Nina wiped down the bar top in slow circles, watching the door. Three years of pouring drinks and asking careful questions had brought her close enough that the sheriff was looking her way again. Now a stranger walks in asking about the canyon, and she has to decide fast whether he's dangerous or useful. The man settled onto a stool and ordered a beer. He was maybe thirty, clean-shaven, wearing clothes too new for this place. Through the window behind him, Nina saw his bike — red and glossy, the kind that cost more than most people here made in six months. He sipped his drink, then asked about the canyon behind Ruiz's property like he was asking about the weather. Nina's hand tightened on the rag. Nobody asked about that canyon unless they knew something or wanted to find out. She poured herself water and met his eyes. "Canyon's just a canyon," she said. He smiled, the kind that could mean anything. Then he slid a folded paper across the bar. Nina opened it with one hand, keeping the other near the phone. The note was covered in cramped handwriting — dates, times, details about vehicles and uniforms that matched what her father had seen. Things an outsider shouldn't know. She looked up, her pulse loud in her ears. The man stood and dropped cash on the bar. "There's a twisted tree at the edge," he said quietly. "Twenty yards east, buried six feet down." He walked out before she could speak. Nina stared at the note, her father's last words echoing in her head. For the first time in three years, she wasn't alone in this fight — or she'd just been handed the rope to hang herself with.

Nina didn't sleep that night. She sat at her kitchen table with the note spread flat, reading it over and over until the words blurred. By morning, she knew what she had to do. The stranger had given her a location, but going to the canyon now would be reckless. She was wiping down the tap handles when the sheriff walked in just after noon. He hadn't set foot in the bar in over a year. His boots clicked across the floor and he slid into the corner booth, the one with cracked pleather and cigarette burns scarred into the wooden table. Nina kept her face blank and grabbed a glass of water. She touched the rosary under her shirt — her father's cross, smooth from years of his fingers working the beads — and walked over. The sheriff didn't waste time. He set a pink velvet box on the table between them and flipped it open. Inside sat a ring with a stone that caught the light wrong, too bright to be real. "Your father's land," he said. "The deed's still in probate, tied up in legal hell. I can make it yours by Friday. Clean title, no questions." Nina's breath stopped. That land had been in her family for two generations. "All you got to do is marry me. Simple as that." Nina looked at the ring, then at his face. He was watching her like a man who'd already won. The land meant access — to the canyon, to Ruiz's property line, to everything she'd been circling for three years. But it also meant belonging to him. She thought of her father's hands on that rosary, the way he'd taught her to wait for the right moment. This wasn't it. She picked up the box and snapped it shut. "I don't need your help," she said, and set it back on his side of the table. The sheriff's smile went cold. He stood and pocketed the box. "You will," he said, and walked out. Nina watched him go, her heart pounding. She'd just made an enemy who knew she wanted something — and now he'd be watching to see what it was.