Page 42 of His Texas Claim

The county annex smelled like burnt coffee and toner, same as it had every time I'd been forced in there for ranch business.

Bryn had her folder clutched to her chest like it might get up and walk off without her—three weeks of paperwork, university letterhead, genetic data, all of it building toward the ten minutes it'd take some clerk behind a counter to stamp it received. She'd barely slept the last two nights getting it right.

"You ready?" I asked.

"Been ready for three weeks." She adjusted her grip on the folder. "Just want it filed. Once it's filed, it's real. Nobody can un-file it."

I reached over to squeeze her shoulder. “You’re doin’ good protectin’ our land,” I murmured.

“Not the land,” she said. “The frogs.” Then she looked at me with a sly smile. “Maybe a little bit the land. Our land, after all.”

I couldn’t help it—smiled right back. She did that, turned everything sideways, made it feel like the two of us were in on a joke nobody else could see.

The overhead speaker stuttered: “Enviro filing, desk four.”

Bryn jolted upright and strode off, boots echoing the ugly tile. I followed, hands in my pockets. She had a way of walking like she already owned wherever she was going; the county annex was just another patch of terrain to trample and catalog.

At desk four, the clerk was the exact shade of gray as her cubicle, hair and cardigan both mousey, glasses too big for her face. She took the folder from Bryn, then flipped it open. “You’re the one with the frog thing,” she said, blinking at Bryn, then me. “It’s been the talk back here. Some endangered animal, right?”

I waited for Bryn to respond. Didn’t have to wait long.

“Smallest frog in North America,” Bryn said, and I knew right then the info dump was coming. “Direct development, no tadpole stage. Only exists in about a hundred-yard section of one spring creek, and the headwaters are about to get claimed. So—” She tapped the line on her own paperwork. “Critical habitat, imminent threat. The frogs have priority. It’s all in there.”

The clerk kept her eyes on the page, nodding along.

“Okay,” the clerk said. “You’ve got the university signoff here, too?” She thumbed toward the third sheet. “And I see the county water survey. Good. Those are what they always forget.”

Bryn sat up a little taller. “I double-checked. Triple, actually. The department chair signed, and the county water survey is the latest one—last fall, covers drought conditions. I highlighted the key bits.”

The clerk grunted, tapping her fingernails against her keyboard as she skimmed. “Looks like you did your homework. Most folks just dump a petition and expect us to chase down the rest. This’ll process faster if I can scan straight through.” She glanced up, not bothering to hide the approval. “You want a timestamped copy for your records?”

“Yes, please,” Bryn said, quick, then turned her gaze to me. Her shoulders stayed up, squared, poised for a fight that apparently wasn’t coming.

“Alright,” she said. “Thanks for the frog facts, Miss Donnelly. We’ll be in touch.”

And that was that.

Done and over with…after weeks of work and a hiking trip that resulted in maybe the biggest change my life had ever seen.

Bryn was talking excitedly as we left, explaining the bureaucratic processes that would happen next: “…and from there it goes to the district office, so if anyone tries to challenge the findings, it’ll already be on the agency docket,” she explained, holding open the heavy glass door for me. “Honestly, I should’ve gotten that woman’s email so I could send her the field audio.” Her phone was out, thumb twitching across the screen, half-listening as we stepped out into the parking lot glare.

That’s when I spotted my father.

He cut a path from the far side, walking like he’d never had a doubt the world would move aside. He had on a black pearl-snap and jeans that looked older than me, boots scuffed at the toes, and a ball cap pulled down so you could barely see the eyes. Cooper fell in step behind him, hands shoved in his pockets, head ducked like he’d rather be anywhere else.

Bryn was still distracted, thumbs flying. “—do you think there’s a way I can get her personal email, or is that a violation?” Bryn asked, not slowing as she typed.

I put a hand to her back, gentle but insistent. We barely made the curb before Arlo was there, blocking the sun, blocking the whole damn parking lot.

His face looked the same as always: creased, confident, just a little smug, more than a little mean. He stopped with boots squared, arms loose at his sides, not even pretending he was there by accident. I felt Bryn stiffen beside me, but she just thumbed her phone dark and looked up, expression flat.

“Well, hell,” Arlo said. “Finally get to meet my son’s woman, huh?”

I didn’t answer. No use in encouraging him. He looked over at Bryn, then back to me, like he couldn’t decide if she was worth his words or not.

“She’s standing right here,” Bryn said, and stuck out her hand. “Bryn Donnelly.”

If he was surprised, he didn’t show it. He took her hand, gave a deliberate squeeze—one that’d made plenty of grown men blink—and if she noticed she didn’t show it. She only tilted her head, assessing him.