Wes frowned, defensive instinct kicking in. “Like what? I’m a tree farmer, not a?—”
“You’re more than that, Wes,” Jake interrupted gently. “You’ve got skills most people don’t. Land, equipment, a customer base that already trusts you. There are options if you’re willing to consider them.”
“Such as?”
Jake hesitated, and Wes recognized the careful way he was choosing his words. “There’s a local contact who might be helpful. Pedro Torres-Shepherd—he runs a landscaping company. Barb mentioned he navigated something similar a while back. Seasonal slumps, cash flow issues. He diversified, and it worked.”
Wes stiffened slightly at the name, his jaw tightening. “Titus already tried to buy into the farm once. I said no.”
“This isn’t about Titus,” Jake said quickly, leaning forward. “And it’s not about buying in. Just peer advice. Businessman to businessman. Someone who understands the agricultural cycle and the challenges of seasonal income. That’s all. But only if you’re willing.”
Wes looked away, his gaze finding the window and the rows of pines beyond. He knew Titus and Pedro meant well. Hell, they were good people. Titus had been working to make Spoon a haven for people like them—like Wes—even if Wes had never quite been ready to acknowledge whatpeople like themmeant. But accepting help from the mayor’s family—from folks who had money to throw around, who could write checks without checking their bank balance first—felt like charity.
And Wes didn’t do charity.
“I’ll think about it,” he said finally.
“That’s all I’m asking.”
They sat in silence for a moment. The numbers on the laptop screen glowed between them, patient and implacable. From theliving room came the muffled sound of Henry’s cooking show, someone explaining the proper way to fold egg whites.
“Can I ask you something?” Wes said.
“Sure.”
“Why do you do this?”
Jake blinked. “Do what?”
“This. Save farms. Most bankers I’ve met don’t give a shit if a place goes under. They just want their money back, one way or another.”
Jake’s expression shifted—something softer breaking through the professional veneer, more honest. He closed the laptop slowly, leaning forward with his forearms on the table.
“I moved around a lot,” he said, his voice quieter now. “Seven homes in ten years. Never had a place that felt like home—you know, really home. The kind of place where you know which floorboards creak, where the sun hits in the morning, where three generations carved their initials into the same fence post.” He paused, his fingers tracing an invisible pattern on the table. “And then I got into banking, started working agricultural accounts, and I saw these families—people who’d been on the same land for generations, who had roots and history and legacy. Things I never had.”
He looked up, meeting Wes’s eyes.
“I guess I figured if I couldn’t have that for myself, at least I could help other people keep it. Maybe that makes me sound pathetic?—”
“No,” Wes interrupted, his throat tight. “It doesn’t. It makes you sound human.”
He hadn’t expected that. Hadn’t expected Jake to be so... real. To have his own scars, his own losses. To understand what it meant to fight for something bigger than yourself.
“It’s—” Wes started, then stopped, unsure what to say. What words could possibly be adequate?
“Sappy?” Jake offered with a small, self-deprecating smile.
“No, it’s—honest. Kind. It’s good. What you do. It matters.”
Jake held his gaze for perhaps a beat too long, and Wes felt the air between them thicken, become something almost tangible.
Wes cleared his throat and stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor. “You want to see my shop? The chainsaw carvings?”
Jake’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “Yeah. I do.”
“Come on.”
The workshop was Wes’s sanctuary.
