Page 181 of Tessa and Nash

“Good night.”

Clara also disappears down the hallway to see the mayor as planned.

Their voices fade as they continue debating the issue outside the office.

I sit there staring at the closed door.

Buckhorn has turned the McCoy ranch proposal into its favorite kind of spectacle: a moral debate disguised as a land dispute, with every conversation sharpening the story into something simpler and louder than the truth has ever been.

Everyone has chosen a side.

In one version of the story, the McCoys built their success on stolen ground and protected it through charm and influence.

In the other, the Long family has spent decades nursing a grievance that refuses to die.

Both stories are tidy.

Both stories are incomplete.

And every time I try to complicate the narrative, the response is the same polite nod followed by a quiet return to the simpler argument.

Exactly the outcome my uncle would prefer.

I rub my temples and gather the files into a tidy pile.

For eight days, I have told myself that patience was the responsible choice, that stepping carefully would prevent the situation from escalating, and that silence, at least temporarily, would allow the facts to emerge on their own.

Silence, however, has a way of creating space for other people’s stories.

Buckhorn has never struggled to fill empty space.

By the time I leave Town Hall, the streetlights are already shining against the snow. Most of the businesses on Main Street have closed for the evening, their windows dark and unwelcoming. Just like my mood.

The Long House greets me with its usual stillness when I arrive.

Inside, the lamps are already lit.

My grandmother sits in the front sitting room with a book open on her lap when I step through the door. She looks up immediately, her expression sharpening with the kind of quiet attention that has always made me feel slightly transparent. “You’re late.”

“Work,” I say, setting my bag down beside the chair.

She studies my face before responding. “You look tired.”

“That’s true. I am.”

I lower myself into the chair across from her, resting my hands loosely in my lap while the room settles into a comfortable silence.

Eventually, I say, “The town has turned this into a spectacle.”

Her brow lifts slightly. “That seems inevitable.”

“Everyone is debating the rivalry as if it were a courtroom argument,” I continue. “McCoys as thieves. Longs as victims. The entire history reduced to two positions that fit neatly into conversation.”

“And you disagree with both.”

“Yes,” I reply. “Because it isn’t that simple.”

“No,” she agrees calmly. “It never was.”