Bitterroot Queen

by Jove Belle

  Light, floaty giddiness of relief flooded Sam’s body. This was the call she’d been waiting for. Finally, she would be able to move forward. “Yes, I’m ready.”

  “I’ve reviewed your file very carefully, and I wish I had better news for you.”

  The buoyant energy in her chest became a little heavier. “What do you mean?”

  “Because there is no clear date for when the damage occurred, there is no way to prove if it happened prior to you taking ownership or after. If it happened before you were the owner, then your insurance policy wasn’t in effect yet. We can’t pay for damage that occurred prior to the start of your policy.”

  “What about the pictures I sent you?”

  “Yes, we received them, but there is a significant gap between the date the photos were taken and the day you closed. I’m sorry, but they aren’t enough.”

  As Sam listened, she closed her eyes and tried to focus on the words, tried to make sense of their meaning. They tumbled around in her head like a confusing soup of letters with no clear form.

  “I’m sorry, could you repeat that?”

  “Your claim has been rejected. I’m sorry.”

  “Rejected.”

  “Yes.”

  “As in, no money.”

  “Yes.”

  Sam dropped her phone without disconnecting the call and slid to the floor. The bottom fell out of her world.

  ∞

  “Let me see if I understand this right.” George, the apple farmer, stroked his chin. “You’ve been sleeping in your car and you don’t have any place to park it tonight?”

  Olly leaned back against the side of her Scout, one leg bent up so that she could rest the sole of her boot against the wheel. “Yep. That’s about it.”

  “And you want to park in my barn?”

  “Not in it, necessarily. I just need to be off the road. For safety, I’d like to be near the barn because people are less likely to mess with me if it looks like my vehicle belongs.”

  He nodded as though it made sense, but the confusion in his eyes hadn’t cleared yet. “But why not just rent a room? Ava’s got that place above her shop. She speaks highly of you. She’d probably let you stay there.”

  Olly dropped her foot to the ground. It was always like this when she tried to explain her situation to someone like George. He’d lived on his farm from the day he was born. The earth and trees and the sky above were written into his genetic code. He simply couldn’t understand how she could survive without something to call her own. “Thanks anyway. I’ll find somewhere else.”

  She was about to call Rampart to her when George spoke up again. “Whoa there, hot pants. I didn’t say you couldn’t stay. I just don’t understand why you’d want to when you could put an actual roof over your head.”

  “I have a roof.” She patted the vinyl top of her Scout. “It takes good care of me. And I’m still not sure how long I’m going to stay. I have another day, maybe two of work to do for you, and could probably scrape together some more work with Ava. That’s not long enough to justify the expense of a room.”

  “I see. Have you checked the board again? Bitterroot is small, but you might get lucky.”

  “I’ve checked it every morning and evening. Nothing yet.”

  “Don’t give up.” George turned and started to walk away. Over his shoulder, he said, “Yeah, you can stay here. Park in the barn. Safer. And the toilet’s closer that way.”

  George, like many farmers, had a utilitarian bathroom in his barn. Toilet, sink, shower. All had seen much better days. Still, it was better than the pay-to-use showers at a truck stop. She’d clean the place up and maybe give it a new coat of paint as thanks. “Appreciate it, George.”

  “You can cook me dinner tonight.” George stopped after climbing the steps to the back porch. “I’ve got some decent steaks ready for the grill. Come in when you’re ready.” With that, he stepped inside. The screen door slammed shut behind him.

  Olly laughed and kicked at the dirt. A flurry of dust rose up at her feet. Leave it to George to make her feel like she was doing him a favor by eating his food and taking over his barn. When she opened the door to the Scout, Rampart abandoned the dandelion down he was chasing and loped over with a big doggie smile on his face. He climbed into the back, ears up, eyes alert, ready to go. He made her life so much better. She patted his head and climbed inside.

