by Amy Faye
But he thumbs through it until he sees a name that he's looking for, punches the number into his phone, and waits until it starts ringing.
A woman's voice answers. That's a surprise by itself. But the name she gives is the same one he's used to.
"This is Phil Callahan, over at the Callahan ranch."
"Good morning, Mr. Callahan. How can we help you?"
"I've got a horse I'm looking to sell. I've got all his papers. I think that Glen will be interested."
"Would you like to make an appointment to have Mr. Brand come look at it?"
"Sure. Whenever is fine, I'll be here."
"How's Thursday afternoon, around two?"
"Thursday afternoon sounds great," Philip says. He lets out a breath. Glen Brand used to be a little name in a big game, but he wanted to win. And like most people who wanted to win, and who were committed to winning, he was willing to spend the money it took to get there.
If he had a secretary, that was proof by itself that he'd found what he was looking for.
Maybe, if Callahan was very lucky, he was looking for more of it.
Chapter Fourteen
Morgan Lowe knows that there's a next step. There's always a next step, and she knows that sometimes the next step is to do nothing.
This doesn't feel like one of those times. It feels like there's something she should be doing. This feels like a junction for her. More than that, it feels like it could be a major turning point for Phil Callahan.
The way he was looking at her didn't leave much question about what he was thinking. He'd pulled out of her and not one second later he'd started blaming himself for the whole thing.
He'd started thinking, maybe it was all his own fault. Nothing could have been further from the truth, but that wasn't going to be something that she could just tell him.
She'd made her choices. She'd decided to do what she did. The best thing she could do was sit down and talk it out. He wasn't ready to talk last night. Any idiot could have seen that.
Maybe after a night's rest he could give it some serious thought. Maybe he could see things clearer. Maybe she could sit down and talk things out.
They could get closer. Maybe they could even grow from the entire experience. Was it the right decision to have made? No. She was pretty sure that it wasn't. It was a mistake by all accounts. But there's a big difference between something being a mistake and something being unrecoverable.
The situation was far from being unrecoverable. If she got over there, and she talked to him, then she could probably make everything go back to the way it was. Better than the way it was.
She could have a relationship based on more than just her constant nagging need to be involved in his affairs, built on more than just nagging him into oblivion to pretty-please give selling her the property some thought.
And once a relationship like that was established, you could start seriously working on getting things done.
Which would be very nice to have. It would be extremely nice. It could all lead up to that big win that she's needed. All she had to do was go talk to him, get the air cleared up.
Which is why it's so frustrating that leaving the grounds is the one thing she absolutely cannot do. Brad leans his weight on the desk in front of her with a wolfish smile.
"How's the Callahan ranch going? You drafting up papers yet?"
Whatever he knows, or thinks he knows, he thinks he's got something that will get under her skin.
"It's a work in progress," she says. Flatly.
"You ought to know, the old man's never going to sell that ranch. Never in a million years. Might as well give up. Woman like you, he'll take you for everything you're worth and then drop you with nothing to show for it."
"Thank you for your advice, Brad. I'll keep that under advisement."
"No problem. I know why you're trying to get it. Would look real good to the board. Nobody doubts why you're doing it, and it's a good idea, on some level. But babe—" Morgan bristles at being called 'babe' but keeps it to herself— "you got to admit. It's just not going to happen. You want a man's opinion, that's my opinion."
She hadn't asked him for his opinion, in fact. What she'd asked him for was some feedback on why the crews she'd specifically asked him to keep an eye on were a solid day behind.
And then it had all been a bunch of questions about the Callahan ranch.
"Well, thank you very much, Brad. Did you want to tell me what the hell is going on with crews three and four?"
"Some kinda problem. They say they can't dig."
"If that's the case, then why wasn't I notified?"
"What do I look like to you, some kinda idiot? We were taking care of it, so you didn't need to be called. Damn, girl."
Her shoulders were tight, and it took everything she could muster not to launch right across the desk and rip his throat right out.
"I'm in charge here, Mr. Lang. Don't forget that. You've got not one, but two crews being insubordinate, and you don't bother to contact me once?"
"You were busy," he says. He shrugs.
The son of a bitch keeps arguing like this and she's going to kill him.
"Too busy for a text? So you thought that meant you were in charge? You think you own this factory, you—"
"What the fuck is with you today? Hormones or something?"
She wants to slap him. She wants nothing more in this life than to slap the hell out of him. She bites down on the inside of her cheeks instead, tightens her toes inside her shoes.
"I'm going to talk to the crew chiefs of three and four. You're done for the day. See you tomorrow."
He shrugs again. "Whatever, boss. Y'want to overreact, I won't stop you."
"You're lucky I don't fire your ass, you insubordinate little piece of—"
He's already turned, already shrugging on his coat. He's got no interest in listening to her.
