Chapter 4 - The House on the Limestone Bluff
The drive up to the high ridge of the old Keller homestead was five miles of single-lane gravel that twisted through dense stands of frosted shagbark hickory and sugar maple.
The trees were black and bare against the winter sky, their branches coated in a delicate, brittle glaze of freezing rain. The tires of Jordan’s F-250 crunched steadily through the six-inch ruts, the four-wheel drive humming in low gear as the road climbed three hundred feet above the creek valley.
At the summit of the ridge sat the original 1874 limestone farmhouse.
It was built from thick, rough-cut blocks of Indiana Bedford stone, anchored into the living rock of the bluff like a fortress. Unlike Richard’s sprawling, vinyl-sided suburban palace in the valley—which was mortgaged to the hilt and re-financed every three years to float Brandon’s commercial ventures—the stone house on the ridge had no debt. It had stood through three tornados, the Great Depression, and four generations of Keller men who had worked the land until their knuckles were gnarled as walnut burls.
Smoke rose in a straight, fragrant plume of white oak from the western chimney.
Jordan parked beneath the ancient cedar tree near the woodpile, grabbed his deed book from the passenger seat, and stepped out into the freezing wind.
Before he could reach the heavy oak door, the brass latch clicked.
Evelyn Keller stood on the threshold.
She was eighty-two years old, barely five feet tall, with a spine as straight as an iron transit rod. She wore an oversized wool cardigan knitted from raw gray sheep’s wool, dark corduroy trousers, and heavy sheepskin slippers. Her silver hair was wound into an immaculate, tight knot at the back of her head, and her hazel eyes—the exact same shade as Jordan’s—were bright, clear, and terrifyingly sharp.
She looked at the manila legal envelope clutched in his hand.
She didn't ask what it was.
"Wipe your boots, Jordan," she said, her voice dry, rhythmic, and unhurried. "The coffee’s been on the stove for twenty minutes. And put that trash on the kitchen table where the light is good."
Jordan stepped into the wide, stone-floored kitchen. The house smelled of roasted chicory, dried apple rings hanging from the rafters, and the comforting, oily warmth of a cast-iron woodstove.
On the long trestle table in the center of the room, Evelyn had already laid out three heavy, leather-bound accounting ledgers, an antique brass magnifying glass, and a cardboard shoebox tied with faded yellow twine.
Jordan set the forty-eight-page lawsuit on the table.
"The process server was at the gate at seven-fifteen, Grandma," Jordan said, taking off his coat, hanging it on the cast-iron hook by the door. "Richard and Brandon filed in circuit court. They’re claiming Grandfather Thomas was incompetent when he deeded me the North Ridge Tract in 2018."
Evelyn poured two heavy ceramic mugs of black coffee from a blue enameled percolator. She pushed one toward him, sat down in her high-backed wooden rocker, and picked up the summons.
She didn't use reading glasses.
She turned the pages with a slow, mechanical regularity, her fingers smooth and steady. When she reached page nine—where Brandon had signed a sworn affidavit stating that Thomas Keller had forgotten the names of his own grandchildren during the final year of his life—her lips curved into a razor-thin, venomous smile.
"Your brother," Evelyn murmured, not looking up, "is a remarkably lazy liar."
"The claim carries a preliminary injunction, Grandma," Jordan said, leaning his forearms on the table. "They’re trying to freeze Apex’s operating accounts on Monday. I have two commercial framing crews running on the school project in Bedford. If my payroll account is locked, fifty-two men don't get paid on New Year's Eve."
Evelyn set the papers down.
She reached for the cardboard shoebox, slid the yellow twine off the corners, and pulled off the lid.
Inside lay sixteen spiral-bound pocket notebooks, each bearing the green logo of the State Bank of Mitchell, and five high-capacity digital memory cards stored in anti-static plastic cases.
"Your grandfather was an artillery spotter in Korea, Jordan," Evelyn said softly, her thumb caressing the edge of the oldest notebook. "He never trusted banks, he never trusted politicians, and after Richard came back from the service with that puffed-up chest and his talk of corporate development, Thomas stopped trusting his own son."
She pulled out the notebook marked 2018 — Personal Log & Legal Records.
