Aequitas by Hope Anika (best classic books of all time .txt) 📕

“Dead?”

“Dead.”

“As in...kicked the bucket? Bought the farm? Sleeping with the fishies?”

“Er…yes.”

“Huh,” Cheyenne Elias said. “Well. Better late than never.”

The punctuated silence on the other end of her cell phone spoke for itself—silencing people was something at which Cheyenne was proficient. The sad fact of it was, shutting people up was ludicrously easy, because they were usually so full of foolish expectation.

Death brought the expectation of grief. But grief was a product of loss. And this was…

Plus column all the way, baby.

“I contacted you because you are named in Ms. Humboldt’s will,” the voice on the other end continued, rather doggedly. “To inform you that you have been designated as guardian to her minor son.”

Shock jolted through Cheyenne.

Shoe meet other foot.

“Huh,” she said again. Which was better than Have you lost your goddamn mind? Or Ha ha ha! Suck it.

Grossly inappropriate, even for her.

“I quote: ‘In the event that my son, Rafferty Humboldt, is a minor at the time of my death, I hereby appoint Cheyenne Elias to be the Guardian of his person. My Guardian shall be held solely to the standard of good faith in the performance of her duties, and shall exercise her authority without the necessity of obtaining the consent of any court.’ ”

Cheyenne filed through the words and tried to think of something to say. A toxic, jumbled mix filled her throat, unfit to speak. Her cell crackled, static filling the silence she couldn’t.

Georgia Humboldt, dead. Six feet under and pushing up daisies…

Try hemlock.

“I realize this is probably a shock. I’m sorry. I urged Miss Humboldt to contact you, to send you a copy of these documents, but she was insistent that you not be notified unless she...”

Died. Unless she died.

“…well, only if it became necessary. I’m afraid her reluctance has left her son a temporary ward of the State of Wisconsin, and if you decline to act as his guardian, he will remain so until his eighteenth birthday.”

Too bad, so sad.

“Balls,” Cheyenne said. Because she wasn’t really that callous. She wasn’t. No matter how easy it would be.

“You can decline, of course. But Miss Humboldt had been confident you would take the boy in.”

Had she now? Well, wasn’t that special?

“Hardy-har-har,” Cheyenne said.

“I’m sorry?”

Talking to herself—while simultaneously talking to someone else—was one of her worst tendencies. And old, bad habit of simply thinking out loud, born when there was no one listening. But sometimes people thought she was nuts, and according to Phil—her anger management counselor—that was the idea.

You deliberately put people off, Cheyenne. Why do you think you do that?

Because people are assholes, Phil.

“Georgia’s idea of a joke,” she clarified. “Hysterical.”

The voice (whose name she couldn’t remember—Smith? Jones?—attorney at law) replied, but it was inaudible, courtesy of the fact that she was halfway up Sleeping Indian mountain, and backcountry trails were generally not good cell receptors. She smacked her phone once, twice, knowing it wouldn’t help, but it felt good. Then a handful of words materialized. “..afraid…don’t follow…meaning?”

“You wouldn’t be the first,” she said and sighed.

Chuck, her three-legged blue heeler, stood a few feet ahead at the crest of the trailhead. He cocked his head at her as she muttered to herself, painfully aware that her peaceful existence had just been blown to smithereens. Again.

“Shouldn’t have answered the damn phone,” she told him.

What had possessed her? Answering an unknown number was a no-no—and something she never did. Because she hated dealing with people. Any kind of people, but especially strangers. You have the social skills of a leper, her publicist, Whitney, had once observed. It’s like you were raised by hyenas.

Not exactly. But close.

“Look,” Cheyenne said, trying her best to sound reasonable. Human. “Georgia and I—we weren’t…anything. You need to call someone else.”

“There isn’t anyone else,” came the reply, oddly clear. “You are the sole guardian she named. If you won’t take the boy, he will go to the State.”

“Not my problem,” Cheyenne retorted bluntly. But she felt something—a ping? a pang?—that might have—maybe—been shame. Dismissing Georgia was nothing, like throwing out holey underwear. But the kid… The Kid. She’d been The Kid, once.

“You won’t reconsider?”

“Ha,” she said, but then—ping! Damn it. “Where’s his father?”

“I don’t know. Miss Humboldt didn’t see fit