“Dad, this is Jake Marley. From Regional First Bank.”
Henry used his cane to push himself more upright, waving off Wes’s automatic move to help. “Mr. Marley.”
“Please call me Jake.” Jake crossed to Henry, extending his hand. “It’s good to meet you, sir.”
Henry’s grip was still strong despite everything, and he shook firmly, studying Jake with the kind of scrutiny usually reserved for customers trying to lowball him on a tree. “You here to save my farm or finish it?”
“Dad—” Wes started, but Jake didn’t flinch.
“Save it, if Wes will let me help.” Jake’s tone was respectful but direct. “I’ve reviewed the financials. You’ve built something worth preserving here.”
“Damn right we have.” Henry gestured to the couch. “Sit down for a minute. Let me look at you.”
Wes felt heat creep up his neck. “We’ve got work to do?—”
“Work can wait.” Henry muted the TV. “I want to know who’s handling my family’s future.”
Jake sat without hesitation, and something about his posture—relaxed but attentive—seemed to satisfy Henry.
“Do you know anything about farming, Mr. Marley?”
“Call me Jake, please. And no, sir. I grew up in foster care, mostly in Atlanta. But I know business, and I know how to listen to people who do know farming.”
Henry grunted. “Foster care. That’s rough.”
“It had its moments. Taught me not to take things for granted.”
“Like family land.”
“Exactly like that.” Jake met Henry’s gaze steadily. “Which is why I don’t take cases like yours lightly.”
They stared at each other for a long moment, and Wes held his breath, watching his father’s face for the telltale signs of dismissal or—worse—that patronizing look he got when he thought someone was blowing smoke.
But Henry’s expression softened slightly. “You seem competent enough.”
From Henry, that was practically a ringing endorsement.
“I appreciate that,” Jake said. “Your son’s doing everything right. He just needs some breathing room.”
“He needs to stop being so damn stubborn and ask for help when he needs it.”
“Dad—”
“It’s true.” Henry looked at Wes. “You’ve been carrying this place on your back for a while. About time you let someone else share the load.”
Wes’s throat tightened. They didn’t talk about this—about how much had changed, how much Wes had sacrificed.
Jake stood smoothly. “I promise I’ll do everything I can to make this work, Mr. Dalton.”
“Henry. And you better, because if you screw my boy over, I’ll find a way to make your life difficult even from this damn chair.”
Jake’s mouth quirked. “Understood.”
They shook hands again, and Wes ushered Jake back to the kitchen before his father could issue any more thinly veiled threats.
“Sorry about that,” Wes muttered, closing the pocket door between the rooms.
“Don’t be. I like him.” Jake settled back at the table, pulling his laptop closer. “He’s protective. That’s good.”
