Chapter Twenty – Wes
Chapter Twenty
Wes
I t’s never a good sign when Emma’s quiet. Usually, she’s got a running commentary about everything: Bernard’s latest tantrum, the book she’s tearing through, the way the clouds look like something out of a story. But today, she just stares out the truck window, watching the land roll by like she’s trying to memorize it.
I check the rearview out of habit. The house is barely visible through the early morning mist, and I sure as heck don’t notice that Paisley’s light was on all night again. Just like I haven’t noticed how she’s barely left her room these past few days, only surfacing for coffee and a meal before disappearing back into whatever world she’s writing.
It’s better this way. Has to be.
“Uncle Wes?” Emma’s voice breaks the quiet. “Are you and Paisley fighting?”
The truck bounces over a pothole. My grip tightens on the wheel. “No, kiddo. We’re not fighting.”
“Then why won’t you talk to each other?” She turns, pinning me with those too-knowing eyes. “And don’t say you do, because ‘pass the coffee’ doesn’t count.”
I exhale slowly. “It’s complicated.”
“That’s what grown-ups say when they don’t wanna explain.” There’s an edge to her voice now. “I’m not stupid, you know.”
“Nobody thinks you’re stupid, Em.”
“Then tell me the truth.” She pulls her knees to her chest, making herself smaller, and it hits me like a gut punch. “Is it… because of me?”
“What?”
“Well, you have to take care of me. Because Mom and Dad…” She swallows hard. “And maybe Paisley doesn’t want to deal with that. With me.”
I pull the truck over right there on the ranch road.
“Emma Grace Montgomery.” I turn to face her, my voice low but firm. “That is not what’s happening. Understand me?”
She shrugs, but I catch the way her chin trembles.
“Then why is Paisley hiding in her room? And why do you look like Bernard just stole your favorite hat whenever someone says her name?”
Despite everything, a laugh escapes. “I don’t look like that.”
“Worse.” She almost smiles. “At least Bernard gives hats back. You just keep getting more…” She waves a hand. “Broody.”
“Broody?”
“Yeah. Like Thunder when Jake plays country music in the barn.”
She’s relaxing now, tension easing out of her shoulders, but then?—
“Sarah Beth says you’re being emotionally constipated, but I’m not supposed to know what that means.”
Lord, help me. “Maybe Sarah Beth’s mama needs to have a talk with her about appropriate vocabulary.”
“Maybe we need to talk about why you’re pushing Paisley away when she makes you smile more than anybody except me.”
When did my niece get so sharp?
“It’s not that simple, Em.”
“Why not?”
How do you explain to a ten-year-old that doing the right thing can feel like sawing your own heart in half? That sometimes love isn’t enough when you’ve got responsibilities weighing you down like a lead saddle.
I grip the wheel again, the leather worn smooth under my palms. “Paisley’s got her own life. In Manhattan. With deadlines and book tours and?—”
“She could write here. She already does.” Emma gives me that look again, the one that says she thinks I’m the dumbest man alive. “Even Bernard likes her now.”
That peacock spent the first two weeks treating Paisley like an enemy invader. Now, he follows her around like a lost puppy.
“The ranch is struggling, Emma. You know that.” The words burn. But she deserves honesty. “I can barely keep things running as it is. I can’t ask someone to give up their life for this place.”
“For you.” Her voice is quieter now. “That’s what you mean, isn’t it?”
I don’t answer. Because I don’t have to.
She studies me for a long moment. “Have you ask her?”
Of course, I haven’t. I didn’t give her the choice. Just made the call. Pushed her away before she could leave on her own.
Like Sarah.
Not because she walked away—she never would have. But because life ripped her from us before I could fix it. Before I could save her.
And maybe that’s what’s really eating me alive.
I couldn’t stop that car from going off the road. Couldn’t stop Emma from losing her mom. But this… this thing with Paisley, I can control. I can stop myself from losing someone else before it’s too late.
“Sometimes…” I start, then have to clear my throat. “Sometimes being a grown-up means making hard choices.”
Emma crosses her arms, looking so much like her mother it physically hurts. “Being a grown-up should mean being brave enough to let people choose for themselves.”
I want to argue. To tell her about duty, responsibility, and all the reasons love doesn’t always win against real life.
But looking at her, at that quiet strength she got from Sarah, I can’t.
“You know what Mom always said?” Emma’s voice is softer now. “She said the ranch isn’t just about the cattle or the land. It’s about the people. The family we build here.” She reaches over and pats my arm like she’s the adult in this situation. “I think maybe you’ve forgotten that part.”
I swallow hard. “When did you get so smart?”
“Must be all those books Paisley reads with me.” Her grin flickers, but her eyes stay serious. “The ones where people actually talk about their feelings instead of brooding over their coffee.”
“I do not brood.”
“Uncle Wes.” She levels me with a look that could strip paint. “You’ve been brooding so hard, Kevin started copying you. A peacock is brooding. That’s how bad it’s gotten.”
I can’t help it, I laugh. A real laugh, one I haven’t felt in too long. “That bad, huh?”
