Chapter 4
Four
Wes was pacing.
He knew he was pacing because he’d checked his watch three times in ten minutes and worn a visible path between the kitchen and the living room window, his boots scuffing the same worn floorboards over and over.
It was just a meeting. Business. Numbers on a page, proposals, maybe some talk about restructuring. Nothing to be nervous about.
Except his stomach had been tied in knots since he’d woken up at four. He’d been checking his watch every five minutes like it would make time move faster or slower. He wasn’t even sure which he wanted anymore.
“You all right?” Henry called from the living room. He had the TV on—some cooking show he pretended not to care about but watched religiously, muttering commentary about technique and seasoning.
“Yeah. Fine.”
“You don’t seem fine. You seem jumpy as a long-tail cat in a room full of rocking chairs.”
“I’ve got a meeting at two. Just want to make sure everything’s in order.”
“Ah. The banker.”
“Yeah.”
Henry was quiet for a moment, and Wes could hear the creak of old leather as he shifted in his recliner. “What’s his name again?”
“Jake. Jake Marley.”
“Oh, yeah. The ghost.” Henry chuckled. “That’s appropriate given the circumstances. Man shows up to warn you about your future.”
Wes stopped pacing long enough to shoot a look toward the living room. “That’s not—it’s not like that.”
“Isn’t it?” There was no malice in Henry’s voice. “When’s he getting here?”
Wes checked his watch again. Eleven minutes. “Two o’clock.”
“You should change your shirt.”
Wes looked down. There was pine sap on his sleeve, and a smudge of dirt near the collar. “Why?”
“Because you look like you’ve been wrestling saplings all morning.”
“I have been wrestling saplings.”
“Still. First impressions matter, even the second time around.”
Wes sighed, the sound heavy with resignation. He headed upstairs, taking them two at a time.
In his room, he stood in front of the closet like he was facing down an enemy. Which was ridiculous. It was just a shirt.
He grabbed a clean flannel—navy blue, less obviously work-worn than the green plaid he’d been living in. Pulled it on, ran a hand through his hair. Considered shaving, then decided against it. Jake had seen him with the beard. This was who he was—no point pretending otherwise.
His phone buzzed. It was Jake.
On my way. See you in 10.
Wes’s stomach executed a perfect flip.
Get it together.
He splashed water on his face, studying himself in the mirror. Dark circles under his eyes. Beard needed trimming. When was the last time he’d actually looked at himself instead of just going through the motions?
Stop stalling.
He headed back downstairs.
At exactly two o’clock, Jake’s rental car pulled into the driveway, tires crunching over gravel and the occasional pine cone.
Wes watched from the kitchen window as Jake climbed out—charcoal slacks today, crisp white button-down with the sleeves rolled to his elbows despite the December chill, leather messenger bag slung over one shoulder.
He looked put-together in that effortless way some people managed.
Professional. Confident. The kind of guy who had his shit figured out.
Wes suddenly felt like a fraud in his clean flannel.
The knock came—three sharp raps—and Wes forced himself to walk slowly to the door, to not look too eager or too anxious or too anything.
He opened it.
Jake was there, smiling, and the December sun caught in his dark hair. “Hey.”
“Hey.” Wes stepped back, holding the door wider. “Come in.”
Jake crossed the threshold, and the kitchen felt smaller somehow, the ceiling lower, the walls closer. His cologne—something with cedarwood and maybe citrus—cut through the ever-present aroma of pine sap and coffee.
Wes gestured toward the table. “Coffee?”
“That’d be great. Thanks.”
Wes busied himself with the pot—grateful for something to do with his hands, for a reason to turn away from Jake’s steady gaze. He heard Jake setting his bag on the table, the soft click of a laptop opening, and the rustle of papers.
“How’s your father?” Jake asked, his voice carrying that same genuine warmth Wes was starting to recognize.
“Good. He’s in the living room.” Wes poured two mugs and turned. “You want to meet him?”
Jake’s eyebrows rose slightly. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
Wes set the mugs on the table and led Jake through to the living room, where Henry sat in his recliner, watching a cooking show on the TV. His father looked up as they entered, sharp eyes immediately assessing.
“Dad, this is Jake Marley. From Regional First Bank.”
Henry used his cane to push himself more upright, waving off Wes’s automatic move to help. “Mr. Marley.”
“Please call me Jake.” Jake crossed to Henry, extending his hand. “It’s good to meet you, sir.”
Henry’s grip was still strong despite everything, and he shook firmly, studying Jake with the kind of scrutiny usually reserved for customers trying to lowball him on a tree. “You here to save my farm or finish it?”
