Then they found the offers.
"Look at this," Joy breathed.
The letterhead read Western Development Associates in bold typewriter font. Below, in formal legal language, an offer to purchase "the property commonly known as Timber Bear Ranch."
Joy gasped. “The ranch,” she whispered.
Andre checked the date. March 1974. The offer was generous, above market value.
"And here's the rejection," Joy said, holding up another letter. This one was simpler, signed by someone named Harrison Kincaid. "The property is not for sale at any price."
Andre found the second offer, dated two months later. Twenty percent above the first. Again, rejected.
The third offer came with additional pressure. References to "the changing economic landscape" and "opportunities that won't last forever." Fifty percent above market value.
Joy's hand tightened on the paper. "They were desperate."
The fourth offer abandoned all pretense of professional courtesy. Nearly double the market value, but the language had turned aggressive. "Final opportunity" and "consequences of shortsighted decisions."
"Look at this," Andre said, pulling out a folder from the second box.
Legal documents. Threats of eminent domain. Claims that the resort would benefit the entire community, that the Kincaids were selfishly blocking progress. Each document met with responses from the family's lawyer.
“This is insidious,” she said through clenched teeth. “Why did I never hear about this?”
Joy organized the papers by date while Andre photographed. They worked in focused silence, only the click of his phone camera and the whisper of old paper breaking the quiet.
In the third box, Andre found what he'd been looking for.
"Articles of Incorporation," he read aloud.
The document was standard legal boilerplate, except for one line. "Western Development Associates, a subsidiary corporation. President: Samuel Prescott."
Joy's breath caught. "There it is."
Andre photographed the page, then the next document. A hand-drawn map of the proposed resort. His stomach clenched as he recognized the boundaries.
"This is our ranch," Joy said, her finger tracing the property lines. "Every acre."
The map showed everything. The main lodge was positioned exactly where the Kincaid house now stood. Estate homes dotted the pastureland. A private airstrip ran through where Joy's hives had burned just days ago.
"He'd already spent a fortune," Andre said, finding architectural blueprints, engineering studies. "Look at this invoice. Fifty thousand dollars just for the initial site planning."
Joy found a folder marked "Investor Package." Inside, letters of intent from wealthy backers. All contingent on securing the necessary land.
"Without Timber Bear Ranch, he had nothing," she said.
The final documents told the story's end. Investors withdrawing. Loans called in. Prescott's empire crumbling because one family wouldn't sell their heritage.
Andre photographed the last page, his hands trembling slightly. The weight of history pressed down on them. Fifty years of resentment, festering and growing, passed from grandfather to grandson like a poisoned inheritance.
“We need to talk to my dad about this, see if he remembers anything,” she said quietly.
They packed up the documents, thanked Angela, and headed for the truck. The afternoon sun felt too bright after the dim records room. Andre's bear pushed against his control, wanting to run, to fight, to protect.
As they drove toward the ranch, the mountain road winding through familiar curves, Andre couldn't shake the feeling that they were racing against time. That somewhere, Jason Prescott was looking at the same maps his grandfather had drawn, planning to finish what had been started fifty years ago.
Chapter