"In July of 2018, two weeks before your grandfather signed the deed to the North Ridge, Richard brought Brandon up here to this very kitchen. They brought a county lawyer from Terre Haute. They brought a document asking Thomas to pledge the limestone rights on the entire six hundred acres to secure a two-million-dollar municipal surety bond for Brandon’s paving company."
Jordan’s breath caught in his throat. "Grandfather never told me that."
"He didn't tell you because he was ashamed of his own blood," Evelyn said, her eyes flashing with a cold, righteous fire. "Thomas told them to get off his porch. And the next morning, he had Dr. Marcus Vance, the Chief of Neurology at Indiana University Health, come to this house with two independent psychiatric evaluators."
She pulled a certified document from the back of the shoebox.
It bore the gold foil seal of the Indiana University School of Medicine:
COMPREHENSIVE NEUROLOGICAL & COGNITIVE COMPETENCY EVALUATION
PATIENT: THOMAS L. KELLER (DOB: 04/12/1932)
DATE OF EXAMINATION: JULY 22, 2018
FINDING: PATIENT EXHIBITS ZERO DEFICITS IN EXECUTIVE FUNCTION, MEMORY RETENTION, OR VOLITIONAL REASONING. FULL LEGAL COMPETENCY TO EXECUTE TESTAMENTARY AND CONVEYANCE INSTRUMENTS CONFIRMED.
"The entire three-hour evaluation was recorded on digital video by the county probate recorder," Evelyn said, tapping the plastic cases. "Thomas paid five thousand dollars out of his personal checking account to ensure the video, the medical records, and the neurological telemetry were deposited into the master judicial archives in Indianapolis under seal, specifically to be opened if Richard ever challenged your title."
Jordan looked at the medical certificate.
A profound, staggering wave of relief washed through his chest, followed immediately by an even colder realization.
"They knew," Jordan whispered. "Richard knew Grandfather had the evaluation."
"Of course Richard knew," Evelyn spat. "He was served with a copy of the competency notice seven years ago. He kept this lawsuit in reserve. He waited until Thomas was in the ground, waited until he thought the doctors were dead or retired, and waited until Brandon’s debts were so high that the state was about to seize their trucks."
She leaned forward, resting her hand over Jordan’s rough, calloused fingers. Her skin was dry and paper-thin, but her grip was like a steel clamp.
"Now let's talk about the bicycle, Jordan."
Jordan stiffened. "What about it?"
Evelyn reached into her apron pocket and pulled out a small, printed receipt on slick thermal register paper.
BLOOMINGTON CYCLE & SPORTS
DATE: 12/21/2026 — 04:14 PM
ITEM: 20" FLAME-SERIES YOUTH BICYCLE — RED
ITEM: PINK GLITTER KARAOKE STAGE SYSTEM
TOTAL: $642.18
PAYMENT METHOD: COMMERCIAL FLEET CARD #4402
AUTHORIZED SIGNATURE: BRANDON KELLER
Jordan stared at the thermal paper.
COMMERCIAL FLEET CARD #4402.
The blood roared in his ears like an oncoming freight train.
Card 4402 was not Keller Enterprises' corporate account.
It was the auxiliary fuel and supply card for Apex Timber & Frame—the secondary corporate account Jordan had established in 2022 at the rural credit union in Bedford, an account that had an active equipment purchasing bridge linked to an old joint equipment escrow he had never fully decoupled from his grandfather's estate.
Brandon hadn't just stolen the wish list.
Brandon hadn't just given the gifts to his own boys to make Richard look like a generous patriarch.
Brandon had walked into Bloomington Cycle, handed the clerk Jordan’s corporate commercial charge card, forged his brother's name on the digital pad, and walked out of the store with Liam and Maisie’s Christmas presents on Jordan’s own dime.
"He used my company card," Jordan whispered.
The sentence was barely audible, but it carried enough weight to shake the foundations of the limestone house.
"He did," Evelyn said, rising from her chair with the slow, terrifying dignity of a matriarch preparing for war.
May you like
She walked to the wall phone beside the pantry, picked up the receiver, and dialed a number she had committed to memory fifty years ago.
"Arthur," Evelyn said into the receiver. "It’s Evelyn Keller. Tell your junior partners to put their holiday coats back on. My son and my grandson have committed grand larceny, forgery of court instruments, and commercial fraud. We're coming into town."