“Dad—” Wes started, but Jake didn’t flinch.
“Save it, if Wes will let me help.” Jake’s tone was respectful but direct. “I’ve reviewed the financials. You’ve built something worth preserving here.”
“Damn right we have.” Henry gestured to the couch. “Sit down for a minute. Let me look at you.”
Wes felt heat creep up his neck. “We’ve got work to do—”
“Work can wait.” Henry muted the TV. “I want to know who’s handling my family’s future.”
Jake sat without hesitation, and something about his posture—relaxed but attentive—seemed to satisfy Henry.
“Do you know anything about farming, Mr. Marley?”
“Call me Jake, please. And no, sir. I grew up in foster care, mostly in Atlanta. But I know business, and I know how to listen to people who do know farming.”
Henry grunted. “Foster care. That’s rough.”
“It had its moments. Taught me not to take things for granted.”
“Like family land.”
“Exactly like that.” Jake met Henry’s gaze steadily. “Which is why I don’t take cases like yours lightly.”
They stared at each other for a long moment, and Wes held his breath, watching his father’s face for the telltale signs of dismissal or—worse—that patronizing look he got when he thought someone was blowing smoke.
But Henry’s expression softened slightly. “You seem competent enough.”
From Henry, that was practically a ringing endorsement.
“I appreciate that,” Jake said. “Your son’s doing everything right. He just needs some breathing room.”
“He needs to stop being so damn stubborn and ask for help when he needs it.”
“Dad—”
“It’s true.” Henry looked at Wes. “You’ve been carrying this place on your back for a while. About time you let someone else share the load.”
Wes’s throat tightened. They didn’t talk about this—about how much had changed, how much Wes had sacrificed.
Jake stood smoothly. “I promise I’ll do everything I can to make this work, Mr. Dalton.”
“Henry. And you better, because if you screw my boy over, I’ll find a way to make your life difficult even from this damn chair.”
Jake’s mouth quirked. “Understood.”
They shook hands again, and Wes ushered Jake back to the kitchen before his father could issue any more thinly veiled threats.
“Sorry about that,” Wes muttered, closing the pocket door between the rooms.
“Don’t be. I like him.” Jake settled back at the table, pulling his laptop closer. “He’s protective. That’s good.”
“He’s nosy.”
“That too.” Jake grinned, and Wes felt something warm unfurl in his chest.
He grabbed the coffee mugs and sat down across from Jake, ready to face the numbers that would determine whether he kept his home or lost everything.
The numbers were better than Wes expected.
Not good, exactly. But not the disaster he’d been bracing for since the foreclosure notice had arrived.
Jake walked him through it—debt-to-income ratio, cash flow projections, seasonal income spikes versus year-round expenses.
He explained things in a way that didn’t make Wes feel stupid, didn’t talk down to him like some bankers did, the ones who seemed to think dirt under your fingernails meant you couldn’t understand math.
And Wes tried to focus.
He really did.
But Jake kept doing this thing with his hands when he spoke—gesturing with a kind of serene confidence that made the back of Wes’s neck tingle with awareness.
There was something about them—the way his fingers moved across the keyboard, quick and sure, or how his thumb would absently rub the edge of his coffee mug while he talked, tracing the ceramic rim in small circles.
Business hands, Wes told himself. City hands that knew conference rooms and keyboards, not chainsaws and pine sap.
Except when Jake pointed at something on the screen, Wes noticed a small scar across one knuckle—white against tan skin, the kind you got from catching yourself on something sharp—and suddenly those hands seemed more real. More touchable.
Focus.
“Your debt-to-income ratio is actually better than most farms I work with,” Jake said, pointing at a spreadsheet that might as well have been hieroglyphics for all Wes was absorbing.
“The problem isn’t that you’re failing. It’s that you’re treading water with no room for error.
One bad season, one equipment failure, and you’re under. ”
Wes nodded, dragging his eyes away from Jake’s hands and back to the numbers glowing on the screen.
“If we restructure,” Jake continued, his finger tracing down a column of figures, “we can lower your monthly payments by about thirty percent, which gives you breathing room. But—” He looked up, and their eyes met across the small table.
“—you’d need to commit to a five-year plan.
No shortcuts. No giving up when it gets hard. ”
“I don’t give up.”
“I know.” Jake’s smile was small but genuine. “I could tell that the first time I met you. The way you wouldn’t shake my hand.”
Heat crept up Wes’s neck at the memory. “Yeah, well. Wasn’t my finest moment.”