Chapter 13
Thirteen
Tessa
After the funeral, I pretended all weekend the world was paused, as if government offices were closed, then the problems were too. Ray’s debts didn’t matter, and the loneliness that seeped into my bones every time the house shifted was nothing.
I’d patched a fence. Cleaned the stalls in the barn. Swept the kitchen twice a day. Reorganized Ray’s pantry. Counted the envelopes on his desk, but didn’t open a single one.
But Monday didn’t care that I wasn't ready.
By the time I pulled into the gravel lot of the local Credit Union, sweat slicked the back of my neck. My fingers left damp prints on the steering wheel.
I sat there for a long moment, forehead against the wheel, breathing like I was training for a panic attack marathon.
“You can do this,” I whispered. “You survived worse.” I wasn’t sure that was true, but I walked in anyway.
The cool air inside the bank hit like a slap. A clerk behind the counter lifted her head and smiled politely. “Morning. What can I help you with?”
My throat felt tight. “I need to speak with whoever handles agricultural loans.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No.”
She hesitated for a moment but nodded. “Let me check.”
She disappeared through a side door. I clasped my hands together so she wouldn’t see them shake. My palms were cold even though my skin felt too hot. My chest buzzed like bees lived under my ribs.
After a minute, she returned. “Mrs. Carson can see you.”
I followed her into a small office with framed photos of barley fields and a giant poster about smart retirement planning. A woman in her fifties stood behind the desk and shook my hand.
“You must be Ray’s niece. I’ve been expecting you,” she confirmed. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
The words hit like someone pressed on a bruise. “Thank you,” I managed.
“Have a seat. So,” she said gently, “what can I help you with?”
It took everything to force the words out. “I need to know what’s owed on my uncle’s accounts.”
“Your uncle was behind on both property tax and operating credit,” she said. “The arrears are not small.” She didn’t even have to look at her computer. That wasn’t a good sign at all.
My stomach tightened. “He never mentioned any of this.”
“We also need to discuss the outstanding loan secured against the back acreage,” she said gently.
My pulse skipped. “The back pasture?”
She nodded. “The land itself is the collateral.”
I leaned back in the chair and pressed my palms to the armrests, trying to breathe through the sudden weight in my chest. “And now that he’s gone?”
“The debt remains attached to the property. If the estate is unable to service it, the bank will proceed toward recovery through auction.”
Auction. The word landed like a punch.
“How much?” I asked. She slid a thin folder across the desk. The number was written on a yellow sticky note, and it made my vision blur.
“There is one interested party already,” she added carefully.
“I’m aware,” I said flatly, knowing she meant Wyatt. My hands curled into fists in my lap. “So everyone expected him to fail?” I asked accusingly.
Her expression softened. “I wouldn’t put it that way.”
“I would,” I said.
Outside, the wind pushed against the window. A truck drove past on Main Street. Somewhere beyond the town limits, cattle needed feeding. Fences were falling down. The ranch was barely holding its breath. And Wyatt Hargrove already positioned himself to take it.
“What’s the timeline?” I asked, my voice oddly confident.
“If the arrears aren’t addressed, the process will begin within the month. I suggest you find legal counsel for this process.”
A month.
I nodded once. I wasn’t sure what I looked like from the outside, but inside everything felt unmoored.
“Thank you,” I said, even though nothing about this felt like it deserved gratitude.
She gave me the kind of smile people give when they know they’re about to become the villain in your story.
Hargrove Brewing sat just inside the town limits, like it muscled its way out of the prairie on purpose. The restaurant side was already open for lunch, a few dusty pickups and half-ton trucks scattered through the gravel lot.
I needed to learn more about Wyatt Hargrove, and where better than his place of business? Sure, I’d been there for Ray’s luncheon, but that didn’t give me an accurate idea of what I was up against. A random noon on Monday might.
I parked farther from the door than I needed to and sat there for a beat, fingers locked on the steering wheel.
My phone rang, and I held my breath as I looked at the number. It wasn’t one I recognized, but it was one from someone in town.
“Hello?” I tried to make my voice sound more cheerful than I felt.
“Oh, good, you answered. I wasn’t sure if you would. It’s Brooke.”
“Hi,” I said as I smiled, “what can I do for you?” Hopefully, she didn’t need money, because I didn’t have any.
