FORTY
ALEC
For God’s sake.
I slump against the door, my heart pounding embarrassingly fast. “It’s late. I was busy. Why are you calling.”
“My apologies, Mr Gray. There’s been a recent development which you need to be made aware of. In light of recent updates to the local land taxation bill, which now takes into account real estate pricing and?—”
My head is still so fogged up I can barely make out a word he’s saying. “Get to the point,” I snap.
A pause. “The council has changed the rules about agricultural land taxation,”the man says eventually. “Your land tax will increase come next month.”
“To what?” The number he says makes my mouth go dry. “That’s— That’s four hundred percent of what we currently pay. You’re quadrupling our taxes? Are you out of your damn mind?”
“I understand this may be a financial burden,” Charlie says smoothly.“If it’s too much of a strain, I might recommend taking up the generous purchase offer from the council. To my knowledge, they recently upped the offer, did they not?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “You’re upping my taxes to force me to sell.”
“Oh, goodness, no, Mr Gray. I can assure you that these two events are unlinked. I simply thought?—”
“I’ve told you a million times. Lochview is not. For. Sale. There is nothing on earth you could do to compel me to give up my family’s land. It’s my inheritance and my right. My blood has worked these fields for hundreds of years.”
“But—”
“I’ll contact my attorney and call tomorrow with my response to the tax hike. Good night.”
“Mr Gray, we don’t really require a response?—”
I hang up and scrub my hands through my hair. My skin feels hot and tight.
This is bad. Up until now, I assumed the council was more of an annoyance than a genuine threat. But quadrupling our taxes is an unbelievably aggressive move. Probably illegal. The land surveyor I caught on the property this evening pops into my head.
They can force you to sell the land against your will.
Shit. I lean tiredly against the door and look around the living room, taking in the old stone and worn wooden furniture.
Eight generations. My family has owned this farm for two hundred years. And I am, by every measure, the worst of them. My ancestors fought for this land through war. Flooding. Disease. Drought. They poured their lives into keeping the place afloat. And I can’t keep the puffed-up council from buying it out from under me.
If Dad were still alive, he’d kill me.
Cameron suddenly appears, his body cutting a broad silhouette in the low kitchen light. He’s holding a plate of foil-wrapped teacakes. “You took a phone call,” he says, staring at the phone in my hand.
Rain lashes against the windows, and I glance outside. Now that I’m away from Summer, reality is seeping back in. I still have so much to do tonight. I need to feed the injured lamb and make sure she’s warm enough. The wind is picking up, and the windbreaks around the east paddock could really use another test.
God. And I was planning to fall asleep. What was I thinking? I start towards the front door.
Cameron sets the plate down. “What are you doing?” he demands.
“I’m going to check on the windbreaks.” I shove my boots on.
There’s a muffled curse behind me. Cameron grabs my shoulder and yanks me to face him. “You can’t do this.”
I blink at him. “Do what?”
“You can’t sleep with her and go back to work while she’s still got your come inside her,” he growls. “What is wrong with you?”
“You’re angry.”
