Chapter 3 - The Call to Ouray
I didn't scream. I didn't lunge at her. When you grow up with an alcoholic military father and a mother who gaslights you to survive, your body learns that rage is a waste of fuel. Fuel must be conserved for survival.
I stood up, dusting off the knees of my jeans.
"You have twenty minutes to get every single person out of this house," I said.
Olivia laughed—a short, derisive bark. "Or what? You'll call the cops? The sheriff down in Ouray is Jim Sterling. Jason took him fly-fishing two weeks ago when we came up to inspect the place. Jason donated two thousand dollars to his reelection campaign. Who do you think he’s going to believe? The respectable couple hosting an upscale charity preview, or the unhinged sister covered in road grime claiming she owns the place without a single piece of paperwork in her hands?"
I didn't answer. I walked past Olivia, out of the bedroom, down the hall, and through the great room.
The party had resumed, though the energy was tense. Aunt Carol looked at me with pity as I walked toward the front door. Jason was by the woodstove, refilling someone’s wine. He gave me a condescending little nod, as if to say, *Good girl, go sleep it off.*
I opened the front door, walked out into the freezing air, and slammed it behind me.
The cold hit me like a physical blow, shocking my lungs and clearing the red haze from my vision. It was five o’clock in the evening. The sun had dipped behind the jagged peaks of Mount Sneffels, casting the valley into a deep, bruised purple twilight. The thermometer on my porch read eight degrees.
I marched to my Subaru, the gravel crunching under my boots, and got into the driver’s seat.
My phone was sitting in the cup holder. I pulled it out, plugged it into the dash charger, and scrolled past my mother’s three missed calls until I reached a name saved under *Wyatt – Stone & Timber*.
Wyatt Evans was thirty-nine, a third-generation Ouray native who looked like he had been carved out of the local granite. He was six-foot-two, possessed an encyclopedic knowledge of San Juan County building codes, and had spent four months with me rebuilding the load-bearing framework of this A-frame. He was also the only man within fifty miles who knew every square inch of the house because he had helped me lay the footings.
The phone rang twice before clicking open.
"Hart," his deep, slow voice rumbled through the car speakers. "Tell me you're not on the pass. Red Mountain is closing in twenty minutes. Avalanche control triggered a slide near the loop."
"I'm at the house, Wyatt," I said.
A pause. Wyatt knew me better than almost anyone. He heard the vibration in my voice that meant violence was barely being contained.
"What's wrong?" he asked, his tone instantly shifting from casual to tactical.
"My sister is here. With my mother. And twenty-five strangers."
Silence. Then: "Why?"
"They broke into the safe. Stole the deed. Olivia says they filed a fraudulent quitclaim deed in Grand Junction using an old estate power of attorney. They're telling everyone Jason bought the lodge for her Christmas present."
I heard the scrape of a chair across a wooden floor, followed by the clinking of keys.
"Where are you right now?" Wyatt asked.
"In my car. In the driveway."
"Did they lock you out?"
"I walked out. Olivia said if I cause trouble, she’ll call Sheriff Sterling. Said Jason took him fly-fishing and bought his campaign."
Wyatt let out a low, dry chuckle that held zero humor. "Jim Sterling retired three weeks ago, Becca. His deputy, Marcus Vance, took over as interim sheriff. Marcus went to high school with me. His sister married my cousin. And Marcus hates out-of-town tech pricks more than he hates bark beetles."
I let out a breath I felt like I’d been holding since I crossed the county line.
"What do I do, Wyatt?"
"You don't do anything stupid," Wyatt said firmly. "You back that Subaru out of the driveway, drive down the switchbacks before the snow plows stop running, and come to my shop in Ouray. I’ve got the digital copies of every single building permit, the registered survey with your name on it, and the original title insurance policy we pulled when we poured the foundation."
"They're drinking my dad's Weller, Wyatt," I said, my voice cracking for the first time. "They're sleeping in my bed."
May you like
"Let them drink it," Wyatt replied coldly. "Because every drop they drink, every hour they stay in that house after being told to leave, adds another zero to the damages when we drop the hammer on them. Come down the mountain, Becca. Let's go to work."
***
