The disappointment in his voice cut deeper than any shouting could have. I felt tears threatening again, but I forced them back. My father deserved better than my self-pity right now.
“I know how desperate we’ve been,” I said quietly. “I know how worried you and Mom have been about money. When Kent said his family wanted to invest, I wanted to believe it so badly that I didn’t ask the right questions.”
“Kent.” Dad practically spat the name. “That boy’s been playing you from the beginning, hasn’t he? Charming his way into your good graces while planning to take everything we’ve worked for.”
I couldn’t meet his eyes. The shame of how thoroughly I’d been manipulated was almost unbearable.
“Where is he now?” Dad asked.
“I don’t know.”
Mom appeared in the doorway, wiping her hands on her apron. “Harold, it isn’t her fault. She didn’t know.”
He softened a little. “I know it’s not your fault, Sylvie. I’m just so pissed!”
“I know. Me too.”
He grabbed his coat from where it hung by the door.
“Where are you going?” I asked, though I already knew the answer from the look on his face.
“I’m going to run that Bancroft punk off our property,” he said, jamming his arms into his coat sleeves.
I jumped up, grabbing my own jacket. “Dad, wait.”
“Don’t try to stop me, Sylvie. That man came into our home under false pretenses, lied to us, manipulated us.”
“I know!” I said. “But let me come with you.”
Mom shook her head. “Harold, Sylvie, don’t you dare make a scene in front of paying customers. Whatever you need to say to that man, do it privately.”
We were already heading out the door. Dad’s long strides ate up the ground between the house and the tree farm. I had to jog to keep up with him. Kent was a big guy and younger, but my dad was born and bred on hard labor and he was pissed. I wasn’t sure who would win a fist fight.
The wagon ride had just ended when we arrived. Families were climbing down from the decorated wagons. Children chattered excitedly about the experience. And there was Ozzo, grinning his usual dopey grin, handing out candy canes to kids who were beaming from ear to ear.
The scene was so wholesome, it made the contrast with my current emotional state even more jarring.
“Where’s Kent?” Dad demanded, his voice cutting through the cheerful atmosphere like a knife.
Ozzo looked up, his smile fading slightly when he saw Dad’s expression. “Uh, he drove off. After Sylvie left for lunch.”
“He left you here to run this on your own?” I asked incredulously. After all that talk about helping, after offering to stay and assist with the wagon rides, he’d just abandoned the whole thing the moment things got difficult. “And nothing burned down?”
Ozzo shrugged, seemingly unbothered by the implied insult to his capabilities. “Not yet. It was actually pretty fun. Bill helped, and the families were all really nice.”
Dad turned to Ozzo with the full force of his authority. “Listen carefully. Kent Bancroft is not allowed on this property without my explicit knowledge and permission. If he shows up, he can collect his things from his room and check out. But after that, he’s not welcome here. Understand?”
Ozzo nodded, all trace of his usual goofiness gone. “Yes, sir. I understand.”
I watched my father turn and march back toward the house, his shoulders rigid with anger and disappointment. The families from the wagon ride were starting to notice that something was wrong, their happy chatter dying down as they sensed the tension.
I felt gutted. Completely hollowed out.
This was supposed to be our salvation. Kent Bancroft was supposed to be the answer to our prayers, the Christmas miracle that saved the farm and the lodge and everything our family had built. Instead, he’d been the final nail in our coffin, the person who’d shown us exactly how much we had to lose.
I’d been so desperately naive.
“You okay, Sylvie?” Ozzo asked quietly, having apparently dismissed the families back toward the lodge.
