Wyatt keeps his arm around me as we walk out of the community hall, the logging crews giving us quiet nods, Tess and Cole stepping back to make room. But the victory is hollow.
We walk out into the bright, freezing morning, the blue winter sky glaring off the snow. Max and Lucas follow us onto the gravel lot, their faces sober.
Max rests his hand on the truck door, his expression grim. “We blocked the variance. But the bank note is still Cascade’s weapon. Now that they know we have the conservation lock, they’re going to push the foreclosure through as fast as the law allows.”
Lucas pulls his collar up against the wind. “The foundation’s wire is processing, but because Cascade already filed the foreclosure petition with the court, the bank’s legal team isholding the funds for a twenty-four-hour review. They won’t release the lien until tomorrow morning at the earliest. We have until noon tomorrow before the foreclosure order goes active.”
I look down at my boots, the leather wet from the slush. The easement is safe for thirty days, but we walk out of this hall still broke. The foreclosure clock is ticking. Twenty-six hours left.
And now, the whole town knows exactly how desperate we are.
I look at Wyatt. The folded page of Jesse’s letter is in his pocket, but his face is set in granite, his jaw clutched tight as he stares at the road down the mountain.
FOURTEEN
Claimed
WYATT
The heavy treadof the Ford’s tires chews through the slush at the edge of town, throwing a watery spray against the wheel wells.
I keep my hands locked on the wheel, my chest still tight with the silent fury that settled in my ribs during the hearing. Beside me, Bella sits pressed against the passenger door, her face pale, her gaze fixed on the passing pines.
She hasn’t touched the sleeves of the borrowed sweater since we walked out of the community hall. Her fingers are tucked deep into the grey wool, hidden away, as if she could hide the rest of her from the eyes of the valley.
In the back seat, Atlas lets out a soft, low huff, his wet nose pressing against my neck. We picked him up from Mabel’s on our way out of town. He’s been watchful ever since, his dark eyes shifting between the two of us as if he can read the silent friction vibrating in the cab.
“The snow is melting fast on the lower switchbacks.” My voice is a rough, grating sound in the quiet cab. “We’ll be back at the clinic in ten minutes.”
“Okay.” Bella doesn’t turn her head. She just nods, a small, barely visible motion.
My jaw works, the muscles clenching until my teeth ache. I want to tell her that the lawyers’ words didn’t matter. I want to tell her that the whole town saw Brock Sterling for the predator he is. That having your business’s default laid out on easel boards in front of your neighbors isn’t something you outtalk. You just have to carry it until the skin toughens over.
I reach across the bench seat, my palm flat on the seat between us, offering a hand she can take if she wants it. After a long mile, she slides her fingers out of the wool sleeve and slips her hand into mine. Her skin is cold, her grip tight, her fingers trembling slightly against my scars.
We climb the summit road in silence, the truck engine roaring as we fight the steep incline. The snow walls along the road are dripping, the winter sun turning the white banks into a brilliant, blinding glare that makes me squint.
By the time I pull the Ford into the shelter yard, the gravel is showing through the drifts, wet and dark. Jason is already by the gate, a heavy steel snow shovel in his hand, his worn canvas coat open against the midday warmth. He looks at the truck, then at me as I kill the engine.
I climb out, the cold mountain air rushing into my lungs, carrying the clean scent of melting pine drifts. Jason steps up to the driver’s side, his eyes searching my face.
“The easement?” His voice is low.
“Continuance.” I reach into the back seat to guide Atlas down. The old dog pads out on his own, his gait steady, his tail giving a lazy sweep as he catches Jason’s scent. “Thirty days. We blocked the road variance.”
Jason’s shoulders relax a fraction of an inch, a quiet nod of approval settling his features. “And the note?”
“Cascade’s legal team is holding the bank transfer.” Bella climbs out of the passenger side, her voice carrying the warm, trained-calm register that she uses like armor. She rounds the hood, her boots splashing in the wet gravel. “They have until noon tomorrow before the foreclosure order goes active. We have twenty-six hours.”
“Then we work with what we’ve got.” Jason looks at her, his expression sober, his gaze resting on her face with a quiet, intense respect. He has the look of a soldier who knows exactly how thin the line is, but he doesn’t blink.
We walk inside the clinic, the waiting room warm and smelling of cedar shavings, wet wool, and the hot vinegar tang of the antiseptic spray Jason used on the runs. In the back, Dolly lets out a sharp, happy bark, her tail thumping against the wooden partition.
Atlas pads straight to his spot by the cast-iron wood stove, his joints moving easily in the dry heat. He drops onto the cedar floorboards with a satisfied sigh, his chin resting on his front paws.
Ten minutes later, the low rumble of a heavy engine echoes in the yard. Through the frosted window, Max Lawson’s massive black truck pulls in, Lucas Reid’s Dodge parking close behind it.The doors slam, the boots of the two men crunching in the slush as they head for the porch.
They stamp their feet in the entry, shedding snow and the freezing valley wind before they step into the waiting room. Max has a leather folio tucked under his arm; Lucas wears a dark wool coat, his face set in the same hard watchfulness he had at the hearing.