  The barn was located a hundred yards from George’s house. It was relatively new, with corrugated rust-colored metal covering the sides and dark green on the roof. She liked this building. She’d spent a morning cleaning two-year-old hay out of the loft. When she’d finished, she put down a coat of weather sealant to protect the wood and keep it in good shape for many years to come.

  That project had been a great deal more fun than reroofing his equipment shed. That building had more character, and the wear of generations of work showed on every surface, but the roof was high and steep. Even with a safety harness, she had to remain on high alert. It kept her from enjoying the cool vibe of the structure and the sweet smell of alfalfa in the air.

  She backed the Scout through the bay door and stopped in the middle of the large, open work space. George’s barn featured four stalls for horses, along with a larger, fenced-off area for other stock animals, but no actual animals occupied the space. It held the residual scent of cattle, but it wasn’t fresh. It smelled like country and hard work.

  Before heading up to the house, she checked the large roll-up door opposite the one she’d entered to make sure it was locked. She also checked the pedestrian door next to it and glanced at the ladder that led to the loft, thinking she could easily upgrade it to stairs. The loft, now free of hay, was wide open and ran the full length and width of the barn. It was comfortable, and she could picture herself up there. Bitterroot felt good. It drew her in, and here, standing in a barn, of all places, she felt a bit more of that feeling of home notch into place inside her.

  Another check on the plus side of her pro-con list about Bitterroot was that her mom would never want to visit. Olly wouldn’t even have to hide the truth from her. Once she announced that she parked inside a barn to sleep in her vehicle in a small town that relied on a bulletin board in the center of town as the primary method of communication, Linda would mark Bitterroot off her list permanently. She liked her life to be filled with noise, complication, and most of all, people who she could bend to her will. This town offered none of those things, at least not in the quantities that Linda craved.

  As she stood looking at the barn, flashes of transformation lit her imagination. She could easily picture the loft converted to an apartment, with stairs and windows and that glorious view of George’s apple orchard from the second story loft door.

  With her mind full of ideas, Olly set off for the house. George’s steak wasn’t going to cook itself.

  Chapter Nine

  Watts, Groves, and Pritchard Law. They weren’t the only firm in Bitterroot, surprisingly, but they were the only one with a mission statement that included a shout-out to the gay community. That one little nuance made it easy for Sam to call and ask for a consultation. As a general rule, she believed that people should simply talk to one another and work together to find a resolution. She would especially like to use that approach with the Queen, but given the circumstances, she needed to know her options.

  For better or worse, a lawyer could look over the paperwork from the sale, the documents from the insurance company, and the bid for renovations and determine if there were any legal grounds to help her out of this very messy situation.

  Sam took a deep breath, straightened her collar, and pushed open the door.

  Even though the firm was housed in a modest building, the lobby was shiny and modern, featuring a lot of stainless steel, black paint, and mirrors. The receptionist was a petite woman with an open smile. It helped put Sam at ease.

  “Good morning and welcome to Watts, Groves, and Pritchard. How can I help you today?” The recep
tionist even managed to fill a standard greeting with warmth and confidence.

  “Hello. I’m here to see Reagan Stiles. I have a nine a.m. appointment.”

  “And your name is?”

  “Samantha Marconi.”

  “Perfect. If you’d like to sit, I’ll let Ms. Stiles know you’re here.”

  The lobby offered a sleek leather couch, plus a handful of modern chairs. Before she could sit, a young woman— definitely under thirty—approached, hand outstretched. Good lord, she was trusting her future to a puppy.

  Sam took the woman’s hand.

  “Hi. You must be Sam. I’m Reagan. Come on back.”

  “Thanks.” Sam followed her down the corridor. When they arrived at the next-to-last office, Reagan stopped and opened the door.

  “Here we are.” She gestured with the poise and polish of a professional spokesmodel. Reagan’s office was a bit simpler than the lobby. No leather couch and the bare minimum for decorations, which included a tasteful framed print on the wall next to her degrees, various awards on the bookshelf behind her, and a small collection of leather-bound tomes. Law books, no doubt, framed by monogrammed bookends. R and S.

