Chapter 18
Galen
During lunch, Clay, a ranch hand up at Farthingdale Ranch, had brought down a bag of mail that had been misdirected and hadn’t been delivered to the valley.
As he handed the letters out, it felt a little like mail call at camp, with everybody waiting till letters could be arranged so Clay could hand them out smoothly.
Galen, chomping on a potato chip, looked at the letter Clay placed next to his plate and, dismayed, saw the red stamp and the return address from the IRS.
Heart pounding, he opened the envelope and saw the warning about a late payment, the amount due, and the amount of the penalty if not paid by the end of July. Which wasn’t that far away. He needed to get on this before it blew up in his face and he ended up losing the farm.
The other letter was from the hospital in Cheyenne, with a statement about how much he owed, with a lot of extra fees added on that he’d not known about.
He couldn’t possibly pay both the IRS and the hospital, but it would make more sense to reach out to the IRS first, so he didn’t get the farm taken away from him. The hospital, which keptfinding new ways to charge him, could charge him interest, and he could manage that. But his heart was racing, just the same.
This was the first year he’d done taxes on his own, without Earl doing the most of it, and himself hanging around the edges of the process.
The question was, when was he supposed to call the IRS? First chance he got.
Mulling this over, he finished his lunch and then pulled his team together, leading them out to the path just across the river, where a stray crop of knapweed had sprung up seemingly overnight.
Crossing the simple wooden bridge to the other side, the river willows curved over the path gave them all a respite from the sun. It was still humid, and it was still rough going as they hacked at the dry earth with their hoes, and used the vinegar and soap in hand sprayers to douse the roots.
“How did it get up this far?” asked Toby, not bothering to hide his tone.
“On people’s feet,” said Galen.
It didn’t look like the knapweed had gotten very far out this way, but far enough, so when Toby, Owen, and Bede moved along the trail, Galen stepped back and pulled out his phone, the desperation that he’d kept tucked down until he could get a private moment rose in his throat.
Pulling the letter out of his pocket, he dialed the number for the IRS, and was instantly put on hold. Within five minutes, to his surprise, he got someone named Larry, who gave his ID number and asked what the issue was.
Galen recited the information from the letter, then asked, “What am I supposed to do? I can’t pay all of this.”
“You have to pay by the end of the current month,” said Larry in tones that indicated he simply did not care. “Otherwise you’ll receive a penalty and interest will be incurred.”
“I’m willing to pay, I just need extra time,” said Galen, shock rolling through him as he pressed the cellphone to his ear, as if that would convey to Larry the urgency of the situation. “Isn’t there something I can do?”
“Let me put you on hold while I talk to my supervisor,” said Larry. And then the line went dead.
Hands shaking, Galen went through the process again, and got hold of a woman named Susan.
She didn’t give her ID number, but when she heard what Galen wanted, she told him that she needed to get a supervisor. Galen was again put on hold, and again the line went dead.
Now, pacing beneath the arch of a line of river willows, the shade dappled and spicy smelling, Galen took a breath and gripped his phone, almost tight enough to make the plastic squeak. Hot sweat streaked down the back of his neck.
“Why don’t you just ask your accountant to help you with that?” asked a voice from behind him.
Galen whirled to see Bede standing there, a bottle of water from the small ice chest they’d brought with them in one hand, a dusty hoe in the other.
“What?” asked Galen, blinking the sweat from his eyes as he reeled, not just from the dire situation over money owed, money that he simply did not have, but from Bede’s presence. All rugged and manly, sweating beneath his arms, his smile bright and sudden, as if he knew that Galen was drooling over him and couldn’t help himself.
“Get your accountant to help you,” said Bede, seemingly patient, though there was a smirk around his mouth. “Or your bank manager.”
“What am I, moneybags?” spat Galen, wishing he too had thought to grab one of the waters from the ice chest. “I don’t have an accountant. I’m my accountant.” He spread his fingers across his chest, irritation rising.
“What you need,” said Bede, casually, leaning on the handle of the hoe as if he were a farmer of renowned repute who knew everything there was to know about any crop you might care to mention. “And no offense, but what you need is a woman over fifty. She might have a raspy voice from smoking too much and a hairdo that is twenty years out of date, but she knows everything—and I meaneverything—there is to know about every form the IRS has ever come up with. Her name is probably Susan or Betty. Get her on the line. She can help you.”
“I just spoke with a Susan,” said Galen, waving that idea away with a little laugh that he couldn’t quite help. “It’s not her. Wait, were youlisteningto my call?”
