“It doesn’t matter what I think anyway. John and Archer were quite moved by your performance. They’re already planning the feature.”
“I’m sure they are.” Jenna pushed off the wall and stared up at him. “Hopefully it won’t be too distracting from your winning season.”
“If you’re there, I don’t see how it won’t be.”
Jenna blinked, but then her lips curled at the edges. “I guess we’ll see.” She patted his arm as she strode past him and headed back to their booth.
I guess we’ll see? What the hell did that mean? His skin tingled where she touched him, and he rubbed his arm. What was he doing? Did he think that somehow seeing Jenna again was going to crack open a new storyline for them? Was he hoping Jenna was also walking around in a reminiscent daze since Monday when they’d sat in John’s office together?
Jenna was like Degrassi reruns on YTV. Relentless, and yet filled with so much drama, he couldn’t change the channel. Usually, when a problem plagued him, he could sweat it out in the barn or on the ice and either find a solution or let the frustration bleed out of him, but there wasn’t a puzzle piece he could click into place here. Just like he hadn’t been able to complete the picture thirteen years ago.
That was it. Country raked his hand through his hair and drew a deep breath. He needed closure. That was why the universe had planted them in each other’s paths again. If Jenna was going to try to keep things professional between them, then maybe he needed to remind her how very unprofessional they’d been in the past. If she thought he was agitating now . . .
Country smiled to himself, slipped a hand in his pocket, and turned back into the main dining room. He’d remind Jenna what they’d had back in college. Then find a way to figure out why in the hell she’d given it all up.
Chapter Seven
The next morning, Country slumped into a chair at the worn kitchen table, running his fingers over the place where his younger brother Jesse had tried to stab Polk in the hand with a fork and missed. The linoleum floors boasted the same pattern from his childhood, and even though his mom had taken down the wallpaper border, the old maple trim was still there.
They’d been locked in the same routine for years now, even though the ranch was his on paper. Sometimes it felt like he was the Governor General and his dad was still the Queen of England.
It wasn’t all bad. He didn’t hate his end-of-the-week meetings, even if it did feel like he was constantly arriving for judgment day with his pants down. His dad didn’t understand how much things had changed in the past eight years, and Country didn’t have the heart to be honest with him about how many of his outdated practices had contributed to their snowballing debt.
He looked forward to Sunday brunch with any family that happened to be available, then found comfort in the daily routine around the ranch. It was usually pleasant and predictable, but this week the whole lot seemed to lack lustre.
Seeing Jenna again had held a magnifying glass over every decision he’d made in the last thirteen years. Was this what his entire life would be? Sitting in this kitchen? Tromping around the acreage he’d grown up on? He’d always wanted land, a farmhouse, a business he ran himself, but the cornerstone of that dream—a family of his own—was missing.
"Alright, let's hear it then," his father said gruffly, folding calloused hands over the morning's newspaper and sitting down across from him. Polk’s footsteps sounded on the stairs leading up from the basement, and Country waited until he took his seat. This wasn’t going to be pretty. Even if Polk wasn’t willing to start the conversation, he’d be good for a couple of solid head nods.
Country cleared his throat and spread out the sheets of financial statements like a losing hand of poker. "Feed costs are through the roof, we're barely breaking even on the beef, and slashes in restaurant pricing—it’s squeezing us dry."
"Restaurants have always been tight-fisted," his dad countered. "We've weathered plenty of downturns."
Country had expected this response. His dad, bless his heart, was convinced that everything had a cycle. You just had to wait out the storm. While that was true enough, sometimes you had to take retirement in the middle of the storm, and Country wasn’t willing to watch his father work his hands to the bone past seventy-five.
“The ranch has done well, Dad, but things are moving fast nowadays. Parts of the economy as you knew it are disappearing, and new industry is cropping up. Unless we upgrade our processes or find a new distribution angle?—"
“We've kept things afloat before,” his father grunted.
Country pointed at their abysmal third-quarter numbers. “It’s not about staying afloat. We have to evolve?—”
“Evolve? Next thing, you'll tell me to trade my horse for one of them Teslas.”
"Wouldn't be the worst idea," Country muttered. He leaned back in the chair, ignoring the creaks in the wooden legs his mother used to protest. "Look, I love this ranch as much as you do, but I’ve run the numbers. I believe we have two choices.” His heart thumped against his ribs, and he shot Polk a look. “We overhaul our processes—get into direct sales, maybe even agritourism—or . . .we consider selling."
"Agritour-what?" His father’s wrinkled hands gripped the table edge.
Polk scratched the week-old scruff on his chin. "Tourism, Dad. Like, people pay to visit and see how a real ranch operates. Maybe even stay a night or two."
“Stay where?”
Country pointed out the back window. “I was thinking we could convert the old grain silos. Unique spots like that go for insane nightly rates on VRBO.”
“I don’t think the city folk want a cowboy experience.”
Polk smothered a laugh with the palm of his hand. Country could only imagine what type of “experience” was running through his head at the moment.
Country coughed. "Actually, they do. They think it’s romantic.”
