26. Elias
ELIAS
Isit at the big desk in the office with the final negotiation packet spread out in front of me, the pages crisp and full of promises that used to feel like solid ground.
Afternoon sun cuts through the window, warming the wood but doing nothing for the knot in my gut.
The meeting with Alden and Nathan is set for tomorrow, signatures ready to seal South Gate away and bring in the kind of money that shores up fences, equipment, and the future I keep telling myself I need.
But my pen hovers every time I try to review the terms again.
Doubts creep in thicker lately, turning what should be straightforward business into something that sits wrong in my chest.
The ranch hums outside—hands calling to each other near the barns, cattle lowing in the distance—but inside these walls it feels too quiet.
Lila’s absence presses harder today, her photographs still stacked on the corner of the desk where I keep pulling them out.
I rub my eyes and push the packet aside for a minute, trying to focus on the practical side.
This sale clears the grief, frees up the operation.
That’s the line I’ve been repeating. It doesn’t land as clean as it used to.
Wyatt knocks and steps in without waiting, carrying a thick folder under one arm and two mugs of coffee in the other.
He sets one down near me and drops into the chair across the desk, his face carrying that familiar mix of steady and concerned.
The man’s seen every version of me through the years, and right now he looks like he’s got something heavy to unload.
“Before you head into that meeting tomorrow, you need to look at this,” he says, sliding the folder across. “I’ve been digging into Caldwell Ridge like you asked weeks back. Their behavior on other projects, some financial trails. It doesn’t sit right.”
I take the folder but don’t open it right away. “We’ve gone over their projections. The numbers check out. This is the kind of deal that keeps us from scraping by on thin margins.”
Wyatt leans forward, elbows on his knees.
“Numbers can lie when you don’t ask the right questions.
Their last two resort developments in the region ran over budget by millions, with local partners left holding unexpected costs.
Environmental shortcuts that got buried in amendments.
And look at their cash flow—lots of movement through shell companies that don’t tie back clean to the main operation.
I talked to a contact over in the next county who dealt with them.
Said the reps push hard on certain parcels for reasons they never fully explain. ”
I flip open the folder reluctantly, the pages filled with printouts of public filings, news clippings, and notes in Wyatt’s blocky handwriting.
I’ve ignored most of this before, brushing it off as standard corporate noise.
Now I read deeper, the coffee cooling untouched beside me.
Line after line contradicts what Alden and Nathan laid out in those polished meetings.
Promised infrastructure grants that fell through in similar deals.
Timelines that slipped when local opposition dug in.
And the financials—layers of debt shifted around, with South Gate-type parcels always flagged as priority acquisitions despite weaker development metrics on paper.
“See that?” Wyatt points to a highlighted section.
“They told you the resort needs that southern access for seamless integration. But their own internal summaries from other sites show they bypassed similar spots without issue. Why this piece? Why push Elias Emberland so hard when the rest of the valley has easier ground?”
The questions hit like stones in still water.
I lean back, the chair creaking under me, and scan more of the details.
Overlaps with old county records, whispers of expedited permits that raised eyebrows.
It doesn’t scream outright fraud, but it paints a picture of a company that maneuvers in shadows, targeting specific holdings for reasons that go beyond the resort pitch.
My mind turns over the projections they showed me, the billions in value that suddenly feel inflated, tailored to hook someone carrying heavy personal baggage.
“Why South Gate?” I mutter, more to myself than him.
The words hang there as memories of Lila surge up unbidden.
Her voice in the cottage that night, sharp with hurt but clear on the preservation side.
The way she challenged me about the land’s worth beyond my grief, her camera capturing stories I’d stopped seeing.
She warned me about the company’s focus feeling off, about not rushing into deals that didn’t add up.
I’d shut her down, retreating behind walls because facing her questions meant facing everything else.
Wyatt watches me, giving the silence room to breathe. “She saw it early, didn’t she? Lila. Always poking at the edges with that photographer’s eye. You’ve been different since she left—quieter, meaner on the bad days. But maybe she was right about more than just the personal stuff.”
I close the folder but keep my hand on it, the paper cool under my palm.
Her warnings echo louder now, mixing with the fresh discrepancies.
The way Nathan always circled back to Noah, using the name like a lever.
The survey markers she mentioned before everything blew up.
It all points to South Gate holding some hidden value for them, something they want bad enough to smooth paths and pressure me specifically.
I think of the keeper’s structure, the ground where my brother slipped away, and the sale doesn’t feel like cutting out poison.
It feels like handing over a piece of the ranch to people who might have played angles around that very tragedy.
“I’ve been so damn fixed on moving forward I missed the cracks,” I say, voice rough. “These contradictions—they’re not small. If they’re targeting South Gate for reasons they’re not laying out, then pushing this through could bite us harder than the grief ever did.”
Wyatt nods, expression easing just a fraction. “You’ve carried enough alone. The crew sees it. I see it. Walking away from the deal might sting short term, but it keeps the land whole. Keeps you whole too, maybe.”
The idea settles in my chest, scary and right at the same time.
I stand up and pace to the window, looking out over the fields that roll toward the southern boundary.
Lila’s face flickers again—her stubborn lift of chin when she demanded truth, the way her touch grounded me even when I pulled away.
Losing her carved deeper than any memory of Noah, and now these new doubts tie the threads together.
I can’t keep pretending the deal is clean when the evidence stacks against it.
I turn back to Wyatt. “I’m considering it. Walking away. Postpone the meeting, dig more. The ranch has stood this long without their money. Maybe it’s time to listen to what the land’s been trying to tell me through her eyes.”
The words come out steady, but they shift something inside.
The doubts that plagued me solidify into resolve.
South Gate stays mine for now, at least until I understand why Caldwell Ridge wants it so badly.
And maybe, just maybe, that decision opens a door back to the woman who made me question everything in the first place.
I grab the packet and set it aside, the weight lifting slightly as the afternoon light deepens outside.