Chapter 4

For a long moment, nobody moved.

Junelle stood with her mouth open, the wine-red jacket suddenly too bright against the muted greens and browns of the grounds. Bill Thornton held the paper in his hands as if it might burn him. The other committee members looked from Cyrus to Junelle and back again.

Then someone coughed. Then a horse stamped in its stall. Then Gene, the ring steward, said in a small voice, "Should I, uh—should I still do the schedule for next weekend?"

And like that, the spell broke.

"Junelle." Bill Thornton's voice was careful now, measured. "Is there something you'd like to say to Cyrus?"

She blinked. Twice. Her hand went to her hair, the black velvet helmet cover, patting it as if to make sure it was still there. "This is—this has to be a mistake. A trick. He—the Doyles were never—they were the *staff.* We paid them. Every month. My father paid his father in cash, every month, and they took it, and they never—"

"Did your father sign anything?" Thornton asked. "Any agreement? Lease? Rental contract?"

"I—" She stopped. Her mouth worked. "There was never a need. It was always understood."

"Understood by whom?" Thornton's voice was flat. "Because the county recorder understood it as a transfer of title, dated December sixteenth, eight years ago. That's the date on the recording stamp, Junelle. That's a public record. Any of us could have looked this up at any time."

"I didn't—I never thought to—" She was stuttering now, her composure cracking in front of the whole committee. "This isn't—this can't be legal. He must have coerced his father. He must have—"

"My father was dying," Cyrus said. His voice was quiet, but it carried. "He knew what he was doing. He left the paper where I would find it. He told me, 'You don't need to own the ground to keep it. But if you ever want to, the paper is in the feed bin.'"