Brooke’s husband died two years ago in an accident, and they had a son, who should be about fourteen. Maybe he needed some work? I bet he could help me fix fences.
“A lot, I hope. I’m calling to ask if you want a job. My last vet tech just quit, and I’m so behind on everything I’d completely understand if you said no, but I had to ask.” There was desperation in her voice, but she didn’t know that this was the best call I received in days.
“Are you serious? Yes, I’ll take it. When do you want me to start?” I blurted out without stopping to take a breath.
“How about next week? Gives you a bit more time to settle in, and Jackson will be with his grandparents, so I can help you without him hanging around.” Her voice was lighter now.
“Perfect, I’ll see you Monday, and Brooke, thank you.”
I climbed out, locked the truck, and walked toward the front entrance with a little more pep in my step than when I left the bank.
Inside, the temperature dropped a few degrees, and the world shifted.
Warm, low light filtered through the room.
The smell of woodsmoke from the massive stone fireplace at the far end.
The clink of cutlery, the low murmur of conversation, the faint hiss of a tap being opened behind the bar.
Comfortable chairs gathered around the fire instead of stiff rows of tables, people sinking into them like they belonged there.
A server in a Hargrove Brewing tee shirt and black jeans came over with a menu tucked against her hip.
“Hey, I’m Natalie. Are you here for lunch or just coffee?”
“Coffee for sure. Maybe food. I haven’t decided yet.”
She gave me a small, knowing smile and nodded toward a two-top near the windows. “That one’s quieter. I’ll grab your drink.”
I slid into the corner table, dropped my phone beside the napkin, and stared out the window. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
The server brought a mug, set down cream and sugar, and moved away again. I wrapped both hands around the ceramic like I could siphon stability out of it, then unlocked my phone.
Legal counsel.
I typed “agricultural lawyer near River’s Edge” before I could talk myself out of it, picked the first name with anything about rural property, and hit call.
“Law office of Elle Keene,” a receptionist answered.
“Hi,” I said. My voice sounded like it belonged to someone who’d been screaming. “My name’s Tessa Callahan. I just inherited a ranch, and there’s a lien, taxes are overdue, and I don’t understand any of it.”
There was a beat of quiet, a rustle of paper.
“Right,” she said. “One moment, I’ll see if Ms. Keene can take your call.”
I traced the rim of the mug with my thumb, breathing shallow. A few seconds later, another voice came on, low and brisk.
“Ms. Callahan? This is Elle. I understand you’re dealing with a lien on inherited agricultural land. I’m sorry. It’s always complicated.”
“How bad is this?”
“Well,” she said, and I could hear her shifting into work mode, “a lien gives the holder a claim on the property if the debt isn’t resolved.
If taxes are in arrears as well, the county can push for an auction.
If there are delinquent equipment loans, those lenders may move to reclaim assets.
It all comes down to timing and who’s in first position. ”
Auction. Reclaim. First position. Every word landed like another weight on my chest.
“I don’t understand any of this.”
“Where are you right now, Ms. Callahan?”
“In River’s Edge. At Hargrove Brewing. I couldn’t make myself go home yet.”
“Hargrove’s,” she repeated, like she knew it. “Alright. I’m in town this morning. I just left the county office. If you’re comfortable with it, I can meet you there. It’s easier to explain this when I can sketch things out.”
“In person?” “Yeah. You’ll still need to gather all the documents from the ranch, but we can at least get a head start on what you’re dealing with before you’re knee deep in notices.”
I stared into my coffee. “Okay. I’m here.”
“I’ll be there in about ten minutes. Navy blazer, too much paper in my bag. You won’t miss me.”
When the call ended, the room came back into focus. Soft music. Someone laughed near the fireplace. Cutlery scraping against plates.
Movement at the far side of the room snagged my attention before I could drag my eyes away.
Wyatt came in from a side door that led, if I remembered right, toward the brewhouse. He wore a dark Hargrove Brewing tee shirt that pulled across his shoulders, jeans faded and stained like he’d actually been working, and a ball cap shoved low to keep his hair out of his face.
He crossed behind the bar without looking at the tables, dropped a clipboard beside the till, and leaned over to check a set of gauges under the taps.
The bartender said something I couldn’t catch.
Wyatt tapped the face of one dial with a knuckle, adjusted a valve, then reached into the cooler and hauled out a half keg like it weighed nothing.