“Worse.” She settles back, satisfied. “But you can fix it. If you’re brave enough.”
The road stretches ahead, worn and familiar.
“Besides,” Emma adds, “Martha says if you don’t figure it out soon, she’s gonna lock you both in the diner freezer until you talk.”
I groan. “Martha needs to mind her own business.”
“Uncle Wes?”
“Yeah?”
“Mom would want you to be happy.” She pauses, then softer, “Not just responsible.”
The Pine Ridge National Bank stands like a monument to small-town stubbornness with the same faded brick and the same creaky door. Inside, nothing’s changed since I was a kid tagging along with Dad to deposit cattle sale checks. The carpet’s worn in the same desperate paths, and the fake plants look like they’ve been dying slowly since the Carter administration. Even old Mrs. Jensen is still at her desk by the window, probably approving the same loans she’s been signing off on since Moses was in short pants.
Time doesn’t move here; it just settles, like dust on old accounts and unpaid debts. The air carries the scent of burnt coffee and furniture polish, wrapped in that particular weight of small-town banking, where everyone knows your business but pretends not to.
Frank Thompson’s office feels smaller than it did two weeks ago when I dropped off my loan application. Maybe it’s the way he won’t quite meet my eyes, or maybe it’s just that reality takes up more space than hope.
“Wes.” He shuffles papers like they might rearrange themselves into better news. “Thanks for coming in.”
His tie doesn’t quite match his shirt, and the knot’s off-center, like his conscience. You can tell when bad news is coming by the way bankers dress.
“Frank.”
His desk is cluttered with papers that probably hold other people’s futures. Family photos are arranged just so, like he needs a reminder of what really matters. Behind him, a window looks out onto Main Street, where life keeps moving, completely indifferent to the fact that mine is about to skid straight into a ditch.
“Coffee?” He gestures toward a pot, whose contents look thick enough to patch potholes.
“Rather hear what’s in that folder you’re avoiding.”
He winces, caught stalling. “Right. Well…” More shuffling, more eye-dodging. “We ran your application through twice. Called in favors with regional?—”
“Frank.” My voice is steady, even if my stomach isn’t. “Just say it.”
He exhales, finally meeting my gaze. “The numbers don’t work, Wes. We’ve run them every way we can, but between the medical debt from Sarah’s accident, the market volatility, the projected revenue streams…” He spreads his hands like he’s laying out bad news in bite-sized pieces. “The risk assessment alone?—”
“Cut to the chase.” The words come out sharper than intended, but we’ve known each other too long for sugarcoating.
“You’re carrying too much debt against too little income.” He taps the folder—like it’s just another Tuesday, just another ranch going under. “The heritage tourism idea has promise, but it would take time to turn a real profit. Time you don’t have.”
I lean back, jaw tight. “And?”
Frank shifts, sympathy creeping into his voice. “And there’s Sarah’s medical bills. You’ve been making payments, but the outstanding balance, combined with the ranch’s operating costs…” He adjusts his crooked tie. “Your debt-to-income ratio makes traditional lending impossible.”
The weight settles deep in my bones, familiar as an old saddle. “What exactly are you saying, Frank?”
He pulls out another paper—crisp, clean, untouched by the dust of reality. “I’ve done some projections. The land value, especially with the water rights…” He slides it across the desk. “You could clear all debts, set up a college fund for Emma, maybe even have enough left to start fresh somewhere else.”
One word stands out, stark as barbed wire.
Sell.
“It’s an option,” Frank says carefully. “The market’s strong. Developers are looking at similar properties for resort projects.”
A sharp, humorless laugh escapes. “Resort development.” The words taste like dirt. “Turn my family’s legacy into luxury cabins and petting zoos.”
Frank leans forward, like he’s trying to reason with a spooked horse. “The Montgomery name still carries weight in this valley. You could be involved. Consult on the heritage aspects?—”
“Stop.” The word cracks like a whip.
He sits back, hands spread in surrender. “I know this isn’t what you wanted to hear?—”
“Do you?” Heat rises in my chest, something dark and sharp. “You understand what it means to tell my brothers the land they bled for is worthless? To tell a ten-year-old girl that the only home she has left is about to be carved up into vacation rentals?”
“Wes.” His voice carries decades of shared history—he approved Dad’s loans, watched us grow up through the lens of quarterly statements and collateral assessments. “Your father saw this coming. It’s why Sarah pushed the tourism angle in the first place.”
Her name hits like a branding iron, but I keep my face neutral. Years of poker with Jake are finally paying off.
“That what you’re putting in your report?” My voice is steady, but the storm inside me isn’t. “That we’re a dying breed?”
Frank exhales. “What I’m putting in my report is that I gave you all the options. What you do with them…” He shrugs, heavy with things we’re both pretending not to understand. “That’s up to you.”
Some choice.
I push to my feet, the scrape of the chair loud in the quiet room. My hand finds the door, but Frank’s words give me pause.
“For what it’s worth, I wish things were different.”
“Yeah.” I step out into the morning light. “Me, too.”