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Luke digested that information. “But what if the later owners never had clear title? What if they kept the property ‘in the family’?”
“You’re talking about a quitclaim deed that’s used to transfer property informally among family members.”
“What’s the difference?” Luke tilted his head. “Is one better than the other?”
“In lieu of a warranty deed, a quitclaim deed legally transfers the property, but it doesn’t guarantee title or ownership.”
“I don’t follow.”
“Let me put it this way.” The clerk looked into space, seeming to gather his thoughts. “A warranty deed says, ‘I guarantee that I own this property, and the title is intact,’ while a quitclaim deed says, ‘I give you whatever interest I have in this property, but I make no promises. My title might or might not be good, and someone else may even own the property, but whatever I have is now yours.’ ”
“So, in case of a challenge…”
“The warranty deed wins in court.”
“Thank you.” Luke shook his hand. “You’ve been a wealth of information.”
“My pleasure.” The clerk’s eyes twinkled. “But listening between the lines, I suggest you get an attorney.”
“Why?”
“In Texas, squatters have rights.” The clerk gave a wry laugh. “If a person’s lived on the property in question for at least ten years, he could gain legal ownership through a process called adverse possession.”
“Which is what?” This deed is a can of worms. Luke smothered a sigh.
“The short answer is if he meets five requirements—hostile claim, actual possession, is open and notorious, exclusive, and continuous—the property’s his in the eyes of the law.”
“What’s hostile—”
“Interpreting these legalities is beyond my paygrade and best settled in court.” The clerk held up both hands as if warding off more questions. “Do yourself a favor. Hire a lawyer.”
****
Waving goodbye as Luke left, I glanced at the drizzly sky, then checked the weather app on my phone. With an eighty-three percent chance of rain for the next two hours, I decided to wait before pruning vines.
“It’s a sleepy morning, anyway, Teddy.” Yawning as I pet the dog, I eyed the rocker. Luke said he slept all right. Wonder if it’s comfortable.
I eased onto the cushioned seat, rested my elbows on the chair’s arms, leaned back, and gently pushed off with my feet. My eyelids closed as I rocked, and within minutes, I slipped into a deep sleep.
Chapter 13
Marianna held her baby close, stroking his fine hair as she breastfed. Rocking relaxes Kenneth. She smiled at the tiny bundle in her arms while she rhythmically rocked the chair with her foot.
When he whimpered, she moved him to her other nipple and caressed his smooth, soft back.
But as he fussed, he began coughing, then gasping for breath.
Marianna gently patted his back as he rested against her shoulder. Then she shushed him and sang Hush-A-Bye Baby.
The dream setting changed. Tears running down her cheeks as she cradled the motionless bundle, Marianna watched from the cabin’s doorway. Ramon jabbed the crusty soil, straining to break through the hardpan. His shovel gave a metallic ring each time it hit a rock, but he wiped his brow, stabbing again and again.
Marianna held the wrapped baby until the last moment. With a parting kiss, she tucked a small container inside his patchwork quilt, and lay her son to sleep for the last time.
His face stoic, Ramon covered the grave and stood the etched flagstone in the ground.
Again, the dream transformed. The setting remained the same—Marianna stood by the grave, tears running down her cheeks—but the timeline changed. The toppled stone had darkened with age.
Still dreaming, I saw myself standing beside the grave. A silent spectator, I recognized the loquat tree, but the blossoms had grown into juicy clusters of fruit.
