“Actually,” he says, “I was hoping to speak with Earl for a minute. About the property.”
“He gave you his answer last week.”
“He did. And I respect that. But circumstances change. A man’s health, his financial situation—these things evolve. I just want Earl to know that the offer stands, and that it’s a good one. A generous one. Enough for him to be comfortable. To focus on his treatment without worrying about maintenance, taxes, all the things that come with a property this size.”
Smooth. Practiced. Every word calibrated to sound like concern while functioning as pressure.
I read him the way I read a horse that’s about to kick—watching the ears, watching the weight shift, tracking the tension underneath the calm surface.
A snake in a Stetson.
That’s what he is.
Polished and patient and absolutely certain that time is on his side.
The screen door creaks behind me.
“Wade.” Earl’s voice. Thinner than it should be, but firm. I turn and he’s on the porch, leaning on the doorframe in his flannel and slippers, looking like a strong wind could knock himdown but standing there anyway because that’s Earl. He’ll stand on his own land until his legs give out.
“Earl.” Lockhart’s face rearranges into something softer. Neighborly. “How you doing?”
“I’m upright. That counts for something.” Earl looks at the casserole. Looks at Lockhart. “I told you no, Wade.”
“I know you did.”
“The answer hasn’t changed. This land was my father’s. My daughter grew up here. I’ll die here before I sell.”
The words hang in the evening air.
Lockhart absorbs them with a nod that looks like acceptance but isn’t.
I can see it in his eyes—the patience.
The calculation.
The quiet confidence of a man who’s played this game before with other old ranchers on other dying properties and won every time.
“I understand,” Lockhart says. “I truly do. The offer’s there if you change your mind. No pressure. No timeline. Just a neighbor looking out for a neighbor.”
He holds out the casserole.
This time I take it.
His hand brushes mine during the transfer—deliberate, I’m certain—and his eyes meet mine with something that isn’t warmth.
It’s appraisal.
He’s sizing me up.
Deciding what kind of obstacle I represent.
“You take care now,” he says. To Earl. To me. To the land he’s already measuring in his head.
He gets in his truck, tips his hat through the window, and drives away slowly, the way a man drives when he wants youto watch him leave—when he wants the departure to feel like a promise rather than an ending.
I stand in the yard holding a casserole dish I don’t want and watching dust settle on a road that leads away from everything I’m trying to protect.
Earl sits down in the porch rocker.
