When I opened the door to the mountain lodge I had spent years earning, my sister was standing beside my fireplace with a champagne glass raised, welcoming two dozen people to “her new Christmas place.” My mother saw me first. She didn’t look surprised that Olivia was lying. She looked worried that I had arrived in time to hear it.

Wyatt Evans’ workshop smelled of linseed oil, cold steel, and cured cedar. It was a massive pole barn tucked behind an old Victorian on 4th Avenue in Ouray, heated by a massive barrel stove that glowed dull orange in the corner.

When I walked through the side door, shivering despite the car heater, Wyatt was already sitting at a scarred oak desk with two steaming mugs of black coffee and a stack of manila folders thick enough to stop a bullet.

He stood up when I entered. He didn't offer a hug—Wyatt wasn't the hugging type—but he reached out and took my wet jacket, hanging it near the stove, and handed me a mug.

"Drink that," he said.

His dark hair was touched with gray at the temples, his jaw covered in a day’s worth of dark stubble. His eyes were pale green, sharp and observant. He looked at my face, noting the tension in my jaw and the dark circles under my eyes.

"You look like hell," he said plainly.

"Thank you, Wyatt. Always appreciate your bedside manner."

"Sit."

I dropped into the leather armchair across from his desk. The warmth of the coffee mug seeped into my numb fingers.

"Show me what you have," I said.

Wyatt spread out the folders. "First off, their lawyer in Grand Junction is either an idiot or he’s ripping them off. You can't execute an intra-family quitclaim deed using a power of attorney from a deceased person's estate to transfer property that was never held in probate."

He tapped a blue document. "Your dad’s life insurance was a direct beneficiary payout. It never went through probate. The money was yours the second the death certificate cleared. The house was purchased under your LLC—*Hart Alpine Holdings*—not your personal name. Are you the sole managing member of that LLC?"

"Yes," I said. "Always have been."

"Did your mother ever have signature authority on that entity?"

"Never."

Wyatt leaned back, crossing his massive arms over his chest. "Then they didn't just commit civil conversion, Becca. If they filed a deed with the county clerk using a fraudulent power of attorney, that’s forgery. Second-degree felony in the state of Colorado. Penalty is up to three years in prison per count, plus restitution."

I closed my eyes, rubbing my temples. "Olivia wouldn't have filed it yet. She said Grand Junction. The county clerk's office in Ouray is the only place you can record a deed for property on Red Mountain. If they went to Grand Junction, they were just getting an affidavit notarized."

"Which means," Wyatt said, leaning forward, "as of right now, at this exact minute, that house legally belongs to Hart Alpine Holdings. Period. And every single person inside that house is currently committing criminal trespass."

"Olivia thinks she can out-spend me," I muttered, staring into the dark surface of the coffee. "Jason’s firm has backing. They’ll file an injunction, tie up the title with a *lis pendens*, and I won't be able to pay the mortgage while we fight it in court. She’s betting that I’ll break before she does."

"She's betting on you being the polite, dutiful daughter who doesn't want to embarrass her mother," Wyatt countered. His eyes locked onto mine with an intensity that made the hair on my arms stand up. "Are you that girl, Becca?"

"I was," I said quietly. "Until three hours ago."

"Good." Wyatt picked up his phone and dialed a three-digit extension. "Because Marcus Vance is down at the station finishing his shift. And we have a blizzard rolling in that’s about to shut down the pass for forty-eight hours."

He put the phone to his ear, his eyes never leaving mine.