“He wasn’t wrong.”
They finished eating. Henry went to bed at nine, same as always. Wes cleaned up and made sure the doors were locked.
Then he stood in the living room, staring at nothing.
The worst answer you’ll ever get is the one you don’t ask for.
He pulled out his phone.
Opened Jake’s email.
Stared at it for a full minute.
Then he grabbed his keys.
Three
Jake lasted one night at the Motel 6 in Wrightsville before seeking a bed-and-breakfast. He landed back in Spoon.
The Hawthorne House sat on a tree-lined Main Street, two blocks from the town square–a white Greek Revival mansion with black shutters and a wraparound porch that looked like something from a postcard. To the left of the driveway was a bronze historical placard, referencing its significance in December 1864, particularly the night General William T. Sherman spent there on his march to Savannah. Outside, the building was enormous, old, and cold. Inside, however, it was surprisingly modern and cozy. It smelled of cinnamon and cedar, the kind of scent that probably cost a fortune to replicate in candle form, but here it was just plain natural.
The woman who’d checked him in—Barb, fifty-something, with silver hair and a handshake that could crack walnuts—had given him the grand tour with the efficiency of someone who’d done it a thousand times but still cared.
“Breakfast is at eight,” she’d said, leading him up the stairs. “But if you’re an early riser, coffee’s on by six. We’ve got a business center,” she pointed to a small room off the second-floor landing, “—which is really just a desk and a printer, but the Wi-Fi’s solid.”
“That’s all I need.”
“Good. Are you here for work or pleasure?”
“Work.”
“What kind of work brings you to Spoon in December?”
Jake hesitated, then relaxed. Something about Barb—her directness, and the way she locked eyes with him—made him want to trust her.
“I’m with Regional First Bank. Agricultural recovery.”
Barb stopped at the door to his room, key in hand. She gave him a long look. “You’re here about Wes Dalton’s place.”
Of course, she knows,Wes thought.Small towns.
“I can’t discuss client details.”
“That’s a yes.” Barb unlocked the door and pushed it open. “He’s a good man. Works harder than anyone I know. His daddy had a stroke back in February. Wes gave up a lot to keep that farm running.”
Jake nodded, absorbing the words. She wasn’t just making small talk—she was drawing a line in the sand. Wes Dalton had people in his corner.
“I’m here to help, not hurt,” Jake said. “That’s the truth.”
Barb studied him a moment longer, then smiled. “Good. Because if you weren’t, you’d have me to deal with.”
“Understood.”
“Dinner’s at six if you want it. Cassie—my partner—makes a mean pot roast on Saturdays. And it’s just us tonight. No other guests.”
“I’d like that. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” She’d started down the hall, then paused. “Oh, and after dinner, if you’re looking for something to do, Tucker’s Tavern is the place. Two blocks down, right on the square. You can’t miss it.”
