But the man behind the manager’s desk isn’t the same. Hank Smith retired two years ago—pushed out, some say, though no one can prove it. Marlon Ennis sits in his place now, with hiswire-frame glasses and his professional smile that never reaches his eyes.
The lobby is nearly empty. One older rancher sits reading the paper, barely glancing up as we enter. The quiet feels heavy. Like the whole building is holding its breath.
Delaney’s hand finds mine. Squeezes once. Then lets go.
We’ve got this.
The door to Marlon’s office opens. He appears in his pressed suit and careful smile, glasses catching the fluorescent light.
“Mr. and Mrs. Sutton.” He gestures toward his office. “Please come in.”
Mrs. Sutton.
My heart kicks against my ribs. Probably always will.
Marlon’s office is designed for intimidation. Large desk. Comfortable chairs that sit low enough to make you look up at him. Coffee offered in a way that feels like a test—accept and you’re grateful, decline and you’re difficult.
Delaney accepts. I decline.
“I appreciate you meeting with us,” I start, settling into the chair that’s trying to swallow me. “The Sutton family has banked here for four generations. My great-grandfather opened his first account in 1952.”
“Yes, the Sutton history with this institution is well documented.” Marlon steeples his fingers. “Which makes the current situation all the more... unfortunate.”
“The current situation is exactly what we’re here to address.” Delaney sets her folder on the desk. It lands with a satisfying thump. “May I?”
Marlon gestures. “Please.”
She opens the folder, and I watch her transform. The woman who laughed about my tie vanishes. In her place is someone who commands attention without raising her voice.
“Since taking over as Ranch Operations Coordinator six weeks ago, I’ve implemented several changes.” She slides the first document across. “Vendor consolidation reduced supply costs by eighteen percent. Route optimization cut fuel expenses by twelve percent. Preventive maintenance scheduling eliminated two emergency repair situations that would’ve cost approximately four thousand dollars each.”
Marlon studies the spreadsheet. His expression gives nothing away.
“Additionally,” Delaney continues, “I’ve restructured the crew rotation to maximize efficiency during peak periods. Labor costs are down nine percent without reducing hours or compensation.”
Another document. Another slide across the desk.
“These are projections for Q3 and Q4, based on the current trajectory. Conservative estimates show the ranch returning to profitability within eighteen months, assuming stable market conditions.”
I watch Marlon’s face. Watch him hunt for holes in her numbers. Watch him fail.
“Impressive documentation, Mrs. Sutton. However, projections don’t address the immediate debt situation?—”
“I’m not finished.”
The words are polite. The tone is steel.
Marlon blinks. Settles back.
Delaney pulls out the next document. The one that changes everything.
“This arrived yesterday. Official notification that our application to the Montana Veterans’ Agricultural Resilience Grant program has been approved. Federal matching funds totaling forty-seven thousand dollars, disbursed over eighteen months, specifically allocated for infrastructure improvements and operational stability.”
She slides the letter across. Marlon picks it up. Reads it twice. “This is... significant.”
“It is.” Delaney doesn’t smile, but satisfaction radiates from her. “The grant committee specifically cited our operational improvement plan and our status as a veteran-operated family ranch. The funds are committed. The only contingency is continued compliance with program requirements, which we exceed.”
Marlon sets down the letter. Removes his glasses. Polishes them slowly. “Mrs. Sutton?—”
