LARK #4
He gestures vaguely toward the window. “Summit Springs has so much potential. We’re sitting on land that could be worth ten times what it is now if we develop it properly.
If we invest in infrastructure, bring in the right investors, we could turn this into a destination.
A place where people want to spend their money.
Imagine a revitalized Main Street—boutiques, high-end dining, an actual hotel instead of a roadside motel that hasn’t been updated since the nineties.
Think about the tourism that could bring in, the jobs it could create. The opportunities.”
He keeps going, painting a picture of a new Summit Springs. A town that’s sleek, modern, full of shiny storefronts and polished sidewalks. Something straight out of a marketing brochure.
And the thing is, it all sounds good. A town with more jobs? More business? More money coming in? Who wouldn’t want that ?
But I can’t shake the feeling that the people who’ve been here all along—the ones who built this town, who’ve kept it alive—won’t be the ones who benefit from it.
I let his words settle for a second. “And what exactly does any of this have to do with me?”
Wendell smiles, the kind that feels rehearsed, like he’s been waiting for me to ask. “Glad you brought that up.”
He flips open one of the manila folders, slides a document across the table. I glance down, trying to make sense of it—property records, land assessments, something about mineral rights.
“You see, the land the Bluebell sits on is…valuable,” he says, dragging out the last word like he’s savoring it. “More valuable than you might think.”
I lift a brow. “Valuable how?”
He exhales, like he’s about to drop some great revelation. “Oil.”
I blink. “Oil.”
He nods. “There’s a reserve right underneath this block. Not just a small deposit, either. A significant one. We had it surveyed years ago, but the infrastructure wasn’t in place to make it profitable. That’s changing.”
My stomach twists.
“This land is prime real estate, Lark. And not just for oil. The location, the foot traffic—it’s a key piece of the puzzle for the future of Summit Springs.” He leans forward slightly, lowering his voice like we’re conspiring. “I want it.”
I let out a short laugh, because what else can I do? “You want the Bluebell?”
He lifts a shoulder. “More or less.”
Of all the things Wendell Tate could’ve said to me today, that was definitely not on my bingo card.
I glance down at the paperwork again, heart thudding in my chest. It makes sense now—the pitch, the shiny new Summit Springs he’s trying to sell me. He doesn’t just want to build a town that looks good in brochures. He wants control. And in order to have control, he needs this land .
I grip the edge of the table, forcing my voice to stay even. “And what exactly do you expect me to do about that?”
Wendell leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table, like we’re just two old friends having a casual conversation.
“Well, seeing as Alice Westwood left the Bluebell to you, and your name is the one on the deed,” he says smoothly, “that means the only way we can move forward is with your approval.” He smiles. “Which is why I’m here.”
I let out a short, dry laugh. “So, what? You want to buy it from me?”
“Not just the diner,” he corrects. “The land it sits on.” He flips open another folder, slides a paper across the table toward me. “It’ll be more than worth your while.”
I glance down at the document, and my stomach clenches. The paper is full of tiny print, things I don’t fully understand, but Wendell taps a number at the bottom of the page. A number so big my brain barely computes it at first.
I blink at him. “You’re serious?”
He nods.
I swallow hard, my throat dry. I’ve never had that much money in my life. Not even close. It’s more than I’d make in a lifetime of running the Bluebell.
My mind runs wild. That kind of money could change everything.
Hudson could go to college anywhere he wanted.
We could afford a new house, something bigger, something nice.
I could finally take him on that cross country road trip we always talk about but never have the time or extra cash for.
We’d never have to worry about bills, repairs, slow seasons.
I exhale slowly, trying to ground myself, to shove the thoughts aside before they sink too deep. “And what happens to the Bluebell? If I sold it?”
Wendell hesitates just a beat too long before answering. “The corporation would probably have to remove it to optimize land use. It’s valuable property. Prime location.”
My stomach churns. “Remove it?”
He says it like it’s nothing. Like it’s a table we’re clearing to make room for something better.
“It would allow for better access,” he continues, voice calm, measured.
“The land is in a high-demand corridor for future development. They’ll need space to expand.
Retail, commercial, infrastructure upgrades—it’s all part of the bigger plan.
The Bluebell, well—” He shrugs, like the answer is obvious.
