Wes studied him. Looking for the lie, the practiced sympathy bankers likely learned in some corporate training seminar. But Jake just looked back, steady, waiting.
Damn it.
Wes turned and kept walking.
They covered the lot in silence. Jake took notes on his phone, occasionally stopping to photograph a section of trees or the barn or the old farmhouse in the distance. He didn’t ask stupid questions. Didn’t comment on the obvious—that the equipment was old, that the fence line needed repair, that the whole operation was held together with duct tape and prayers.
When they reached the workshop behind the barn, Jake paused. “What’s this building?”
“My workspace.”
“For?”
“Chainsaw carvings.” Wes didn’t elaborate.
Jake peered through the window. Inside, half-finished figures crowded the space—bears, owls with wide eyes, and eagles with spread wings. Wes’s escape when the farm got to be too much, when his hands needed to create, lose himself.
“These are yours?”
“Yeah.”
“They’re good.”
“Thanks.” He’d never been comfortable receiving compliments. He didn’t know how to accept them without feeling like he should deflect or make a joke. So he just stood there, awkward.
Wes’s phone buzzed. He pulled it out. The app again. Henry’s dot was in the living room now, stationary. Probably in his recliner, watching game shows.
“Need to take that?” Jake inquired.
“No. Just checking on my dad.”
“Monitoring app?”
Wes’s head snapped up. “How’d you know?”
“My foster father had one after his surgery.”
Foster father.
Something about that surprised Wes, though he couldn’t say why. He’d assumed—what? That bankers came from country clubs and trust funds? That guys in expensive suits didn’t know what a monitoring app was because they’d never had to use one?
They walked back toward Jake’s car. The Audi looked even more ridiculous from this angle, splattered with mud.
“So,” Wes said, crossing his arms. “How long before you pull the plug? A week? Two?”
Jake stopped, turning to face him. “I’m not here to pull the plug, Mr. Dalton.”
“Right. You’re just here toassess the situation.” Wes made air quotes. “I’ve read the letters. I know how this works.”
“Do you?”
“Yeah. You come out, take some pictures, pretend to care, then go back to your office and recommend foreclosure. Merry Christmas, family farm’s gone.”
Jake didn’t flinch. “Is that what you think I do?”
“Isn’t it?”
“No.” Jake pulled out his phone, tapped a few times, then turned the screen toward Wes. “This is the Hartwell Dairy Farm. Outside Athens. They were six months behind when I took their case. That was three years ago. They’re profitable now.”
