Angel Smits - Seeking Shelter

Since buying the business two years ago, Amy had made only a couple of changes, and as she reached the front of the store, she smiled with pride. Where the soda fountain had once stood, she’d installed a new coffee bar. In the front window, she’d placed four small bistro tables and chairs. The old marble-top counter held the espresso machine, the steamer and two glass cake stands filled with her special cookies.

She wasn’t a whiz in the kitchen the way her mother had been, but with all the new coffee-brewing equipment, she could make a danged good drink. She didn’t look at Hank as she pulled out ingredients.

“Just a normal cup, thanks. None of that fancy-shmancy stuff.” He settled into one of the empty chairs, then reached up and pulled the old-fashioned shade down. They were right on Main Street, after all, and the shade gave them a bit of privacy. Amy smiled, enjoying the homey comfort of the room and Hank’s company.

She tried to hide her smile as she brewed Hank’s single cup of the French roast he liked in her “fancy-shmancy” machine, then made herself a small decaf latte.

She’d just taken her first sip when she noticed the envelope sticking out of Hank’s shirt pocket. She frowned, knowing intuitively that he’d come here to talk about whatever was in that envelope.

Hank wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t looking at her. He was staring into the coffee he wasn’t drinking.

“Okay, what’s up?” She’d rather face it head-on, not keep waiting and worrying.

He looked at her then. Without saying anything, he reached for the envelope and pulled out the contents, flattening the papers on the tabletop. “This came today.”

The pages crinkled and she picked them up. Government papers. Taxes due. Not overdue, she noted. Just due. And due soon.

On the ranch.

She dropped the pages. They landed on the table and lay there, defenseless but accusing. “These come every year,” she said dismissively. “Do just like you always do and pay it from the estate. I’ll sign the check.” Why had he brought this to her?

“Yeah, this isn’t new. Only difference is, this year will be the last time we can pay it.”

“What?”

“Your mother’s estate doesn’t have much left. It will barely cover this. There’s nothing left for next year. Or for anything else, like a new coffee bar.” He paused, finally taking a sip of the cooling drink. “It’s time to consider selling, Amy.”

He was kidding, right? Sell the ranch? She couldn’t. Amy stared across the table at him. “No.”

“You can’t avoid talking about it this time. We could break up the pastures, the house, parcel it out. But you won’t get as much as if you sell it all together.”

She looked at the neat column of numbers, tracking down to the total. Her heart sank. She met Hank’s gaze and knew he could see her disappointment.

“That’s why I’m bringing it up now,” he continued. “At least if you sell, you’ll have something. If you don’t, and can’t pay the taxes next year, the government will take it. You’ll have nothing.”

“Mom wouldn’t want me to sell it.”

“And she’d like it if you lost it?”

“That’s not fair.” Why was he acting like this? Why hadn’t he said something before? Maybe he had. Maybe Amy hadn’t listened. She hadn’t been willing to talk about this. It wasn’t as if she was now, either, but she didn’t think she had much choice.

Hank looked about as uncomfortable as she’d ever seen him. He rubbed the back of his neck as if that would push the troubles away. The lines on his face were even deeper than on the day of Mom’s funeral. Amy wanted to make him happy, wanted to do what she knew needed to be done. But she couldn’t.

“Madeline’s not here anymore,” he whispered. “And I’m too old to work a ranch. It’s just a waste, sitting vacant.”

“Doesn’t Martin still lease the south pastures?”

“Yeah, but it’s low-end, and only a small part of the property. It’s not enough. No one else is interested in a lease.”

Amy leaned back and met Hank’s determined stare.

“Look.” He rested his forearms on the table. “I know you’re busy with the store and raising Katie. You don’t need to worry about this. I’ll take care of all the arrangements to put it on the market. All you’ll have to do is approve the final deal and sign the papers.”

A little of her frustration dissipated. Hank was just trying to help. She looked up at him, loving him and knowing he cared about her and wanted what was best for her and Katie. But while she couldn’t live at the ranch, she didn’t like the idea of giving up her ancestral home, either.

Three generations of her family had owned the ranch, five if she counted herself and Katie. It was all she had left of them, even if she couldn’t go there.

Hank didn’t know what had happened, not all of it, anyway. She’d never told anyone. That pain remained locked inside her. It threatened from time to time to escape, like now, but she kept a tight rein on that part of her past.

Maybe Hank was right. Maybe it was time to let go and escape the reminders. If only it were that easy to erase the hurtful memories.

“At least think about it.” Hank stood and slowly backed away, taking his warmth and familiarity with him. “You’ve got time before we have to make this payment. But the market’s slow so the decision to sell can’t wait forever.” He turned and left, leaving the papers on the table. He stopped halfway to the back door. “You know where I’ll be.”

She heard the screen door open, and a moment later, the cool evening breeze slipped in and ruffled the pages, lifting the top one and tossing it at her feet.

She kicked at it, and it simply blanketed her shoe. She stomped her foot but it still clung. She heard the page rip and didn’t care. She really didn’t care.

She turned back around and stared after Hank. Her gaze wandered to the hallway to the left, the one that led down to the tiny apartment she and Katie shared.

Her throat ached. Katie. She wanted to go downstairs and snuggle up next to her daughter, hold her tight, silently promising that everything would be all right. But she’d be lying to her, just as she kept lying to herself.

She wasn’t any better at fixing things than her own mother had been.

* * *

THE MINUTE JACE HOLMES stepped through the glass doors of Bailey, Whitburg and Haase, he knew he was out of his element. He couldn’t sit in the fancy waiting room as the prim and proper receptionist spoke on the phone to announce his arrival. Instead, Jace paced to the glass doors and stared at the fish tank embedded in the wall.

Three golden fish moved back and forth between the pretend castle and trees, trapped behind a thick glass barrier. The cramped conditions made him think of his brother, Linc, who’d recently been trapped in a coal mine cave-in. Jace shuddered, wondering for the millionth time how Linc had survived. But he had, for which Jace was grateful.

Still, Jace shivered and moved to where he could get air and see the sky through the doors. A deep breath released some of the tension in his chest.

“Mr. Haase will see you now,” the young woman finally said, and led him to another glass door, this one nearly double Jace’s height. It barely made a noise as she pushed it open.

The silver-haired man behind the cherrywood desk didn’t cringe when Jace walked in, but Jace knew he wanted to. Jace was used to life on the streets. The man probably knew nothing of that world. His hands were too soft, his gut too thick and his suit too polished.

“Mr. Holmes. I’m Stephen Haase.” The attorney stood and extended a well-manicured hand. “Thank you for coming.”

“The letter you sent seemed pretty specific. You have some things Mac wanted me to have?” Jace dropped into the leather chair, its stiffness a sharp contrast to the worn leather of his jacket and pants.