Chapter Forty-Four
Grant Mercer became January’s first problem.
He owned Mercer Stock and Feed, which supplied half the valley and enjoyed behaving as if that made him local royalty.
He had also spent twenty years calling my grandfather “old Eli” in a tone that suggested affection while negotiating him into bad prices. I disliked him on principle.
He gave me a new reason on the second Tuesday of the month.
“You can’t expand that paddock line,” he said, standing in my office with his hat tucked under one arm.
“Why?”
“Easement.”
I frowned.
“There is no easement on the west field.”
“There is if you want access to the county spur through my lower pasture.”
I stared at him. The county spur mattered. Our main road iced badly in winter. The lower route through Mercer’s property could cut emergency access by ten minutes. Granddad had used it informally for decades.
Grant smiled.
“Old arrangements don’t transfer automatically.”
There it was.
“What do you want?”
“A board contract. Exclusive feed supplier for three years.”
I almost laughed.
“No.”
His smile thinned.
“You haven’t seen the numbers.”
“I don’t need to.”
“Mara, running a little rescue is different from playing executive at your husband’s ranch.”
The room went cold. Tessa, at the filing cabinet, turned very slowly. I held up one finger without looking at her. Do not murder him.
“I didn’t play executive.”
Grant shrugged.
“Whatever you call it. You had Halvorsen infrastructure behind you. Out here, people make practical arrangements.”
“Extortion is practical now?”
“Business.”
“Then here’s mine. No exclusive contract. If the old access agreement isn’t legally enforceable, I’ll build another route.”
“That’ll cost you.”
“Probably.”
“Your husband could solve this with one phone call.”
I stood.
“Meeting’s over.”
Grant put on his hat. At the door, he paused.
“Pride is expensive.”
“So is assuming a woman has no money unless it comes from a man.”
He left. Tessa waited three seconds.
“Can I murder him now?”
“No.”
“Maim?”
“Also no.”
I called Nina. The old access was a handshake agreement, not a recorded easement. Grant was within his rights to block it. I hated him more for being legally correct. The alternate route required drainage work, gravel, and a culvert.
Estimate: sixty-eight thousand dollars. I had the money. Spending it would cut deeply into our expansion reserve. That afternoon, Beckett called. I did not mention Grant.
Not because I wanted to hide it. Because I wanted one day to think before the Halvorsen machine entered the room. The next morning, Grant called Beckett himself. I found out when my husband texted:
GRANT MERCER CALLED ME ABOUT YOUR ACCESS ROAD. I DID NOT DISCUSS IT. DO YOU WANT TO TELL ME WHAT’S HAPPENING OR SHOULD I STAY OUT? I stared at the message. Then laughed.
Tessa looked up.
“Good laugh or unstable laugh?”
“Progress laugh.”
I called Beckett.
“He called you?”
“At seven twelve.”
“Of course he did.”
“He offered Halvorsen a preferred-supplier agreement if I persuaded you to sign his Harlow Creek contract.”
“That little—”
“I declined.”
I closed my eyes.
“Thank you.”
“Do you want help?”
The question. Always the question now.
“I want information.”
“Okay.”
“How would you solve the road if this were one of your properties?”
He was quiet for a moment.
“Do you want the cheap answer, the durable answer, or the answer that punishes Grant?”
“There is an answer that punishes Grant?”
“Several.”
I smiled.
“Durable.”
“Record your own access. Build the culvert to county standard. If Harlow Creek expands, you never want emergency access dependent on a neighbor’s mood.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“It’s expensive.”
“I saw the number.”
“Do you want financing options?”
“No.”
“Then I won’t send them.”
I leaned back.
“And the punishment answer?”
“I buy Mercer Stock and Feed.”
I laughed so hard I had to put the phone down.
“That is not a normal response.”
“You asked.”
“Do not buy his company.”
“I won’t.”
“Promise.”
“I promise not to acquire Grant Mercer as a marital gesture.”
“God.”
I was still smiling when we hung up. We built the road. I signed the contract myself. The first week of construction turned half the west field into mud and revealed a drainage problem no one had included in the estimate. Another twelve thousand dollars.
I came home furious. Beckett was making pasta in my kitchen. This had become a Thursday thing. Not every Thursday. Enough that his olive oil lived in my cabinet now.
I dropped the revised invoice on the counter.
“Tell me sixty-eight plus twelve isn’t eighty.”
He looked at the paper.
“It is unfortunately eighty.”
“I hate roads.”
“Reasonable.”
“I hate culverts.”
“Also reasonable.”
“I hate men named Grant.”
“Statistically unfair, emotionally valid.”
I sat at the table.
“I could have forced the old route.”
“Maybe.”
“Or used your lawyers.”
“Probably.”
“Or let you buy his company like a lunatic.”
“The offer remains romantically available.”
I threw a napkin at him. He caught it. Then he came around the counter and crouched beside my chair.
“Do you regret it?”
I looked at the invoice.
“Ask me when I stop bleeding money.”
“Mara.”
I sighed.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because no one can take the road away.”
His eyes stayed on mine.
“Exactly.”
Something in his expression made me pause.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Beckett.”
He stood and went back to the stove.
“I was thinking that maybe that’s what you’re doing with us.”
My chest tightened.
“Building a culvert?”
“A route no one can take away because it isn’t based on an old informal agreement.”
I stared at him.
“That is the least romantic metaphor I’ve ever heard.”
“I own cattle.”
“And apparently feelings now.”
He smiled. We ate pasta. After dinner, we made love in my bedroom. He stayed. In the morning, he left before seven because he had a board meeting.
I walked him to the door in socks. He kissed me once.
“See you Sunday?”
“Counseling Monday.”
“I know. Sunday?”
I liked that he asked for time now instead of assuming it would appear.
“Yes.”
He opened the door.
“Beckett.”
He turned. The words almost came out. Come home. Or maybe let me come home. I wasn’t ready.
“Drive safe.”
He nodded.
“Always.”
I watched him leave on the road I owned.