“It’s not really built to scale with what’s coming. ”
I grip the edges of the folder, forcing myself to focus, to breathe past the tension crawling up my spine. “ Who exactly wants to buy it?”
Wendell flips to another page, taps his finger on a list of company names. “These are the corporations involved. Investment firms, real estate developers, businesses looking to expand. They’re already working with other places in town.”
Dread coils in my gut like a snake. “Other places?”
“Mm-hmm,” he hums. “A couple of properties have already been bought out. Mostly commercial spaces, some land on the outskirts. There’s been a bit of a problem with the smaller, independent businesses, but that’s expected.”
I narrow my eyes. “Problem?”
He chuckles. “Like I said before, people are sentimental. They don’t like change.
But they also don’t like being the last ones standing when everything around them moves forward.
That’s why I think if you were to sell, it might encourage others to get on board.
A lot of people in this town respect you, Lark.
The Bluebell has history. It’s more than just a business—it’s a pillar here in Summit Springs. ”
I swallow. The weight of it all is pressing against my ribs. “And what do you get out of this?”
Wendell doesn’t answer right away.
That’s enough of an answer.
I tilt my head. “You get a cut of the sale, don’t you?”
His lips twitch, but he nods. “I do. But it’s less about the money and more about giving Summit Springs the upgrade it deserves.”
Upgrade.
I glance at the papers again, my eyes drawn to that number at the bottom of the page. That life-changing number. The number that means I would never have to work again. That means Hudson would have every opportunity in the world, no limits, no struggle.
But how can I sell the Bluebell?
It’s been here for decades. It’s part of this town, a fixture of Main Street.
It’s where families come for breakfast before school, where ranchers stop in before sunrise for coffee that’s been poured by the same hands for twenty years.
It’s where tourists go for a slice of homemade pie after a long day of hiking, where locals catch up on gossip over bottomless cups of coffee.
It’s Alice’s legacy.
And it’s mine.
I square my shoulders, forcing a steady breath. “I…I need some time to think it over.”
Wendell nods like he expected that. “Of course.”
I gesture toward the stack of papers. “I want a copy of these for my lawyer.”
My lawyer.
In all actuality, that means Miller, but that’s neither here nor there.
“Absolutely,” he says smoothly, sliding the folder toward me. “You can keep this one. Everything you need is in there.”
I clutch the folder to my chest, nodding.
Wendell stands, pulling a business card from his pocket and handing it to me. His name and number printed cleanly across it, along with his ranch’s brand in the corner.
“So you know how to reach me,” he says.
I take it, the weight of it heavier than it should be.
He adjusts his hat, turns for the door, but then pauses.
“Lark.”
I glance up.
“You can take some time,” he says easily, sliding his hands into his pockets. “But don’t take too much.” His voice drops just slightly. “I don’t like to be kept waiting. ”
Then he tips his hat, pushes the door open, and walks out. The bell jingles as it swings shut behind him.
I let out a slow, measured breath, standing up from the booth.
I can’t believe what just happened.
I can’t believe the number I saw.
The kind of money that could be mine in the snap of a finger.
I press a hand to my forehead. God. What am I going to do?
What would Alice do?
That’s not even a question.
Alice would’ve taken one look at Wendell Tate, told him exactly where she was going to shove her cowboy boot, and kicked his ass straight out the door.
But Alice didn’t have a son to think about. Didn’t have to weigh the future of someone else against her own.
But she worked so damn hard to get here. To make the Bluebell what it is.
And it’s been good to me. To Hudson.
The thought of it not being here anymore makes my stomach turn, nausea curling in my gut.
Then—
“Lark?”
I freeze.
Oh god. Not now. Not today.
I already know who it is before I turn around.
Boone stands a few feet away, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his Levi’s, shoulders broad under his Carhartt jacket. His dark hair is curling at the ends, like he’s going to be overdue for a cut soon. His jaw is sharper, more defined, but his eyes—those fucking eyes.
Warm honey. Steady. Searching.
Jesus. Why couldn’t he have gotten worse with age like a normal person? A beer gut. A bald spot. Something. But no—he had to show up looking better than he did at eighteen. Unfair doesn’t even begin to cover it.
I force myself to keep my voice even. “What do you want, Boone? ”
His brows furrow slightly, like he’s trying to read me. “I was hoping we could talk.”