by Amy Faye
She's still got that vacant, well-fucked expression, as if the world is far too complicated with her brain so scrambled. But she smiles a little more, and leans into his body as he wraps an arm around her shoulder.
"I think I'd like that, too."
He leans down to kiss her forehead.
"Then we'll get to it."
Chapter Thirty
Morgan Lowe's phone, pressed into her shoulder, buzzes, and she jerks awake with a gasp. She'd been having another dream. The ones she doesn't like. It's been happening more and more since Dad died.
She reaches down and flicks to answer the call, hoping to get it before Phil wakes up beside her, and she pads, still nude, out of the bedroom before she puts the phone to her ear.
"Hello?"
It's a woman's voice on the other line, and it takes a minute before she realizes who it is.
"Hello, Miss Lowe. How are you doing this morning?"
She rubs the sleep out of her eyes and tries to pretend she didn't just wake up.
"Things are going great," she says. It's true, as far as she knows. But it would still be nice to know why she's getting a call at five in the morning from anyone on her board, never mind Andrea Neill, who's never been keen on her to begin with.
"Oh, I didn't wake you, did I?"
Morgan presses her eyes shut and tries to get the stinging to go away, but no matter what she does, it doesn't seem to work.
"No, not at all. I was just getting ready to jump in the shower."
"I'm glad to hear it."
Morgan presses her forehead into the wall.
"It is a little early, though. Did you need something? Is everything alright?"
"Oh, of course," the woman on the other end says.
She's not a young woman any more. Well… that would be one way to put it. The polite way. The extremely polite way, even. A less polite way to phrase things would be to point out that she's the eldest member of the board by almost ten years.
For a woman her age, it's a surprise that she gets out of bed in the morning. For a woman her age, with her money, it's a surprise that she makes calls for herself. But she's a woman who knows what she wants and makes sure she's in a position to get it.
"Yes, it's about what we discussed during the phone conference, the other day. You recall, don't you?"
She did. She remembered that they'd discussed things for nearly an hour, and that was before they'd started their bimonthly barrage of questions. "Yes, of course. You didn't need to call, you know. The next conference call is only in a couple of days, I'm sure you've got more important—"
"I'm sure that you're just being polite, Miss Lowe, but if I wanted to wait, I would have. I'm not so old as that."
"I didn't mean—"
"Of course you didn't. Now, about the Callahan ranch, specifically."
"What about it?"
"How is progress going?"
Morgan looks back over her shoulder. He'll still be in bed for another couple of minutes, no doubt. In a job like his, you rise early, but five in the morning might still be early for him.
"It's not clear at this point. I'm not sure if I'm going to continue to pursue it."
The woman on the other end of the line is silent. There's no part of Morgan that believes for a moment that she doesn't have an opinion. Given their prior interactions, there's only a very small part of her that believes that opinion is going to be positive.
"That would be a mistake, dear," she says. If her tone is what she arrived at after calming down for a moment, Morgan's concerned how stern the rebuke would have sounded if she'd spoken immediately.
"I'm continuing to look at the situation from all available perspectives, of course, but as the situation has developed—"
"If you're going to override every man's opinion up to this point, Miss Lowe, you'd better have a pair of cast-iron balls, and you'd better deliver. Now. Are you planning on making sure that you deliver on your promise, and you drive the sale as hard as you can? Or are you going to back out? Because you can back out of anything you like, but—well, that's how we women are, isn't it?"
Morgan leans against the wall. Her body feels heavy, and the one thing she doesn't want right now is to continue the conversation.
"Do you hear what I'm saying, Miss Lowe?"
"Of course."
"Then you'll have some good news for us in a few days, I hope?"
Philip's arms wrap around her waist, his lips press into the back of her neck.
"You'll just have to wait a few days to find out, Mrs. Neill."
"Good to hear. Have a good, productive day, Miss Lowe."
"You too, Ma'am."
She hangs up the phone and turns to Philip. He's pulled on a pair of jeans. They seem to suit him better than the nicer clothes. Between the two of them, they've almost got a single complete set of clothes.
"Work talk?"
"One of our investors thought she'd give me a wake-up call."
He presses another kiss against her lips, and she kisses him back.
"I'm sorry to hear about that."
"I've got what I've got to deal with. When are the boys going to be arriving?"
His face drops. "Yeah, they, ah. They ain't comin' in today."
"Is something wrong?"
His face gets straight again, and then whatever doubt that might have been in his mind is gone from his face.
"Don't worry about it."
The way he's looking doesn't look like something she shouldn't worry about. But against her better judgment…
She'll let it go. Then his lips press against hers and she whatever concerns she had, they would wait.
Chapter Thirty-One
Philip Callahan shouldn't be working. God only knows what he should be doing, but the one thing he knows he shouldn't be doing is carrying a bundle of fence rails on his shoulder out to the truck to finish a job that got stuck in time.
There's a boy in a hospital waiting for surgery.