  “Please, make yourself comfortable. Would you like anything to drink before we get started?”

  Sam chose the seat closest to the door. “No. I’m fine.” Actually, her stomach was a tense ball of frustration, and a drink would have to be pretty stiff to help.

  “All right.” Reagan circled the desk—a metal and glass monstrosity that reminded Sam of the private player’s club in her old resort property—and slid gracefully into her seat. “The only note my receptionist gave me about your visit was ‘property dispute.’ Does that sound accurate to you?”

  “In the simplest terms, I think yes.” Sam wouldn’t have called it that, but hearing the words, it felt pretty spot on.

  “So, tell me about it.”

  Sam went through the details of how she came to own the Queen, the state it was in when she arrived compared to the way it was represented online, and finally, the rejection of her insurance claim. As she talked, Reagan occasionally made a note on the tablet on her desk. Sam couldn’t make out the words, but she could clearly see a series of three large question marks. She had no idea if that was good or bad.

  “Did you bring any documentation with you?”

  Sam retrieved the file folder with the forms in question from her satchel. “Here. Copies of the police report, the closing documents for the transfer of ownership of the property, the insurance claim, the official rejection from the insurance company, and the bid from a local contractor. Oh, and I included a link to the photos and itemized list of damage. I put it all in an online album. It just seemed simpler.”

  Reagan scanned the documents, again jotting down notes as she went. “Have the police determined who caused the damage?”

  Sam shook her head. “No, and they don’t seem particularly interested in doing so.”

  “There’s not a lot to go on, unfortunately.”

  “There really isn’t. I suggested fingerprints, but the sheriff’s deputy just laughed at that, which makes sense, I guess, since who knows how many prints are in there.”

  “The odds of collecting civil damages from those individuals are very low, anyway.” She turned to a new page. “No response from the previous owner? That’s interesting. I can reach out to him or her. I might have better luck.”

  “I haven’t called him myself. The realtor left messages on my behalf.”

  Reagan finished reading, closed the file, and set the pen on top of it.

  “You have a few options for how to proceed. You could bring suit against the insurance company. That’s the most likely to succeed, but also the most likely to drag out over years. Or you could go after the previous owner for misrepresenting the quality of the property. Or the inspector for not pointing out the damages.”

  “The insurance company needs to know the exact date when the property was vandalized. Without that key piece of information, they can’t determine who is liable and therefore won’t approve the claim.”

  “Yeah, that’s a pretty standard response. I have an excellent in-house investigator. I’ve no doubt we could determine when it happened.”

  A sliver of excitement skittered through Sam. “Really?”

  “Yes, but you should think a moment about how much that would cost, especially considering the answer may not be what you want it to be.”

  Sam tamped down her enthusiasm. She hadn’t discussed money with Reagan. This whole thing could be a fool’s errand. At the moment, she couldn’t afford much, let alone a drawn-out investigation followed by a drawn-out legal battle.

  “How much would all this cost? Suing the insurance company and investigating the vandalism?”

  “After this initial consultation, which is free, my firm bills at three hundred and fifty dollars per hour, plus expenses. I don’t have an easy answer for how many hours this could take.”

  “And the investigator? I’m assuming that counts as an additional expense.”

  “Yes, typically a hundred and twenty-five to a hundred and fifty dollars per hour.”

  “Ouch.”

  “I know.” Reagan smiled sympathetically. “If you want to pursue the case, I’ll represent you.”

  They spent the next hour going over the points of the case. Sam asked questions, probably too many, because she didn’t understand the process. She’d never been on either side of a lawsuit, and she wasn’t sure if she wanted to go on record with this one. The cost alone was prohibitive.

  Reagan answered her questions patiently. She was thorough and thoughtful with her words.