Something inside her says she ought to fire him. Nobody in the world would tell her that she'd been unreasonable to do it. That was some of the most insubordinate garbage she's ever heard come out of anyone's mouth.
Right to her face, no less. Right to her God damned face. And yet, a little voice reminded her. He was in good with the guys. She fired him, it would seem like a reflection on the guys that liked him.
She swallowed her anger. She'd have to ignore it as best she could, because there were bigger, more important concerns than whatever the fuck Brad Lang thought he could do. Bigger than his being a piece of shit.
Right now, she had to get out there on the grounds and find out why, specifically, they say they can't dig. Then she's got to figure out what to do about it, and she's got to do it in a hurry.
The factory's supposed to be up in two months, and running in four. Every day counts. Every day. And every time that Brad Lang lets a crew get behind, it's a big god damn mess to clean it up that only gets bigger as the timeline goes on.
Little inefficiencies like that cause big ripples. It might not seem like much now. It might seem like he can handle it.
He's not going to be the one standing there on the stage when someone asks her why they desecrated some burial grounds, and she has to look like a god damned fool because she doesn't have an answer for them.
He's not going to be the one who has to stand in front of the members of the board and explain why she thought it would be a good idea to create a public relations nightmare that could kill the company outright if they weren't careful.
So whatever the problem was, if she didn't have her hands on it, then she didn't want it solved. Because six months from now, a year from now, two years from now, the solution isn't going to fall down on Brad Lang's head.
It's going to fall down on hers. So she'd better be god damn prepared to answer that question when it comes up, and the only way she can do that is if they keep her in the fucking loop.
She takes a deep breath. She shouldn't let herself get riled up like this.
But it's too late now. She straight
ens her back, pulls back her shoulders. It's past time for her to take back control of this god damn build site.
Chapter Fifteen
It wasn't until the boys were already out working the field that the mail came for the day. It was always like that. Philip took a deep breath and mopped at his forehead. It wasn't as if tending animals was easy work, and even in the coolness of the spring it was hot inside the barn.
Still, the man standing at the barn door called out his name and he answered.
"I've got a letter for you," the mailman says.
"Good," Callahan calls back. What's that supposed to mean?
"Needs a signature, Mr. Callahan."
"I'll be right there."
He carries himself out to the door. The cool breeze blowing in cools his skin comfortably, and he takes a moment before he accepts the little electronic sign-in and scrawls his name on the screen with the plastic stylus.
The scribble that results is vaguely similar in some ways to the signature he might have put down on paper, but the man looks at it and shrugs. Good enough. Then he hands over the letter. His hands straight into Phil Callahan's.
On the front is a label he'd hoped never to see. The Internal Revenue Service was sending him a love-letter, it seemed.
The mailman turns and starts walking off as Callahan tears open the envelope and pulls the papers inside out. Whatever productive work he might have done today is pretty much out the window at this point.
Callahan's blood pressure jumps through the roof as he reads. Each time that it seems as if it can't get any worse, it just does.
A god damned audit? This is hardly the time for that. He's got no time at all. And all because they think he made more than he filed?
He would almost laugh, if it wasn't so god damn frustrating. He'd made next to nothing the past two years. Next to nothing. It was only thanks to the savings he'd built up, when things looked like they might actually be looking up, that he could even keep the place open.
The ranch was relying almost entirely on the hope of getting twenty grand or so from the Black that would put them back on track. If they could do that, then they could get a younger mare, they could get back to seriously breeding again.
The Black was as quick as greased lightning. He should have been thirty. Forty if he found a real good buyer. But now, Callahan had to hope for twenty. And then he had to hope that he could find the right breeding stock and do it for pennies.
Another year without making much of anything. But at least, if he was lucky, this year could be one where he broke even at the end of it.
With an audit going on, though, it's that much harder to do anything at all. It probably wouldn't even be wise to sell the damn Black. If they drop another ten thousand in taxes on him, then there's just no way to pay it.
Callahan settles against the side of his truck and reads through the letter again. The answer is obvious, but it's not one that he likes. He needs money, and he needs it in a hurry.
There's only two places he could make that kind of money, on a good day. Selling the Black, and fleecing some guy for all he's worth, that's the first.
The second… well, it's only a ten minute drive on the highway to get to the Lowe Industrial build site. The thought turns his stomach.
But a ranch somewhere is better than no ranch at all, and with the government about to be digging around and trying to find anything they can to make his life hell, it might be the only option.
He'll have to make a decision, and soon. The big hope is that the meeting with Glen goes real well, and he can get the Black gone as soon as possible.
Barring that…
Callahan cuts his own thoughts off. There is no 'barring that.' He'll have to hope to hell it happens. Because there's no way that he can let the ranch go.
Chapter Sixteen
Her blood was still boiling after the morning's little… chat with Brad. He hadn't come back, which was something. He didn't seem like the kind of person who took "go home" as anything but a challenge.
