Chapter 2
Two
Wes stood in the shower longer than necessary, letting the hot water pound his broad and aching shoulders. The day clung to him—pine sap under his nails, dirt in the creases of his neck, Jake Marley’s words in his head.
I don’t destroy farms. I save them.
“Bullshit,” he muttered.
The water didn’t wash away the words, though. They clung to him like–well, like pine sap.
By the time he got downstairs, Henry was already at the kitchen table, working his way through a bowl of soup. He looked up when Wes entered, eyes sharp despite the tremor in his hands.
“You look like hell,” Henry said.
“Thanks, Dad. You’re a real confidence booster.”
“I’m serious. Did you get any sleep last night?”
“Some.” Wes pulled a beer from the fridge, twisted the cap off. “Enough.”
Henry made a noncommittal sound, the kind that meant I don’t believe you, but I’m not going to argue. He spooned soup into his mouth carefully, deliberate. The stroke had stolen his coordination, but he’d gotten most of it back through sheer stubbornness.
Wes leaned against the counter, drinking his beer, watching his father eat.
“Banker came by today,” he said finally.
Henry’s spoon paused halfway to his mouth. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. Guy from Atlanta. Regional First.”
“What’d he want?”
“To look around. Take pictures. Assess the situation.” Wes took another drink. “You know. The usual before they pull the rug out from under you.”
Henry set his spoon down. “What’d he say?”
“That he saves farms.” Wes laughed, a sharp burst sounding forced. “That’s his thing, apparently. Agricultural recovery specialist.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Mm-hmm? That’s all you got?”
Henry shrugged, reaching for his water glass. His hand shook, and Wes almost moved to help, but stopped himself. Henry hated being helped.
“Maybe he does,” Henry said.
“Does what?”
“Save farms.”
Wes stared at him. “You’re kidding.”
“Why would I be kidding?”
“Because he’s a banker, Dad. They don’t save anything. They want money.”
Henry took a slow sip of water and set the glass down carefully. “Did you talk to him, or just decide he was the enemy before he opened his mouth?”
Ouch.
“I talked to him.”
“And?”
“And he showed me pictures of other farms he’s saved. Gave me the whole sales pitch.”
“Did you believe him?”
Wes opened his mouth to say no, to say of course not, to say bankers lie for a living. But the words stuck.
Because Jake hadn’t seemed like he was lying.
He’d seemed—what? Genuine? Confident? Like maybe he actually gave a shit about a struggling Christmas tree farm in the middle of nowhere, Georgia?
Stop it.
“I don’t know,” Wes said finally.
Henry picked up his spoon again. “Then maybe you should find out.”
“How?”
“Talk to him. Actually talk. Not just stand there being pissed off at the world.”
“I’m not—”
“Yes, you are.” Henry pointed the spoon at him. “You’ve been pissed off since February, and I get it. I do. But this farm’s been in our family for three generations, Wes. If there’s a chance to save it, you owe it to your grandfather—hell, you owe it to yourself—to at least listen.”
Wes looked away, jaw tight.
Henry was right. Wes hated being wrong. He hated it even more when his father could see right through him.
“Fine,” he muttered.
“Good.” Henry went back to his soup. “This guy got a name?”
“Jake. Jake Marley.”
Henry’s eyebrows lifted. A slow smile spread across his face. “Like the ghost?”
“What?”
“Marley. From A Christmas Carol. Jacob Marley. The ghost.” Henry chuckled hoarsely.
Wes blinked. He knew the story—everyone did, especially at Christmas. But connecting names had never been his strong suit. Reading neither. School had been a struggle.
“Guess I didn’t make the connection,” he said.
“Well, think about it. Maybe it’s a sign.”
“A sign of what?”
Henry smiled, the crooked one that still worked after the stroke. “Maybe he’s here to show you something you’re not seeing.”
“Like what?”
“Like… the future.”
Wes didn’t sleep well.
He tried. He went to bed at ten, lay there staring at the ceiling until midnight, then gave up and went downstairs for another beer.
The house creaked around him, like old bones settling.
Through the window, he could see the lot lit up with the security lights, rows of trees standing silent in the cold.
Forty acres.
Three generations.
Forty-seven thousand dollars in debt.
He finished the beer, set the bottle in the sink, and lurched back up the stairs
His phone sat on the nightstand, screen dark. He picked it up, checked the monitoring app. Henry’s dot glowed steadily in the downstairs bedroom, unmoving.
Asleep.
Wes scrolled through his emails. Nothing important. Spam, mostly. A reminder from the electric company that his bill was overdue.
Great.
He was about to set the phone down when he saw it. An email from Regional First Bank, sent at 8:47 PM.
