Chapter 15 The Sale
The Sale
Jackson
* * *
The auction house smells like money and leather and the particular tension that comes when serious men are about to spend serious cash.
I've been to thirty of these sales, maybe more, and the atmosphere never changes.
Polished wood paneling, reserved seating sections with brass nameplates, assistants running numbers on tablets while their bosses pretend they're not watching the competition.
I find my seat in the family section and scan the room.
Bidders from Montana, Colorado, Wyoming.
A few faces I recognize from last year's sale, a few new ones trying not to look impressed by the venue.
The regional sale brings them from three states.
Our family has bought and sold here through three generations, but today I'm here to buy.
When I called Maren yesterday, I had my pitch ready. Separate trucks, no expectations, just an invitation to something she used to enjoy. She said yes before I got through half of it, and I've been running that single word through my head ever since.
The auctioneer takes his position, and I settle into the rhythm. First lot is a young bull, sleek and proud under the lights. Bidding starts at forty and climbs fast. I watch without participating, saving my paddle for the lots that matter.
Three lots in, I see her.
She's wearing a green dress I've never seen before, something that moves when she walks and catches the light from the chandeliers.
Her hair is down, loose around her shoulders the way she used to wear it before everything went wrong.
She finds a seat near the back, separate from the reserved sections, and pulls out a small notebook.
She doesn't look at me. I can't stop looking at her.
"Lot seven," the auctioneer announces, and I force my attention back to the sale ring.
This is the one I came for. A proven cow I inspected before the sale, from a Montana breeder whose stock I've wanted for years. I straighten in my seat and grip my paddle.
Bidding opens at sixty thousand. I raise immediately. A rancher from Billings counters. Then a woman in a tailored blazer I don't recognize. Then the Billings rancher again.
The numbers climb. Seventy-two. Seventy-five. Seventy-nine.
The woman in the blazer drops out at eighty-one with a small shake of her head. The Billings rancher hesitates, his paddle hovering.
I raise mine. "Eighty-seven."
The room goes quiet. The rancher sets his paddle down, a tight movement that says he knows when he's beaten.
The auctioneer brings down his gavel before I can look toward Maren again. "Sold to Wilder Ranch for eighty-seven thousand dollars."
I write the number on my card without flinching. When I look up, Maren is watching me from across the room, her pen still against the page of her notebook. I tip my hat, just a small gesture, one stranger acknowledging another.
Her mouth curves, not quite a smile but close enough to count, before she looks away.
* * *
The dinner afterward is white tablecloths and crystal and place cards written in calligraphy. I find my seat and discover I'm positioned across from Maren, not next to her. Close enough to see, far enough to give her space.
Maren is seated next to a breeder named Hank Morrison, who runs a Montana operation I've heard good things about. He's leaning toward her with the intensity of someone who's found exactly the person he needed to find, and Maren has her notebook out again.
"December would be ideal," he's saying when I tune in, his weathered hands moving as he talks. "We're hosting a corporate retreat, sixty guests, and my wife has been tearing her hair out trying to find someone who can handle that scale without making everything taste like airline food."
Maren nods, jotting something down. "What's the venue situation? On-site kitchen, or would I need to bring equipment?"
"Full commercial kitchen, barely used because our current caterer refuses to travel." Hank shakes his head in disgust. "Four hours from Bozeman and you'd think I was asking her to cross the Sahara."
"I don't mind travel." Maren's voice is warm but professional, and I watch her work the way I used to watch her in our kitchen, all competence and quiet confidence.
"December in Montana means I'd want to scout the facilities in advance, make sure the kitchen can handle my menu. Would a site visit be possible?"
"My wife would love that." Hank pulls out a business card and slides it across the table. "Call her directly. If December goes well, we're looking at quarterly events through next year."
Maren slips the card into her notebook, keeping a finger on the page of notes. "I'll reach out Monday."
They shake hands across the white tablecloth. When Maren's eyes meet mine, I raise my glass in a silent toast, and she raises hers back with something that might be the beginning of real warmth.
* * *
The dinner winds down after dark. Guests filter out toward the parking lot, shaking hands, exchanging cards, making promises they may or may not keep. The temperature has dropped, and the air smells like woodsmoke from somewhere nearby.
I find Maren near the exit, scrolling through her phone. "The tailgate vendors are still open," I say, and she looks up with an expression I can't quite read. "Corn dogs. Funnel cake. Things that will absolutely ruin that dress."
"This dress cost more than your saddle." She tucks her phone away, but she's fighting a smile. "I'm not ruining it for carnival food."
