Chapter 7
CHAPTER 7
ANGELICA
I t’s been three days, and every second without Waylon feels like a lifetime. I try to distract myself, focusing on the cabin and the repairs I can do alone, but everything reminds me of Waylon.
I pace the cabin, my footsteps echoing in the silence, but all I hear is Waylon’s voice and his anger and disappointment when he left. I haven’t been able to shake the gnawing sensation in my chest, a mix of guilt and longing that won’t let me rest. Knowing what’s in the ledger is a suffocating weight. How could my great-grandfather have done that? Did my grandparents and parents know?
My family has had this land for generations. Yet my great-grandfather cheated his way into owning it. The guilt of his actions weighs on me. The land passed to me after my parents passed, but it’s more than property. It symbolizes all the wrongs committed, and I can’t hold on to it knowing that. But it would mean giving up something I’ve always believed was a part of my family.
I glance at my phone on the kitchen counter, hoping for a message, a missed call—something from Waylon. But there’s nothing. I need to see Waylon, to talk to him. But what if he doesn’t care anymore? What if he doesn’t want to see me?
I grab my keys off the table. I can’t sit around here anymore, waiting for something to change. I need to do this, and I need to do it now. I’m going to King Tap. If Waylon isn’t there, they’ll know where he is.
I know what I have to do. A phone call won’t suffice.
I need to see Waylon face-to-face.
My heart pounds as I drive to King Tap. I barely register the trees lining the winding road and the mountain air crisp as it fills the car. All I can think about is fighting for the man I never stopped loving.
Pulling into the gravel lot outside the bar, I take a deep breath. This might be the last chance—the only chance—I have to make things right.
I push open the door, and the scent of wood and beer greets me. I don’t know if I’m walking into enemy territory, but I know I have to do this.
The low murmur of conversation fills the space as I scan the room, searching for him. But he’s not here. I walk up to the bar, where a redheaded bartender is wiping down the counter.
“Hey,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. My stomach is clenched in knots, but I know if I don’t do this, it’ll haunt me forever.
She looks up, her eyes sharp. “What can I get for you?”
“I was hoping to find Waylon,” I say, glancing around the room again. “Is he here?”
The bartender pauses, her eyes narrowing slightly as she studies me. “He’s not here right now.” She smooths her red hair, tucking it behind her ear. “But he’ll be here soon. You want to wait?”
I nod, feeling a mix of relief and anxiety. “Yeah, I’ll wait.”
“Can I get you something to drink?” Her tone is softer now, almost sympathetic.
“A soft drink, please. I need to be clearheaded when he gets here.”
She nods, turning to grab a glass. “Are you the woman I’ve heard about?” She gives me a look that makes me think she already knows the answer.
“Yeah,” I say quietly, my eyes drifting to the door again. “You could say that. We’ve known each other nearly all our lives.”
“I’ve wondered if we’d get to meet. I’m Marian,” she says, wiping her hands on a towel and extending one to me. We shake hands, and she smiles. “I’ll call him and let him know someone’s here to see him.”
“Thanks.”
Marian hands me my drink and goes to make the call.
I haven’t tried calling Waylon, partly because I know we need to have this conversation in person and mostly because I’m not sure he’d answer my call.
I sip my drink, but the cold liquid does little to calm the tension knotting my stomach. I sit at one of the tables near the back, away from the noise of everyone, and pull out my phone. I’ve been avoiding this, but I know I need to do it.
I open my email, typing a message to my brother, explaining what I’m about to do. The words come slowly at first, each one like a weight on my chest, but once I start, I can’t stop. I tell him about the ledger, about how our great-grandfather cheated to win the land. I tell him I plan to give it back to Waylon, to do what’s right, even if it means losing a part of our family’s legacy.
His response comes almost immediately, the anger practically radiating off the screen.
You can’t be serious, Angelica. That land is ours. You can’t just give it away.
I sigh, running a hand through my hair. I knew he wouldn’t understand. I knew he’d be angry. But this isn’t his decision to make. The land was left to me, and it’s up to me to decide what to do with it.
It’s mine to give, I type back. Dad left the deed to me. And you said you didn’t care about the land. I don’t want it if it didn’t come into our family fair and square. It doesn’t feel right to keep it. We have more integrity than that.
It takes a few minutes before his response comes through.
Think about what you’re doing, Ang. This isn’t just about you. It’s about our family.
I stare at the screen, feeling the weight of his words. He’s right—it’s not just about me. But it is about doing the right thing. And I can’t ignore that.
I set my phone down and look around the bar as I sip my drink. The place is filling up now, with people laughing and talking. But I can’t focus on them. All I can think about is Waylon and what will happen when he walks through that door.
Minutes tick by, each one dragging slower than the last. My mind races with a hundred different scenarios, each ending in disaster. What if he’s angry? What if he doesn’t want the land? What if he doesn’t want anything to do with me?
But then the door opens, and there he is.
Waylon walks in, his tall frame cutting through the room with authority. He spots me almost immediately, his dark eyes hard as they lock onto mine.
“Angelica,” he says, his voice low and gravelly as he approaches the table. He towers over me as I sit there, frozen. “What are you doing here?”
“Waylon,” I manage to say, my heart pounding so loud I’m sure he can hear it. “Sit with me.”
He hesitates before pulling out a chair and sitting across from me, his eyes never leaving mine. For a moment, neither of us says anything, the tension between us almost unbearable.
“You came looking for me,” he repeats, breaking the silence.
“Yeah,” I say, swallowing hard. “I did.”
He nods, his expression unreadable. The weight of what I’m about to say settles heavily on my shoulders, but I can’t back down now. I came here to do this, and I’m going to see it through.
“I’ve been thinking,” I start, my voice trembling slightly. “About the land.”
His eyes flicker at the mention of the land, and I know I have his full attention.