Page 3 of The Inheritance At Bourton

She pressed her fingers to her temple. She thought about her mother, young and in love and marrying an Englishman in a Vegas chapel. Had her father known they needed to register the marriage in England? Or had they been so caught up in each other that the legal details hadn't mattered?

"There has to be something," she said. "Some record. Some proof."

"I've searched your father's papers, the library, and even the parish records, but I found nothing."

"Then we'll look harder."

Leah dug deep. She’d been knocked down too many times in her life.

She was done getting bowled over by people with more money and influence.

No more.

"I'm not giving up. I'm not letting Madeline Hargrove take my rights away from me because of some technicality about paperwork that should have been filed forty years ago."

He nodded. "I'll help you. Whatever you need."

"Will you?" The question came out harsh. "Or will you decide I can't handle the truth and keep things from me again?"

He flinched. Good. She wanted him to feel that.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I should have told you."

"Yes. You should have."

"I know," he said quietly.

She was mad at him, but she couldn’t stay mad. He was just one of those people who wanted to be a protector. He had dedicated his life to taking care of the estate and the family that owned it. He was the one who took care of her father in his final days.

“I’m not quitting,” she said, reaffirming her conviction to fight.

“I’m going to shower. I have work to do.”

Chapter Two

She called the solicitor at nine o'clock sharp.

The number was on the letterhead she'd been given back in the hospital. It was the same firm that had managed her father's affairs, and probably her grandfather’s, too. She'd written out what she wanted to say on the back of an envelope because her hands were unsteady and she didn't trust herself not to ramble.

"Mr. Whitfield can see you at half past eleven," the woman said. "Can you get to Cheltenham?"

"I'll be there."

She hung up and looked at the phone in her hand. That had been easy. Almost too easy. In her experience, professionals who could see you the same day were either very good at their jobs or desperate for the work.

Rowan was still in the kitchen when she came back downstairs, showered, dressed, and armored in the pink sweater. He'd washed the breakfast dishes. He was standing at the counter with her lists—the garden lists, the greenhouse sketches, and the pages and pages of plans that meant nothing to her now that it was all at risk of disappearing.

"I have an appointment with the solicitor," she said. "In Cheltenham."

He looked up. "I'll drive you."

She didn't argue. She didn't have a car, and the bus would take most of the day. She was too tired to act like pride was more important than being practical.

“Thank you.”

The drive took forty minutes through gray country. The hedgerows were bare, the fields beige, and a fine rain started, streaking the windshield. Dreary. That was the only word she could put to it. They didn't talk much.

The solicitor’s office was nothing like some of the flashy attorneys’ offices back in the States. The waiting room had four chairs and a framed print of a hunt scene. Leah sat with her coat on her lap and her envelope of notes in her hand. Rowan sat beside her, quiet, his hands folded between his knees.