Which left the problems with the build site. Thankfully, nothing as bad as she had feared. Nothing as minor as she'd hoped.
A sinkhole had opened up, and until it had been completely stabilized, they couldn't exactly put down foundation, could they?
They were already well under way working on that, but it wouldn't be finished for days. Possibly as much as a week. There was a little space for error. Probably enough space, and if there wasn't enough space, then plans just got changed.
Morgan tried to remind herself that they'd set aggressive goals for themselves. There was no reason that every goal had to be hit, as if they were some kind of supermen.
If you fall short of an 'aggressive' timeline by a few days, you're still months ahead of the competition. But there's a good deal of embarrassment involved with not being able to say that you were completely on track the entire time.
And as the new head of a national company, with no public experience running a company—regardless of what happened behind closed doors after her father got sick—her reputation needs to be stainless.
Which is why, even though it's hardly a big deal, she's not going to leave this detail out of the weekly call back to the board in Nevada.
Maybe she should. Maybe she'd just be spooking them. But it's a decision that needs to be made, and she's just made it.
Her heart thumps loudly in her chest. No problem. No problem. She can do this. She picks up the phone and dials in to the conference call.
A minute later she's in.
"Who do we have?"
A round of voices respond. She ticks them off in her head. Peter's here, James is here, Ron is here, Shane is here, Andrea's here. Which leaves Will, Lana, and Craig.
Nobody talks. It's not a friendly chat. No doubt every one of them is looking to get this over with, but it's something that needs to be done. Nobody likes to have these talks; it takes time out of the day, and involves a serious risk that they're going to hear something that they very much don't like.
But on the other hand, it's better to know what's happening at Lowe Industrial than to not know, and it's better for Morgan to make sure that they're not freaking out at the first media reports that reach their ears, because they already know what's happening.
Because she's already made her bi-monthly report on how things are really going around the build site, around the factory, and on the financial side of things.
Lana arrives next. She's perhaps the bubbliest of the lot of them; the only knock-on effect it has is that she sounds a little more energetic when she says hello.
Will and Craig arrive minutes later.
"That's everyone here, then?"
Everyone goes through again. It's all of them. Morgan takes a deep breath and holds it in. Her heart beat speeds up a little with the extra oxygen, and when she breathes out, it slows down again.
"First order of business," she begins. "The Wyoming factories."
She looks down at the notes in front of her. She knows what they say, and the words make good sense in her head, but it feels like her eyes aren't reading them correctly somehow. She does her best to ignore the nerves that keep threatening to crop up.
"I can confidently say, we haven't hit any major snags. We've got a small delay, in the form of some unstable ground on the Western campus, but we've already identified the problem. A fix shouldn't add more than two days to the total build time, and our men are confident that they won't find any further issues."
Her fingers tap on the table, waiting for someone to break the silence. She should be getting some sort of reaction… right?
"Good news, then?"
"I mean, you always hope for the best, but you prepare for the worst. In this case, I think we're closer to the best-case than the worst-case."
The ton of the conversation seems to be in general agreement.
"Second. I've taken on a little bit of a side project, but one that I think will pay out significant dividends when it pays
off."
She takes a breath in and hopes that nobody asks specifically how it's going.
"You'll all be aware of what I'm referring to when I say that I'm looking at purchasing the Callahan ranch. I'm not quite to the stage of negotiating on price yet, but I'm confident—"
"Your father was adamant that the man wouldn't sell. What makes you think that this time is any different?"
It takes a real effort for Morgan to swallow the response that pops into her head first.
The biggest difference is that he was a shell of the man who she knew growing up. He'd been knocking on heaven's door for months up to that point. It was amazing that he managed to get out of bed every morning, and Morgan was thankful for every second that she had with him.
But he was in no position to try to do any negotiating. It was an absolute and utter wonder that he'd bought what property he had. But he wasn't at his best, and he wasn't prepared to deal with a difficult case like Phil Callahan's.
She's not willing to say that, though. Not in the least bit. Because that would mean throwing her father and his memory right under the bus. And not only didn't she want to do that, but it wouldn't even serve any purpose.
"Well, to start, as I said I’ve been treating this as a long-term project. As a matter of course, Mr. Callahan doesn't intend to sell. But that's only a starting position, of course.
"There's no reason to assume that under the circumstances, he might not change his mind, or that I might find some situation in which he might be more willing to part with the land.
"If I can find that circumstance, then I can try to triage the situation and put us both into positions where we're happy with the outcome. In our case, buying that specific plot of land, which enables easy and convenient housing for Lowe employees, as well as more direct transportation between the Eastern and Western factories."
She lets her shoulders slump a little forward. No problem. No reason to be stressed. It's fine. It's easy. She answered the question sufficiently. No doubt about it.
