I sit alone with the weight of everything I just learned. Somehow, in twenty minutes, I've gone from feeling like a conquering hero to feeling like someone on the outside of the fence looking in.
Jenny returns with my burger. The meat looks perfect—charred outside, pink middle—exactly what I've been craving. I bite into it, working off frustration that's been building since my parents dropped their bombshell.
I'm halfway through my meal when Maxwell Whitmore walks through the door. Just when I thought the night couldn’t get any worse. I never should have gotten out of my truck.
Maxwell commands attention without trying. Tall, salt and pepper haired, wearing a suit that’s tailored to his lean and mean frame. He surveys the restaurant, and when his pale blue eyes settle on my corner booth, I stare right back.
He walks straight to my table and I curse under my breath. "Wyatt Halloway." His voice carries old money and older power. "Nice to see you back in town."
I’m sure it is. I set down my burger and don’t get up. "Mr. Whitmore."
"Mind if I sit?" It's not really a question. He's already sliding into the booth my parents vacated, claiming space like it's always been his. Up close, he looks older than Iremember him—lines around his eyes, hair gone completely silver at the temples. But he’s the same as always. Calculating. I wonder if his aunt is still alive. She's … cold.
"You know, I've been following your career. Top ten in the world standings—impressive for a small-town boy." The words are complimentary, but his tone makes them feel like an insult. Like success outside Gritstone doesn't count.
"I work hard at it."
"Eight seconds at a time." His smile's sharp. "Must be exhausting. All that traveling. Never knowing when you might get hurt bad enough to end your career."
My shoulder throbs like it's answering him, but I keep my face neutral. Whatever game he's playing, I'm not giving him the satisfaction of knowing he’s even partially right.
"What can I do for you, Mr. Whitmore?"
"Actually, I think the question is what can I do for you. For your family." He leans forward, voice dropping confidentially. "I hear your parents are having trouble with federal regulators. Something about grazing permits and fire hazards."
I eye him. "Word travels fast."
"Especially about something as important as the future of ranching in this valley." His eyes never leave my face, reading every micro-expression. "You know how these environmental groups work. File lawsuits, demand studies, tie everything up in red tape for years. Meanwhile, good people lose their livelihoods."
"What's your point?"
"My point is that sometimes these situations can be... resolved. With the right influence." He pauses, letting it sink in. "Our ranch has excellent relationships with environmentalcompliance consultants. We've never had problems with federal oversight."
Because you’re willing to bribe politicians. "That's convenient," I admit.
"Could be convenient for your family too." His voice carries smooth persuasion. "Stonegate Ranch is prime land. Would be a shame to see it... compromised... by regulatory overreach."
The threat's wrapped in silk, but it's still a threat. My jaw clenches. "Speak plain or find your own table.”
"Sometimes the best way to solve a problem is to remove it entirely." He spreads his hands like the solution's obvious. "We're looking to expand. If your parents decided to retire, cash out while the market's strong—we'd be very interested in making that transition smooth."
There it is. “I don't think my parents are interested in selling."
"People's interests change when circumstances change." His smile never wavers, but something cold flickers behind his eyes. "Environmental lawsuits can be expensive to fight. Time-consuming.”
I really hate this man. "I'll pass along your offer."
"You do that." He stands, smoothing his jacket. "Enjoy your time at home, Wyatt." He tips his hat, leaving me alone with my cooling burger and the taste of something bitter as I curse under my breath.
The man just threatened my family with polite words and a politician's smile, and there's not a dang thing I can do about it. Not while I'm just passing through on my way to somewhere else.
For the first time in years, I find myselfwondering what it would be like to bare my teeth and go after the Whitmores and anyone else who thinks they can take our land.
The heat in my chest simmers and then cools. I'm overreacting. Mom's got this. She said she's hired someone. It'll be fine.
I push the burger away, appetite gone. The walls start to close in as a whisper echoes in my head: Stay. Fight. This is your blood, your legacy.
I throw cash on the table for a tip and stand. My shoulder screams in protest, but I welcome the pain. It reminds me that I’m a man who lives eight seconds at a time, not someone who plants roots in soil that's already taken too many Halloway dreams.