I point toward the vendors, trying to turn the invitation into something she'll enjoy. "What if I promise to catch any falling powdered sugar?"
Her eyes drop to my hat, and I can almost see her considering the damage. "With what, your hat?"
I take it off and hold it out, willing to risk the felt. "I was thinking my mouth, but the hat works too."
She laughs, a real laugh that lights up her whole face, and falls into step beside me. "Fine. But if I get mustard on this silk, you're paying the dry cleaning bill."
I fall into step beside her before she can change her mind about dessert. "Deal."
The tailgate vendors have set up along the fence line, selling fair food to the departing crowd.
String lights cast everything in a warm glow, and the smell of frying dough hangs in the air.
I buy two corn dogs, a funnel cake, and something that might have started as a candy bar before someone committed crimes against it.
"That's obscene," Maren says, eyeing the fried candy bar. "I want half."
We end up at my truck, sitting on the tailgate with the food between us and the stars starting to appear overhead. Maren eats the funnel cake with her fingers, powdered sugar coating her lips, and I have to look away before I do something stupid.
"So Montana," I say, reaching for a neutral topic. "That's a big opportunity."
"Could be." She licks sugar off her thumb, which doesn't help my concentration at all. "December's a test run. If they like my work, Hank mentioned connections to other ranches up there. Corporate retreats, weddings, the whole network."
I put my napkin over my knee and make myself focus on her words instead of her mouth. "They'll like your work."
She pauses with the cake halfway to her lips, challenging my certainty. "You sound very confident for someone who's never hired me."
"I've eaten your food for seven years." I steal a piece of her funnel cake and pop it in my mouth. "I'm an expert witness."
She swats my hand away from the rest, but she's smiling. "You're a biased witness. There's a conflict of interest."
I steal another piece of cake before she can stop me. "The reviews from the Ferguson wedding weren't biased. People wouldn't shut up about the food."
Maren guards the plate with her elbow, unimpressed by my evidence. "You weren't at the Ferguson wedding. You certainly had opinions about the leftovers."
"And I heard about it from six different people." I grab a corn dog and hand her the other one. "Apparently you made a grown man cry with a piece of meat."
She tries to suppress a smile while defending her tearful customer. "He was the groom's father. He was already emotional."
I surrender the funnel cake to her, enjoying the argument too much to stop. "Sure. It had nothing to do with your brisket."
She bites into the corn dog and gets mustard on her chin. I reach over without thinking and wipe it off with my thumb, and she goes still, her eyes meeting mine in the dim light.
"Sorry," I say, though I'm not. "Instinct."
"Some instinct." Her voice is lower than before. "Most people use napkins."
I keep my hand on the tailgate this time, though I want to touch her again. "Most people aren't married to you."
The word hangs between us. Married. Present tense, technically still true, though it hasn't felt true in months. Maren looks away first, reaching for a napkin to finish what I started.
"The dress has survived worse," she says, brushing powdered sugar off the silk. "I'll send you the cleaning bill."
I look at the sugar on my own jeans. Her dress isn't the only casualty. "I did agree to that."
She hops down from the tailgate, still smiling as she brushes at the stains. "I suppose it was worth it."
I don't know what to say to that, so I don't say anything. Just watch her standing there in her green dress, looking more beautiful than she has any right to look.
"I should go," she says, but she doesn't move toward her truck. "Early morning tomorrow. Client tasting."
I don't want her to go yet. Asking a question gives me another minute. "Big job?"
Maren pauses beside the tailgate, her attention caught by the problem. "Anniversary party. Fifty guests, the wife wants French, the husband wants barbecue, and neither of them will compromise."
I rest my arms on the tailgate and wait. This is the part she likes. "What's your solution?"
"French technique, Texas soul." She grins, and it's the grin I fell in love with, sharp and self-assured. "Brisket bourguignon. Biscuits with herb butter. Peach tart with bourbon cream."
I picture the menu she's just described and wish I'd been invited. "That sounds incredible."
"It will be." She finally moves toward her truck, keys in hand. "Thanks for dinner, Jackson. The real one and the corn dog one."
I keep my hand off her door, letting her leave when she's ready. "Thanks for coming."
She climbs into her truck and rolls down the window. "That thing you said earlier, about being an expert witness?"
I lean closer to her open window, hoping she might stay another minute. "Yeah?"
"Don't testify yet." She starts the engine, her face half-lit by the dashboard glow. "I'm still deciding what happens next."
She pulls out of the lot before I can respond. I watch her taillights disappear and gather the food wrappers from the tailgate. She laughed with me tonight. I'm taking that home with me.
* * *