Twenty-Seven
WE HAVE TO USE WHAT WE HAVE TO MAINTAIN THE UPPER HAND.
KINSLEY
I pull into the feed store parking lot and stop so fast I leave tire marks in the gravel. I got Brook's text and drove over here with a prayer that I wouldn't get pulled over for speeding hot on my lips.
A white city vehicle sits beside Brook's truck, official seals and government plates that spell trouble. A man in a polo shirt holding a clipboard is shaking his head at Brook. I glare. They are not shutting us down today.
The partially completed event space rises behind her like a skeleton—reclaimed timber framing, concrete floors that will accommodate plenty of boot scootin' and cowboy romancin', and pipes jutting out of the concrete.
If this inspector shuts us down now, we could loseeverything. The dinner, the coalition, the last chance to save twenty thousand head of cattle and five generations of Halloway blood. We lose Wyatt's inheritance, his future, maybe even him if the weight of watching his family's legacy crumble becomes too much to bear. He wants his family to think he doesn't care, but you don't recruit fifteen people to a cause you don't believe in.
I'm about to get out of the car when my phone chimes.
Jessica's name flashes across the screen with a link to Instagram. I tap it and my stomach drops.
Brittany and Wyatt. Standing close behind the chutes, she’s leaning against him, his expression unreadable. The caption underneath makes my vision blur at the edges:Just can't get enough of him!
My fingers go numb around the phone.
Another text. This one from Jessica:Don't freak out. Talk to him first!
The phone dings again immediately. Jessica:If you're freaking out after talking to him, CALL MMMEEEE!!
I lock my phone and shove it in my pocket. I can't do this right now. Can't think about Wyatt and Brittany and what that photo means or doesn't mean. Can't let myself spiral into all the ways I might be getting played while pretending I'm in control.
One fire at a time.
Right now, the fire in front of me is the man with the clipboard who's about to shut down our last chance at saving this ranch. Everything else—including the image of another woman's arm around Wyatt's waist—will have to wait.
I force air into my lungs and climb out of the car.
"Mr. Henderson," Brook says as I approach, her voice steady but her eyes blazing, "I've explained this three times already. This isn't residential construction."
Dave Henderson, a middle-aged man with a pot belly, gives Brook a look that says he doesn’t believe her.
I stand beside Brook and touch her arm to let her know I’m here for her.
The construction crew hovers nearby waiting for orders.
"Ma'am, I don't care what you call it," Henderson says with smug satisfaction, "Anonymous tip says you're building illegal residential units above commercial space. Zoning violation clear as day."
"Anonymous tips don't constitute grounds for a shutdown," I say, keeping my voice level. "You need documented evidence of a zoning violation, not just someone's word. What specifically are we violating?"
Henderson points at the framing with his clipboard. "Right there—second floor layout. That's clearly residential square footage over commercial space. I can see bathroom rough-in and bedroom partitions. You can call it whatever you want, but the framing doesn't lie."
Brook unfurls the architectural plans across the tailgate of her truck. "It’s not a bedroom. This is a bridal preparation suite. No kitchen. No fire escape. No closet space. No residential features."
She glances over her shoulder at him to make sure he’s looking at the blueprint—he is not.
I jump in, touching his arm and physically turning his body toward the papers. "Brides need somewhere private toget ready before their event,” I explain in my polite voice. “Somewhere they can change clothes, fix their hair, have a moment of quiet before walking down the aisle. It's a changing room, not an apartment."
Henderson barely glances at the plans. "Looks like apartment construction to me. Walls, ceiling, electrical, plumbing."
“Brides' rooms need all those things too,” I point out.
The legal weak points in his case glare like neon signs—no specific code violations cited, no actual inspection of the plans, relying on anonymous tips rather than professional assessment. This is harassment with a government stamp, and it makes my blood boil. The tremor in my hands started with that picture of Brittany and Wyatt, but now it's all focused rage.