Subject: Holiday Pines Assessment - Follow-Up
Wes’s thumb hovered over it.
Don’t open it. Just delete it. You don’t need to read whatever corporate bullshit he’s—
He opened it.
Mr. Dalton,
Thank you for allowing me to visit Holiday Pines today. I appreciate your time and candor.
After reviewing the property and financials, I believe there are viable recovery options worth discussing. I’ll be in town through the end of December, working with other properties in the area.
If you’re available, I’d like to schedule a follow-up meeting to go over potential restructuring plans.
I’m staying at the Hawthorne House B&B if you need to reach me.
Best regards,
Jake Marley
Senior Loan Officer, Agricultural Recovery
Regional First Bank
Wes read it twice.
Viable recovery options.
He wanted to be cynical. Wanted to assume it was a form letter Jake sent to every desperate farmer before lowering the hammer.
But the email was short. Direct. No corporate jargon, no false promises.
Just... straightforward.
Damn it.
He set the phone down and rolled over, pulling the blanket up to his chin.
I’m not going to think about this. I’m going to sleep. Tomorrow’s Saturday. Busy day. I need sleep.
He thought about it.
About Jake’s steady voice saying I save them.
About the monitoring app comment—My foster father had one.
About the way Jake had looked at the chainsaw carvings and said They’re good, like maybe he meant it.
Stop.
Wes closed his eyes.
It didn’t help.
Saturday was chaos.
Families everywhere. Kids running between the trees, parents arguing about height and fullness, someone’s dog got loose and chased Charlie through the lot.
Wes spent four hours loading trees onto cars, tying them down, explaining for the hundredth time that yes, you need to water it, and no, it won’t last until New Year’s if you don’t.
By noon, his back ached, and his patience was gone.
He was securing a noble fir to the roof of a minivan when he saw the Audi.
Same silver sedan, same careful navigation of the dirt road. It didn’t stop at the farm’s drive, though. It just drove past, heading toward the main road.
Going to one of the other farms he mentioned, Wes thought.
Wes yanked the bungee cord tighter than necessary.
The customer, a middle-aged woman with two kids in the backseat, frowned. “Is that too tight?”
“It’s fine.”
“Are you sure? Because—”
“It’s fine.” He stepped back, forced a smile. “You’re all set. Merry Christmas.”
She looked uncertain but got in the van and drove off.
Miguel appeared at Wes’s elbow. “You okay, boss?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“You look like you want to punch something.”
“I’m fine.”
Miguel shrugged, not looking convinced, and headed back to the lot.
Wes pulled out his phone. The monitoring app showed Henry was in the living room. Stationary. He was probably back in his recliner again.
I should check in. Make sure he’s eaten lunch, taken his meds.
Instead, he opened his email and stared at Jake’s message.
I believe there are viable recovery options worth discussing.
“Excuse me!”—a voice sing-songed.
Wes looked up. A customer waved from the barn, holding up a wreath.
Wes shoved the phone in his pocket and jogged over.
By six, the lot was empty. Miguel and Charlie had gone home, the equipment locked up, and the register counted. Wes stood in the barn, staring at the cash box.
Not bad for opening weekend. Not great, but not bad.
Not enough to catch up on forty-seven thousand dollars, though.
Not even close.
He closed the box, locked it in the office safe, and headed to the house.
Henry was in the kitchen, heating leftovers. He glanced at Wes when he walked in.
“Busy day?”
“Yeah.”
“Good crowd?”
“Good enough.”
Henry nodded, stirring a pot on the stove. “You eat?”
“Not yet.”
“There’s stew. Help yourself.”
Wes washed his hands at the sink, grabbed a bowl, and ladled out stew that was more vegetables than meat because they’d been pinching pennies. He sat across from Henry at the table.
They ate in silence.
Outside, the sun had set. The security lights had clicked on, bathing the lot in harsh white.
“You gonna talk to him?” Henry asked.
Wes looked up. “Who?”
“The banker. Marley.”
“I don’t know.”
“What’s stopping you?”
Pride. Fear. The certainty that if I let myself hope, it’ll hurt worse when it all falls apart anyway.
“Nothing,” Wes said.
Henry set his spoon down. “You know what your grandfather used to say?”
“What’s that?”
“That the worst answer you’ll ever get is the one you don’t ask for.”
Wes smiled despite himself. “He also used to say that bourbon was a vegetable because it came from corn.”
“He wasn’t wrong.”
They finished eating. Henry went to bed at nine, same as always. Wes cleaned up and made sure the doors were locked.
Then he stood in the living room, staring at nothing.
The worst answer you’ll ever get is the one you don’t ask for.
He pulled out his phone.
Opened Jake’s email.
Stared at it for a full minute.
Then he grabbed his keys.