Chapter 23 #2
“Hey girl! I saw your photos online and that dress was gorgeous.” I can hear the sounds of the feed store in the background—the distant hum of machinery, someone calling out about grain prices.
“Thanks.” I grin thinking about that night. It was pretty amazing.
Sarah leans closer to the phone. "We've got a problem that requires either a miracle."
"What kind of miracle are we talking about?"
"We need a venue," Sarah says without preamble, her fingers drumming against the table. "Western elegance. Think Jackson Hole level, but here in Gritstone. For about two hundred people. And we need it in four weeks."
“Well,” Brook draws the word.
Sarah stops drumming her fingers and my heart lifts with hope.
There’s no way this works out. I mean, the Halloways have to have some serious luck in their back pocket to make this work.
"Stonegate Lodge is already underway on the empty lot next door.”
“Lodge?” I ask, not sure this is what we’re looking for.
“The name is understated,” Brook explains. “It’s a gathering space leaning heavily toward a wedding venue but with western touches and decor. I've already got permits and the utilities are stubbed in. It was going to be my winter project."
Holy cow. “For real?” I look at Sarah wondering how this is even possible.
Sarah shrugs as if to say: That’s Brook for you. As if everyone’s daughter just up and decides to build new businesses over the winter.
"Can it be done in four weeks?” Sarah asks.
I hold very still. We haven’t sent the date in stone, but four weeks will give us time to host the event and allow the Senator time to cancel the rezoning before the deadline.
"The main floor will be. You’ll have a kitchen, restrooms and a bar.
There will also be an outdoor section which I know we can have ready and you’ll have plenty of room out there for what you need.
” Brook sighs, “And every contractor who's bought feed from us, every supplier who's gotten paid on time, every vendor who knows the Halloway name means something will step up.
" Brook replies, and there's steel in her tone now.
"This family has been good to this community for generations. They'll help."
Sarah’s expression is pride and amazement all tangled together. This is her daughter, her brilliant, capable daughter who's been quietly building an empire one feed sale at a time.
I've spent my career around powerful people, people who make things happen through money and connections and political maneuvering. But this is a woman who's about to move mountains through a reputation of treating people right.
They are also throwing themselves behind my idea and betting the ranch on my strategy.
Don't mess this up, I tell myself. Don't you dare mess this up.
After Brook hangs up, Sarah and I lean back in our chairs. She turns to stare out the window toward the pastures where cattle graze in blissful ignorance of the bureaucratic war being waged over their heads.
"Have you started moving them to comply with the deadline?" I ask, curious about how things are going on that end. I haven’t seen much of an effort, but I was gone over the weekend.
Sarah's laugh is bitter. "Oscar refuses to move a single head. He says if we're going to lose, we lose fighting on our own land."
The air leaves my lungs in a rush, and suddenly I can't breathe properly. I've been operating under the assumption that compliance was buying us space to maneuver. But if Oscar won't budge...
"Sarah," I say carefully, fighting to keep my voice level even as panic claws at my throat, "that means we succeed or die."
She turns and pins me with a look. “Halloways were forged on this land. Strip that away and I’ll be a widow in six months.”
I start calculating—guest lists, invitations, catering, logistics, media coverage, congressional schedules.
It's tight but doable, assuming everything goes perfectly.
Assuming Brook's construction stays on schedule, assuming Senator Martinez can attend, assuming every cowboy says yes, assuming the weather cooperates, assuming nothing goes catastrophically wrong.
Assuming I don't completely screw this up and destroy the legacy of the man who kisses me until my knees give out. This is Wyatt's inheritance. What if I fail Wyatt the way my father failed me?
I have to prove I'm worth keeping.
Professional assessment: the plan is brilliant but incredibly risky. We're betting everything on my ability to sway someone else's opinion through celebrity peer pressure tactics—in four weeks with no backup plan and no safety net.
Personal terror: if this fails, Oscar loses everything. Wyatt loses his legacy. The family that welcomed me into their home, is slowly bled dry.
I swallow hard against the tightness in my throat, the effort scraping like broken glass. What if caring this much makes me reckless?
Sarah studies my face. “You're scared."
There's no point in lying. Not to her, not to myself, not when everything that matters is riding on the next four weeks. My hands are trembling so badly I have to set down my coffee cup before I drop it.
"Terrified," I admit. "But that's never stopped me before." I gulp. This is the first time I've ever let someone see me this vulnerable.
"Good," she says. "Scared people fight harder."
Well, that’s not always true but in my case, she’s probably right. My phone buzzes against the table. Unknown number. I tap on the text icon.
"You can still quit and walk away. You're not a Halloway. Remember that. ~Someone who cares"
The blood drains from my face as I stare at the words. What the heck? Who would send this? I double check the number. It’s not Brittney–unless she’s texting from a California area code.
Sarah notices my expression and leans forward. "What is it?"
I show her the screen. The temperature in the kitchen seems to drop ten degrees.
"Well," she says, her voice deadly quiet, "looks like someone's taking notice of you."
“Who do you think it is?” This feels different from Brittney’s mean girl tactics to get her hands on Wyatt. It’s more about what I do than who I’m seeing. Also, I doubt Brittney would ever claim to care about me. Great—now I have two stalkers.
Where Brittney’s text hit my tender spots, this one just ticks me off. Telling me I don't belong makes me more determined to prove that I do. I may not be a Halloway by blood, but I'm willing to fight like one.