Shay tucked her hands under her legs and forced her gaze to John Oakley’s beady little eyes. She’d had about two minutes to recover from her encounter with Travis, and her nerves were shot. The bank had just closed up for the day and was silent as a tomb.
John laced his fingers, rested his hands on his desk, and gave her the look. She’d seen it the last three times she’d been in. Had to beg for this meeting today.
Please, God. I need some help here. A miracle would be good.
“We’ve been through this before, Shay,” he said in his nasal voice.
“I just need more time.”
“You’ve had time.” The look turned smug. He poked his glasses up with his index finger.
Shay pressed her lips together. She wanted to remind him he was no older than she was, no more important just because he had money. She wanted to remind him of the time he peed his pants on their first-grade field trip and point out that his hairline had receded two inches since graduation. But none of that would help her cause.
“May I be honest, Shay?”
She bit the inside of her mouth. Hard. “Sure.”
“I know the property’s been in your family awhile—”
“Three generations.”
He tucked his weak little chin. “Right. A long time, no one’s arguing that. Your folks both worked it hard and barely kept it afloat.”
“I made regular payments for years. I wasn’t so much as a day late—”
“Until a year ago. I’m not the enemy here, Shay. When your husband was here running the place, the payments weren’t a problem, right? Now, it pains me to say it, but Garrett’s desertion, not my bank, put you in a bind. God rest his soul.”
He did not just go there.
“It takes two to handle a ranch the size of yours. We’ve given you plenty of notice, and you’re months behind. The bank demands payment in full or an auction date will be set in thirty days, just as the letter said.”
A public auction. Could there be a more humiliating scenario? She imagined her neighbors walking the property, judging the upkeep—or lack thereof—and putting in low bids on the property that she and her ancestors had sweated and bled over.
She’d beg if she had to. “I can’t lose it, John.”
If Olivia wasn’t going to have a father, she was at least going to have a place to call home—a place with roots that went deep.
“Please. It’s the only home Olivia’s ever known . . . the only home I’ve ever known. And I have a hand to consider.”
“Manny’s just a part-time high school kid. And as for your daughter . . . children are very resilient.”
What did John Oakley know about children? He hadn’t even managed a date for the high school prom. Shay wanted to smack the smug look from his face.
Instead she tried again. “Just sixty days, then. I’ll come up with the money somehow.” She could sell her truck and some cattle.
John’s chuckle made her neck hairs stand on end. “Shay, honey, I’m sorry. I’ve done all I can.” He checked his watch.
“Please, John. As a friend.” That was stretching it.
“Best thing you can do is start packing your things. Look for an apartment here in town. You could make those little baskets full-time.”
Her barbed-wire baskets were hardly going to put a roof over their heads and food on the table, and John knew it. Besides, the ranch was her legacy, such as it was. Her home.
John stood, his chair rolling backward as he extended his hand. “Wish you the best, honey.”
Begging had gotten her nowhere. Shay gritted her teeth as she stood and shook his hand. She lifted her chin and straightened her back as she left the bank, a posture she’d perfected long ago. She heard John locking up behind her.
What now, God? I need money and soon. A burning started at the back of her eyes. You have to do something. Anything. Please!
She was going to have to let Manny go. Somehow she’d find a way to pay him for the last two weeks. But it wasn’t fair, his working for nothing, not with his own family struggling. It was why she’d hired him to begin with.
Shay crossed the street, narrowly missing a sedan with an Idaho plate when it didn’t yield at the pedestrian walk. She restrained the impulse to scream. She was dangling by her last thread. She wanted to yell or kick something. Or better yet, crawl into bed, pull the covers over her head, and sink into oblivion.
Instead she hopped the curb and entered the bustling diner. Olivia was seated at the counter sipping a chocolate milk. A dollar twenty-five.
Her daughter turned at the bell. “You’re late, Mom, and I—What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Shay said, then caught sight of Travis in a nearby booth.
“Your eyes are red,” Olivia said.
Shay fished in her purse for her wallet, her fingers clumsy. “Ready to go?”
“Mrs. Franklin said it was on the house. I didn’t even order it.”
“You thanked her?”
“Yep.”
“Let’s go, then.”
“Hold on.” Olivia slurped her milk.
Shay could feel Travis’s eyes boring into her back. At least she was wearing her best shirt and jeans. At least she wasn’t in a wedding gown. The confrontation in the shop returned to mind, piling on top of the disaster at the bank. The weight of it tugged at her shoulders.
“Come on.”
“Sheesh, Mom.” Olivia drained her cup and then hopped off the stool.
Shay hooked her arm around her daughter’s shoulders and hustled her from the diner. “Got work to do.”
Lots of it. Not that it would do any good.
As she crossed the street to her beat-up truck, she could swear she felt Travis’s eyes on her every step of the way.