Then the front door opens, a harsh creak that breaks the mood.
We all turn.
It’s West Montgomery. He’s standing on the porch, looking grim. He holds a clipboard in one hand. Behind him, a black sedan is parked in the driveway.
My stomach drops. The feeling of peace evaporates.
“West,” I say, standing up. “What are you doing here?”
“Just doing my job, Rhett,” West says. He steps onto the porch, his boots loud on the wood. He looks at Saramaria, then at us. “And I’m afraid I have some bad news.”
My chest tightens. “What is it?”
“The county inspector,” West says. “He called me this morning. He’s not happy. He was supposed to be here two days ago to check the repairs on the barn and the electrical grid.”
Shit!
“I forgot,” Saramaria breathes. “Oh god. I forgot the inspection. First it was the hoedown, and then we were getting the repairs done before the heat… Fuck! How could I forget about the inspection?”
“It’s okay,” I reassure her. “I talked to West and told him to stall the inspector.”
“That’s what I was coming by to tell you,” West says. “I tried to stall him. I told him we were dealing with a family emergency. But this inspection was way overdue. I’m sorry, but I did all that I could.”
“When? When is he coming?” Boone asks.
“Tomorrow,” West says.
I look around.
The yard is a mud pit. The fences are still broken in places—the ones we didn’t get to before the heat hit. The roof of the barn is half-covered in tarps. The siding is piled up near the house, waiting to be replaced.
The gazebo is tilted. The garden is trampled.
And the house... the house is a mess. The windows are dirty. The paint is peeling. And even though we cleaned up the obvious signs of our... marathon, the house still feels chaotic.
“He’s going to see a disaster,” I say. “He’s going to see a property that’s falling apart.”
“And if he sees that,” West says, “he will condemn it. He’ll slap a red tag on the barn and a notice on the house. You’ll have thirty days to bring it up to code or he brings in the bulldozers.”
Saramaria’s face goes white. “Thirty days? I can’t fix all this in thirty days.”
“Then he sells it,” West says gently.
Saramaria stands up. She looks at the food. At the house. At us.
“No,” she says. Her voice shakes, but it gains strength with every word. “No. He is not going to condemn my house. He’s not going to sell my home.”
“How are we going to stop him?” Knox asks. “We haven’t fixed the roof. We haven’t fixed the fence. We’ve been... busy.”
“We work,” Boone says. He looks at Saramaria. “We’ve been taking care of you for four days. Now, we take care of the ranch.”
“We prioritize,” she says. “We don’t try to fix everything. We fix the things he will see first. The barn. The electrical box. The exterior. We clean up. We make it look like we’re in control.”
“It’s a mask,” Knox says.
“It’s a strategy,” she counters. “I’ve built a career on masks, Knox. We can do this. We just have to be smart.”
I look at the men. I look at the woman who was in tears just minutes ago. She looks terrified, but she also looks fierce.