There's a woman who, for all the surprises in the world, seems to be interested in more than just what she says she's interested in.
And sure, there are animals that need feeding. It's the same as every day. That was hours ago.
More than anything, though, he should have been getting ready for lunch. It's not something that he normally worried about. He ate when he was hungry, and when he wasn't, then he didn't worry about when he was going to get hungry. And there was no 'getting ready' for lunch—he hopped in the truck and headed out.
Most days, he wasn't meeting Glen Brand to talk numbers on a black stallion that he had to trust to rescue him from the tax burden that was doubtless going to drop on his head any day now.
He takes a deep breath and refocuses himself. The rails drop into the bed of the truck easily. This isn't what he should be doing right now. He's right about that. With a deep breath he heads inside. He's not going to go to a meeting in his work clothes, his hands still torn-up and dirty from work in the yard.
An hour later he's walking into the little diner. Glen's got a little pad with him, spiral bound at the top and sized to fit in his breast pocket. It shows a wear that tells Callahan that he can't just assume the sale is final until the ink dries on the contract and the cash is sitting in his account.
"Afternoon, Phil," he says, standing up and reaching out for a firm handshake. It's always strange to deal with Glen because he's got the body of a man who works for a living. His wrists are near as thick as a baseball bat, and he's got a grip like iron.
"Glen. I didn't realize I'd be keeping you waiting, I'm sorry."
The other man gives a hard smile. "Only a minute or two. Don't worry about it."
"You talked to a waitress yet?"
"Like I said—only a minute or two."
Callahan slips into the seat opposite. Unlike Glen, this place is only a few miles from home—he's got the menu just about memorized.
Which means that for better or worse, he's got all the attention in the world
to pay to how much he's worried about the next few minutes, and how they're going to go.
"I've been trying to reach you," Glen starts, looking down.
"Yeah, we had a bit of trouble at the ranch. I haven't been able to spend as much time as I'd like."
It's not a lie, exactly, but it doesn't get down to the point, which in reality is that he's been avoiding returning the calls, because when he does, it's going to mean that either things go well, and the horse goes, or it doesn't go well, and…
Turning over the cards was just too much for a long time. But now, the choice was out of his hands. He needed to get the work done, and that was how it had to be. More than that, he needed the money, and he needed it yesterday.
"Shit, I don't know." Glen looks up. "What's good here?"
"You like eggs?"
"Sure, I guess."
"Eggs are alright. Get the sausage, Saul likes to burn the bacon."
"Right," he says. He looks at the menu a second longer before putting it down. "If you say so."
The waitress comes a minute later, and they order.
"So what were you hoping to get for him?"
It's been a long time since Callahan's had to negotiate. Some part of him worries that he's going to have forgotten something. The thing that he doesn't wonder about, though, is that he's not supposed to be the first one to say something. The first one to say a number loses.
"How about you tell me something you think is fair?"
Glen chews on that thought a minute. Part of him must be thinking that he'd rather not say a number any more than Philip had. But someone's going to have to, at some point.
"I could justify fifteen."
Philip's throat tightens. It's a starting number. It's low, and perhaps too low. But it's only a starting number.
It's a starting number he's going to have to bring up.
The food comes.
"The horse is worth twenty-five," Philip says. "I can't let him go much less than that, I'd be losing money."
Any hope that Glen might buy that is gone when Callahan looks up.
"Fifteen is fair, Callahan. Don't bullshit me."
"Alright. I need twenty. I can't let him go less than that. Honest. That's the least I can go."
Glen smiles, a look that tells Philip what he already knows. A look that tells him that he's lost whatever he'd stood to hopefully gain.
"Twenty's high, Phil. But I can do you a favor, this once."
Callahan's jaw tightens. Glen Brand isn't the kind of man that you want to owe a favor to. But the alternative isn't any better.
Chapter Thirty-Two
There was a mile's difference between a polite conversation about her intentions with the property—if she should buy it, and what it was worth to the company, all while she was secretly hoping to find a way to get back together with the man on the other side of the table—and trying to figure out how much she was honestly willing to spend on it.
And there was an even bigger difference between asking him out to dinner and asking him to sell his property outright. Even if the dinner was supposedly to discuss it.
It's strange how nervous she is, as if someone's sitting on her chest and forcing all the air out of her lungs. She's not even calling him yet. She's just trying to figure out the math on her starting bid.
Making the bid can come later.
But she's got to come with a number in her head, even if she shouldn't come right out and say what that number is. And right now, she's drawing a total blank.
She's too close. It's not hard to realize it. She can't just get close to the guy, know everything about his life, know why he cares so much about the property, and then put that away whenever it's convenient.
She's going to feel for him. Sympathize with him. But that's not something that she can afford to just allow to control her perspective, either. She's got to make decisions that are right for her and for her father's company.
Which means, whether she likes it or not, she can't afford to high-ball him and get him with big numbers. Not if it's more than the property is worth for her and for Lowe.
