He crossed behind the bar without looking at the tables, dropped a clipboard beside the till, and leaned over to check a set of gauges under the taps. The bartender said something I couldn’t catch. Wyatt tapped the face of one dial with a knuckle, adjusted a valve, then reached into the cooler and hauled out a half keg like it weighed nothing.
He set it in place, checked the line, and pulled a short sample pour into a glass. He lifted it to the light, assessing the colour, took one small sip, then nodded once. Not showy. Not performative. Just a man making sure what he’d built was doing what it was supposed to.
He said something to the bartender and pointed toward the dining room. The volume of the music shifted slightly, softer near the fireplace, brighter near the bar. A server stopped beside him, and he listened to whatever she said, then flicked his eyes toward a row of tickets clipped above the kitchen window. Another nod. Another small adjustment.
He turned, wiping his hands on a towel, and his gaze moved across the tables, quick and automatic. It hit me like a spotlight when it landed.
Our eyes locked for half a second across the room. Firelight to my left, tap handles behind him, the hum of a normal weekday pressing between us.
His expression didn’t change. No surprise. Just that steady, unreadable assessment, like he was making sure I was upright and breathing and not about to slide under a tide no one else could see.
Heat crawled up my neck. I tore my gaze away and looked down at the table, suddenly fascinated by the sugar packets.
By the time I risked a glance back, he was already movingagain, disappearing through the doorway that led to the brewhouse, shoulders brushing the frame, attention on a world that wasn’t mine.
Natalie reappeared with a notepad. “Do you want to order anything to go with the caffeine?”
I cleared my throat. “Soup. Whatever’s on. And a grilled cheese if that’s a thing.”
“That’s a very real thing,” she said with a smile. “I’ve got you.”
She walked away. I took two absentminded sips of coffee but tasted none of it.
The door opened again about ten minutes later. A woman in a navy blazer stepped inside and scanned the room, eyes catching on my corner table quickly. Dark hair, sensible shoes, satchel strap digging into her shoulder like it had been carrying too much weight for too many years.
“Tessa Callahan?” she asked when she reached me.
I stood, almost knocking my knee on the underside of the table. “Yeah. Hi.”
“Elle Keene.” Her handshake was firm, her palm warm. Her gaze flicked over my face, taking in all the wreckage without pity. “Do you mind if I sit?”
“Please.”
She settled in across from me, flipped open a legal pad, and pulled out a pen.
“Alright,” she said. “Tell me what you know so far. Start with the bank.”
I handed over the file and told her about the arrears, the operating credit, the loan hanging off the back acreage. And dropped the phrase “interested party” like there was already someone with a knife and fork waiting.
She wrote as I talked, head bent, expression tight.
“Okay,” she said when I ran out of words. “Here’s the short version from the phone calls I made on the way over.The ranch is over-leveraged. The tax arrears mean the county has the upper hand to push this to auction if you don’t move quickly. The lien on the back pasture gives that creditor the first right to the proceeds from a sale or forced auction on that piece. If there are any other secured loans, they’re going to want their slice too.”
“Is there any way to stop it?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said. “But you can’t do it by pretending it will just go away. You’re going to need every document, every tax notice, every loan statement, every past-due bill. Once we know exactly who’s owed what, we can talk about options.”
“Options like?”
“Payment plans with the county if they’re willing. Consolidating or refinancing, if a lender thinks you’re a good risk. Selling equipment or cattle. Maybe a small parcel of land to protect the rest, depending on how the lien’s written. I’m not going to promise you miracles, but there are steps between today and losing everything.”
“And if I can’t pay?” The question scraped out of my throat.
“You already know the answer,” she said quietly, and she was right; I was just hoping for a different one. My eyes burned. I stared hard at the saltshaker so I wouldn’t cry in Wyatt Hargrove’s nice, fancy ass brewery.
“What do you need from me right now?”
“I need you to go home and make a pile. Anything with a logo, a stamp, or numbers that scare you. When you’ve got it gathered, call me. I’m in Maple Ridge, but I’m in River’s Edge on Mondays and Fridays. We can meet here again, or do it at the house if you’re more comfortable.”
