Chapter Sixteen
Tyler typed in the final cell of the spreadsheet and jotted notes on his legal pad. He’d slogged his way through every single bank statement. His grandparents should have hired an accountant, because even though Gramps could build just about anything, he’d had only a sixth-grade education, and it showed. The farm’s financials had been a wreck when Tyler had inherited. He’d spent weeks with his accountant combing the books, the expenses, the milk production costs, residual farm costs, and realized his grandparents would have had more disposable income and might never have needed oil royalties in the first place if they’d only managed the books better.
His eyes landed on a sum in the statement. The check deposit—a paper check because Gramps hadn’t known how to deposit checks online. Similar deposits over the past decades had also been made, congruent with matching financials from Fossyl indicating a payout. And they were far from consistent. There were no checks in the ’80s and ’90s.
But he remembered seeing the pump-jacks pumping when he was a tween, out on those back hills hunting for fossils with his cousins. Premonition filtered through his gut, leaving a sour feeling. The bank statements didn’t add up. What Fossyl’s records had indicated they’d paid out, was a tad more than what his grandparents had deposited. The bankers that would have worked for his grandparents defunct bank had passed away, so he couldn’t reach out to them to clarify the discrepancy.
Something was amiss. The original contract for the mineral lease in the ’60s had stated Josiah and Mathilda McClintock would receive sixty-one dollars per acre as a one-time signing bonus. There were eighty acres that fell under the contracted subsurface mineral rights. That should have been 4,880 dollars up-front. He scanned through his spreadsheet and isolated the year 1961. There had been a signing bonus paid for 4,819. No indication of any fees or taxes. Why hadn’t it been the full amount they’d been promised in the contract?
He slid the copy of the original contract that his granddad had signed fifty-eight years ago, that Tyler’d had to jump through legal hoops to get, because his grandpa’s filing system had consisted of stacks of milk crates filled with old farm supply warranties and expired Folgers coupons, no rhyme or reason, but no copy of the contract. Again, he read through the legal speak, flipping each page, combing through each section. Clear as day, it stated eighty acres leased. There was no noted fee that the company stated they would withhold.
The deposited bonus was sixty-one dollars short of the total sum it should have been.
Sliding his phone across the desk, he opened his calculator to verify his mental math. He then checked the financials of payments Fossyl had sent him. The amount mailed via check to his grandparents was redacted. He harrumphed. Of course it was. But still. The bank statements weren’t redacted. And his grandparents had been stiffed one acre’s amount of signing bonus.
“I’ll be damned.” He shook his head. Gramps and Grams had been scammed.
Fossyl had shortchanged them an acre, and if those pumps had pumped when he was a kid, then where were the royalty payments from the ’90s? Perhaps it had been an oversight?
“Not likely with these oil bastards.” No, no doubt Fossyl had taken advantage of the “dumb farmers.” If he could just demonstrate their dishonesty, he might have a case to bring against them in court—
The landline rang. He snagged up his handset, glancing at the name on the screen: Tarrant Allegiance Auto and Boat Insurance. Heather had played phone tag with them a few times since Sunday, but as far as Tyler knew, nothing had been done about her claim.
He pressed the answer button. “Tyler Dixon.”
He jotted notes about cross referencing each quarterly royalty with the number of barrels of oil produced.
If Fossyl had skimmed off the top of his grandfolks’ signing bonus, he wouldn’t put it past them to have skimmed off the top of the royalties, either. Hell, there was no indication they’d been paid a cent throughout the ’80s and ’90s when the pumps were supposedly defunct. And over the course of decades…skimming off the top could add up to a hefty sum.
“This is Chet from Tarrant Allegiance. I’m trying to reach Heart Carvalho?”
“You got an update about when you’re gonna pay out on her claim?” Tyler said, leaning back in his chair and propping his ankle on his knee. “’Cause y’all have had nearly a week to look at pictures of her smashed vehicle and come to the conclusion that it’s totaled.”
Chet cleared his throat. “I’m not at liberty to discuss the details of her claim with anyone but her, sir.”
Tyler frowned. “Hang on a moment.”
He muted the phone and put it down, opening his texts. He and Heather had finally exchanged cell numbers. But he hadn’t texted her yet. Having her number felt like a milestone. Which was ridiculous, because milestones were only for people in a relationship, and after he’d woken up today, tangled blissfully with her body and realizing he didn’t want to extract himself and get out to the barn, he’d realized he was wading in dangerous territory: falling for someone who didn’t want to fall for him, who kept things from him, just like Isabella had.
He opened his texts. Typed in her name: Tie-Dye.
Tapped out a message.
Tyler:Call at the main house about your insurance claim. Want them to call your cell?
He sent it. It looked boring. Like what a husband would send to his wife after thirty years of marriage followed by a request that she grab bread on her way home. He snorted to himself at that. Should he have added something personal? This was their first text. It had another “milestone” feel even though it was just a message. He’d thought about texting her all morning just to check in, to ask why she’d skipped breakfast again except for taking an orange with her, had noticed her charging cable discarded on his kitchen island, per usual, meaning, her phone was probably on .01% battery life, lying right next to a handheld GPS that was dismantled in pieces and a tiny tool kit scattered beside it. Never in a million years did he consider that sharing a house with a woman would consist of her tools and tech scattered about rather than makeup. He’d also straightened her shoes in the tray again. The woman was a damn tornado all by herself, leaving her mark in every room she swirled through.
He liked it.
He glanced at the phone where Chet was waiting. Looked back at his text to see if the transmission was still pending. The phone finally blipped and the message delivered. He unmuted the landline.
“You still there, Chet?”
“Yes, sir.”
“It’s gonna be a minute. Don’t hang up.”
He muted the phone again and didn’t wait to hear his reply. Checked his texts. If Heart was in the throes of survey work, and her phone was lost in whichever pouch she’d forgotten she’d put it in, it could be a while before she replied. He went back to his Fossyl notes. Maximized the spreadsheet so it took up his whole monitor—