And looking at the numbers… it's hard to say. If it were on the open market, and she were just buying any three or four acres of land, then she would only be looking at paying two hundred thousand.
Now, that's developed land. There's no way it would sell for two hundred. Not if he were selling to anyone else. They'd see the house, they'd see the barn, they'd see the stables. It's practically a ready-made horse ranch. The only work you'd need to do would be getting the horses.
Which means that she might be looking at… as many as double that, possibly. Is that too much? Four hundred? She's not sure.
The price ranges vary so wildly that it's not clear. More than that, though, he's still not looking to sell. Four hundred would be what he'd get if he were happy with selling, hired himself a realtor and got it sold.
What she's trying to do is to tempt him into selling in spite of that. Her lips pinch.
Normally, she'd say to double it again. Eight hundred thousand dollars is hard to turn down. Hard for anyone. It would be hard for her to turn it down, even if it were a matter of losing on of her locations.
But that raised serious questions of what the land was worth to her.
Eight hundred thousand… that's a lot of money. When you think about writing a check that large, you have to be sure before you put the pen on the paper.
Is it worth it to you? Do you have the money to spare? Can you go any lower anywhere?
And the answer is, as much as she can't stand it, no it's not worth eight. Six. It's worth six. If she stretched, she could justify seven.
The last hundred thousand is hard to justify, and it's hard because of the second question. With two new locations going up, which should be turning a profit within a year, cash flow won't be a problem—a year from now.
But by then it'll be too late. She'll be the lame duck who promised on the Callahan ranch and couldn't deliver. And she's going to need money to grease the wheels until she gets through that critical first year.
Eight hundred takes them dangerously close to the red. They'd survive it, but it would be a matter of tightening belts, of no Christmas bonuses, the boys waiting on their raises. Can she justify it?
She closes her eyes. It's worth a lot to her. It's worth her reputation. And eight hundred thousand dollars is barely a drop in the bucket to show the entire world that you're not to be messed with.
But it's not her job to think of things from the perspective of whether or not it's good for her. She has to think of things from a wider perspective. From the question of whether or not it's the right decision for the company.
And the reason that she keeps going through the numbers again, top to bottom, is that it's not.
She wants it to work. She doesn't want to low-ball, offer him something he'll never take in a million years.
But there's no question that he's not going to get eight. She looks down at the paper again. Tears it away from the rest of the notebook and starts again. She's got to find a way to make it work. She's got to.
Because she's not going to ask him to walk away from his family, his history, just for six hundred measly thousand. She can't do that to him. Not knowing what the land means to him.
Not knowing what the land is worth in terms of blood and sweat and tears.
Chapter Thirty-Three
It's only a matter of time until the hammer drops. It's impossible to say when it will be, this far in advance. It's even less possible to say what is going to happen.
But there's been talk about Glen Brand. Not polite talk, neither. Talk about what it means, in the long run, to owe him a debt.
He doesn't just let it sit. It's not a some-day proposition to owe him a favor. He'll call it in, sure as the sun will rise, and it won't be long. A day or a week, he's going to find someplace that you can help him out.
For people with plenty of money to spare, it might be a money questi
on.
For others, it might be something else. But the other thing that they all agree on, nobody's ever once debated, is that by the time your debt's paid up, you don't want to take on more. It only takes the one time to learn your lesson.
He's all smiles, now, sure. That's how it's always been. The man's got a grin to launch a thousand ships, without a single doubt in the world. But it's not going to take long to figure out why he's positioning himself for a gimme, not when the dust finally settles.
Which is why he'd hoped to impress with the stallion to begin with. Maybe if he'd done it a year sooner, or two years sooner, then there could have been serious talk about twenty-five, thirty, maybe thirty-five. With a pedigree like the Black's, it's hard to say how high the number could go with a proper trainer.
But they hadn't sold him as a yearling. They hadn't sold him at two years. Three years and change, and the horse should be running races by now. Glen knows that, same as Philip does, and it puts him in the stronger position, regardless of what Callahan wants.
The rancher looks at his numbers. It's hard to say for sure. Very hard to say. But it's not hard to see that there's a risk.
He slips out of the truck and closes the door behind him. It's not supposed to rain tomorrow. He can afford to leave the rails in the bed of the truck and get started on them first thing.
Right now, he's got to go see Randy, got to see how the other boys are doing. Make sure they're eating right, make sure that everything's still on-track. That he's still making a full recovery as best as he can.
A nurse recognizes him. She must have, because she pulls him aside as he walks in. "Mr. Callahan?"
"Yes, miss?"
She blushes and looks down. Chews her lip a second. Callahan always thought of himself as a decent-looking man, but he doesn't generally have this kind of response from women.
Which means that in spite of his good looks and charm, there's something else that's not going well, because she's embarrassed to say what it is.
"There's a, uh, problem with your insurance?"
