol’s mouth tightened.
“You know what I mean.”
June shook her head.
“No. I don’t.”
Mark came closer.
“Just tell us what’s in the envelope.”
“No.”
One word.
Quiet.
But it landed harder than shouting.
Mark looked genuinely surprised.
Maybe because June had spent two years saying yes.
Yes, I’ll bring groceries.
Yes, I’ll change the sheets.
Yes, I’ll drive him to the doctor.
Yes, I’ll stay another hour.
Yes, I’ll take care of it.
Now she was saying no.
Dale looked at me.
“You know what’s in it.”
I didn’t answer.
“You opened it.”
I said, “It’s June’s.”
Aunt Carol stepped between us.
“Don’t make this ugly.”
I looked at her.
“You followed her down a dirt road.”
Nobody spoke.
Then something happened that none of us expected.
The cattle gate behind us swung open.
Not because anyone touched it.
The wind had caught it.
The metal slammed against the post.
Everyone turned.
And for some reason, June started crying.
Not loudly.
Just two tears.
She wiped them away immediately.
“I need to go inside.”
Grandpa’s house sat another hundred yards down the lane.
Nobody moved.
Then June got back into the Tacoma.
I climbed in beside her.
She started the engine.
Mark shouted after us.
“June!”
She kept driving.
The others followed.
Grandpa’s house looked exactly as it had the day before the funeral.
The porch light was still on.
The newspaper he’d never gotten around to reading sat beside the front door.
His work boots were beneath the chair.
One boot had a dried line of mud across the toe.
June stopped the truck.
She didn’t get out.
“I can’t.”
I looked at her.
“What?”
“I can’t walk in there.”
“You don’t have to.”
She stared through the windshield.
“I was here every Wednesday.”
“I know.”
“And every Wednesday I thought there would be another Wednesday.”
Her voice broke.
“I didn’t know the last one was the last one.”
I didn’t say anything.
Because there was nothing to say.
After a minute, she opened the door.
We walked inside.
The others stayed outside for a moment.
Then Mark and Dale came in too.
Aunt Carol followed.
Nobody asked permission.
The living room still smelled like Grandpa.
Old Spice.
Menthol.
Coffee.
Something faintly medicinal.
June stood in the middle of the room.
Then she looked toward his chair.
His favorite chair.
The brown recliner.
She had spent hundreds of hours beside it.
The blanket she’d washed every week was folded over the arm.
June walked over and touched it.
“That’s where he slept after his surgery.”
Nobody spoke.
She looked at the kitchen.
“That’s where I burned the meatloaf.”
Dale smiled faintly.
“You burned meatloaf?”
June laughed through her tears.
“Once.”
“You said you couldn’t cook.”
“I can cook.”
“You made terrible meatloaf.”
“It was one time.”
For a brief second, we were children again.
Then June’s smile disappeared.
She looked toward the envelope.
“I need to know what he was trying to tell me.”
We went into the kitchen.
June placed the envelope on the table.
She opened it again.
There were more documents beneath the bank statement.
A letter.
Two photographs.
A key.
And a small handwritten note.
June picked up the note first.
It said:
June—
If you are reading this, I am gone.
I know you will be tempted to give everything away because that is what you have always done.
Don’t.
June’s hands began shaking.
She continued.
This is not payment for taking care of me.
You never worked for me.
You loved me.
She stopped.
I saw her swallow.
Then she read the next line.
There is a difference.
Nobody spoke.
Even Carol was silent.
June continued.
The money in the Salina account came from the land.
Not the house.
Not the farm equipment.
The land.
She looked at me.
“What land?”
I pointed to the deed.
“The farm.”
She kept reading.
Twenty-seven years ago, I sold mineral rights on part of the property.
Mark immediately stepped forward.
“Mineral rights?”
Grandpa’s voice seemed to echo through the room.
June kept reading.
I never told the family because I knew what would happen.
Dale frowned.
“What would happen?”
June looked at him.
“Apparently exactly this.”
She returned to the letter.
The first payments were small. Then the company discovered something deeper.
She stopped.
Her eyes widened.
“What?”
I took the letter from her.
The next paragraph was difficult to understand.
But one phrase was very clear.
Natural gas reserve.
Mark swore under his breath.
Dale grabbed the deed.
“Let me see that.”
June pulled it away.
“No.”
Dale stared at her.
“June, this could be worth millions.”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t.”
He laughed nervously.
“Do you understand what you’re holding?”
June looked at him.
“Yes.”
She folded the letter.
“Something Grandpa wanted me to have.”
Mark stepped closer.
“Why would he leave it to you?”
June’s eyes hardened.
“I don’t know.”
Aunt Carol finally spoke.
“He was old. He wasn’t thinking clearly.”