  The conversation ended with Sam satisfied that, if she decided to move forward, Reagan could negotiate the legal aspects competently. As she stood to say goodbye, a little of the dark heavy weight that had been suffocating her eased. The band of pressure around her chest became almost bearable. Almost.

  “Thank you so much for taking time for me today. I need to think about everything before I make a decision.”

  “Of course.” Reagan shook her hand enthusiastically. “I encourage all my clients to take a night or two to consider their options. A lawsuit, regardless of how big or small, isn’t something to enter into lightly. The process will upend your life, as well as the other party’s. It can be traumatic, even with a good outcome.”

  Sam thanked her again and left. Regardless of her decision, she had a mountain of work waiting for her at the Queen, and every moment of delay was one more that she wasn’t open for business. Renting rooms was the only real way to make this a success.

  ∞

  “Are you ready to talk about it yet?” Karen poured a cup of coffee and slid it across the counter to Sam.

  Beth was up but still in the bathroom. The shuffling noises were growing louder, and Sam expected her to emerge at any moment.

  “Not yet. Let’s get some coffee in me first.” She took a deep drink from her mug. It was too hot and too bitter, but she wasn’t looking for a gentle wake-up. She needed a jolt to keep inertia from setting in. The night of fitful sleep had done nothing to help clear her mind. She was still in shock over the news from her insurance company. The logic of their words didn’t help her accept the message. What the hell was she going to do in Bitterroot if she couldn’t fix the state of the Queen?

  Karen covered Sam’s hand with her own. “This isn’t one of those things that will simply go away if you ignore it.”

  She took a deep breath and reminded herself that Karen was her friend. She was trying to help. That didn’t stop the flash of hurt and anger that flared inside her, but it did keep her from lashing out. “No, of course not.”

  “My offer to help still stands.”

  “And I appreciate that. But can we please wait until I’ve at least finished my coffee?” Sam raised her cup in salute and downed another large gulp.

  Beth stumbled out of the bathroom. “Coffee.”

  Karen filled
a cup and passed it to Beth.

  “Go get dressed,” Sam said. “I’m taking you to the school this morning.” Classes had already started and there was every possibility that Sam would have let it slide again if she wasn’t running so close to the top. She was angry. Not at Beth. Not at Karen. But really, really angry nonetheless. She needed to find a healthy outlet before she alienated everyone around her.

  “Seriously? Mom, I—”

  “No. Enough. This is happening.”

  Beth glared, but didn’t argue. She stomped back to the bathroom and slammed the door.

  “You’re going to need to reinforce the hinges on her bedroom door,” Karen said wryly.

  Sam rolled her eyes. “Tell me about it.”

  “Or you could just remove the door completely. That’s what my parents did when I did stuff like that.”

  Karen was serious, but Sam laughed anyway. The sound was unexpected to her own ears, and she laughed even harder. The outlet she needed arrived as a parenting lesson from someone who wasn’t a parent.

  “What? They really did.”

  “Oh, I believe you. But you have to admit, it’s pretty funny.”

  Karen raised an eyebrow. “Not at the time.”

  “No, I imagine not. I’ll think about it.” Sam finished off her coffee and set the mug on the counter with a determined thud. “Now we can talk about it.”

  “It being the huge gap between your budget and the cost of repairs?”

  Gap was putting it mildly. It was more a ravine. No, a canyon. She was standing on one side of a sheer drop and a shiny, newly renovated Queen sat on the other. No bridge in sight.

  “Yes, that it.”

  “Do you have enough to get started?”

  She’d purposefully set aside enough to carry Beth and her through the first twelve months. Sure, she could dip into that, but it would likely impact her ability to eat later down the line. “Kinda.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means I have some money, but it’s budgeted for other things. And I certainly don’t have an extra three-quarters of a million sitting around to give Alan. That’s...” She shook her head. “Without the insurance, that’s impossible.”