“Restructured payments. Lower interest. Possibly some equipment leasing instead of outright purchase.” Jake paused. “And your pride, maybe. You’ll have to accept help.”
“My pride,” Wes repeated.
“Yeah.”
“You don’t pull punches, do you?”
“Not when it comes to saving a family farm, no.”
The jukebox changed songs. Something slower, melancholy. Cal glanced over at them and grinned.
Wes scowled. “Cal’s got a sick sense of humor.”
“Why?”
“The song.” Wes pointed up, a gesture to listen.
It wasLosing My Religionby R.E.M.
Jake smiled. “That’s pretty much on the nose.”
“Cal thinks he’s a prophet.” Wes finished his whiskey and signaled Tucker for another.
Jake watched him. In the warm light of the bar, he looked less like the hostile farmer from the day before and more like a man who was just... tired. Tired of fighting, tired of worrying, tired of carrying everything alone.
Foster care had taught Jake that look. He’d worn it himself more often than he could count.
“For what it’s worth,” Jake said quietly, “I’m not here to screw you over.”
Wes looked at him. He stared hard, as if he were searching for the lie.
Jake held his gaze.
“Yeah,” Wes said finally. “Maybe.”
It wasn’t an agreement. But it wasn’t dismissal either.
Tucker returned with Wes’s refill. “You boys want some food? The kitchen’s open another hour.”
“I’m good,” Wes said.
“Jake?”
“I’m fine, thanks.”
Tucker shrugged and moved off again.
Wes picked up his glass, then set it down without drinking. “You throw darts?”
Jake blinked at the non sequitur. “Not well.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“Then, yes. I throw darts.”
Wes stood, grabbed his glass. “Come on.”
“I—I don’t?—”
