I disconnect the call and stop pacing then proceed to hurl a rock as hard and as fast as I can against a nearby tractor, shattering it against the fiberglass frame, not feeling a bit better afterward.
“Fuuuuuck!” I growl, using every ounce of self-control I have to not break down into tears.
Stomping off to my truck, I climb up into the cab and start the engine then peel out of the gravel lot. I’m not sure where I’m headed, but I’ve got to get away from here right now. Away from the land that I’ve busted my ass for the last eight years to acquire. Away from the crops that remind me of my grandpa’s true love. And away from the men I’ll most likely have to let go in the near future.
My thoughts as scrambled as the eggs I had for breakfast, I find myself pulling up to The Drunken Beaver and trudging inside, plopping down on the first open barstool I come to. My mind is so glazed over, almost in a numb-like state, that I don’t even bother to count the damn stools. For all the superstitious and good luck bullshit I’ve adhered to, look where it’s gotten me. Twenty-nine years old, sitting in the middle of a small town dive bar at one-thirty on a Tuesday afternoon, single and childless, about to sell away at least a quarter of my company, with a Grandpa who’s not getting any younger. Six months ago, my life was on the exact track I thought I wanted it to be on, but now… now I don’t know what in the hell I’m doing or what I want.
“Gin and tonic for you again, handsome?” Becca asks, as she strolls up from the other side of the room, where a couple of guys—the only other guys in the place—are playing pool.
I shake my head and grimace. Though I’d love to drown my sorrows and forget about everything, I can’t do that right now. I’ve got important decisions to make, and I have to tell Grandpa about everything tonight. As much as I’m dreading the conversation, I’ve put it off long enough. He deserves to know what’s going on with the company that carries his name.
“Nah, I’ll just take a root beer and a cold mug,” I reply, while watching as she ducks down to slip back behind the bar.
When she bends over, the neckline of her shirt gapes open, allowing me a nice eyeful of a pair of cute, perky tits perched in a hot pink lace bra. My lack of interest in them, or in females in general right now, is a whole other issue I don’t want to think about. Not only did I give Finley Farewell the lottery ticket that would’ve been my saving grace to all of this other shit, but apparently, I also gave her my fucking manhood too. Not once since that day have I been able to come without envisioning her baby blues gazing up at me, and her sweet voice calling out my name. I think I may need professional help, but I can’t afford that right now.
Becca grabs the cold bottle and pops the top then sets it in front of me with a frozen mug. “Two times in less than a month, and on a Tuesday no less. What does Dyersville owe the honor?” she teases, with a mischievous smirk.
“I’m sure you’ve heard about Grandpa’s health,” I respond, knowing damn well everyone in the town knew he was in the hospital within an hour of him being admitted. Nothing stayed a secret around here long.
She nods and offers an empathetic frown. “Mama told me about it last week. Sorry to hear he’s not doing well. He’s home now though, right?”
“Yeah, he was in for a week. Came home last Friday, so I’ve been staying at the house for a while, helping him adjust to his new lifestyle.” I stop to take a long drink from the glass, my throat suddenly dry and scratchy.
“Ah, okay.” She grabs a rag to wipe down the portion of the wood bar that really doesn’t need it, looking for an excuse to stick around and prolong the conversation I really don’t want to be having. “Well, if you or he needs anything, you know where to—”
The ringing of my phone cuts her off mid-sentence, and not giving two shits about politeness when it comes to any of the Bingham family, I stand up and fish it out of my pocket, answering without even looking to see who it is.
“Hello, this is Teague.”
“Teague, good afternoon,” an unfamiliar male voice replies. “This is Robert Schaffer with Schaffer Realty based in Cedar Rapids. I just got off the phone with your attorney, Mr. Smart, and I’d like to set up a meeting where we can go over everything about the sale of your land. Is there a specific day or time that works best for you?”
My chest constricts as my stomach lurches, the thought of doing this making me physically ill. “Yes, hi, Mr. Schaffer. Thank you for getting with me so quickly. I must admit I wasn’t fully prepared to make this decision until earlier today, so I haven’t had a chance to research current market prices on the portion of land I’m going to sell,” I admit.
Glancing up, I notice Becca lurking close but not too close, doing her best to eavesdrop on the conversation, so before I say anything else, I take the call outside. Once I’m out under the warm rays of the bright midday sun, Mr. Schaffer and I talk a few more minutes, and when I tell him I’m free to meet anytime, he suggests I drive on into the city and meet later this afternoon, since he’s leaving for vacation later in the week. Thinking it’ll be better to know what kind of figure we’re looking at on the land sale when I talk to Grandpa tonight, I agree to head to his office right away. Not to mention, I’m looking for any excuse to postpone the inevitable discussion.
I slide the phone in my pocket and stride back inside, where I can feel Becca’s curious eyes follow me to the stool. Lifting the mug to my mouth, I chug the rest of the root beer and leave a ten-dollar-bill on the bar then call out a “thank you” as I leave. An hour and a half later, I’m sitting across a desk from my new real estate agent, signing the listing paperwork to put an eight-thousand-acre section on the market for fifty million dollars. The money will cover my first two installments of the payoff, Smart’s fees, and make up for the loss of income from the app for a couple of years. It basically buys me forty-eight months to figure out if I can sustain the twelve-thousand-acre farm with current corn prices, or if I’m going to have to sell off more then.
It’s nearly five o’clock by the time I get back in my truck, and with my loft only a short distance away, I’m extremely tempted to call Nancy to see if she can stay over this one night so I can just crash in my own bed and not make the drive back until morning. Of course, it would also mean I don’t have to talk to Grandpa until tomorrow too, but as I grab my phone and dial her number, guilt eats away at me before she picks up.
“Hey, Teague,” she answers, sounding out of breath.
“Hi, Nancy, is everything all right?” Concern over Grandpa takes precedent to all of my other worries. “Is Grandpa okay?”
A scratchy noise comes through the earpiece, followed by muffled voices, as if she’s covered the receiver with her hand to say something I can’t hear. Then she comes back. “Yes, yes, everything’s fine. Great, actually. I was just giving Hank his evening meds. Are you on your way?”
“Yeah, but I’m coming from the city. I ended up having to drive in to take care of some business today, so it’ll take me about an hour or so to get back out there.”
More stifled talking. “Okay, that’s fine. I’ll let him know you’re headed this way. Would you like me to cook dinner? I can put together a King Ranch chicken casserole to throw in the oven, which should be ready about the time you get here.”
“That sounds perfect,” I respond, appreciative for all that she does above and beyond her required duties to help out. “Thank you so much, Nancy. I’ll see you in a bit.”
The drive out to the farm passes by in a flash, the entire time spent with me practicing out loud how I’m going to drop the $100 million bomb on Grandpa. I honestly have no idea how he’s going to take it, and I just pray his heart can handle it. Never have I been so disappointed in myself than I am right now.
I pull up to the house and hop out of the truck, quietly letting myself in the front door. Grandpa and Nancy’s voices can be heard from the kitchen, but instead of going straight in there to greet them, I pad up the stairs to my bedroom, needing a few minutes to collect myself.
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Standing in front of the old mirror above the just-as-old dresser, with a hologram Transformer sticker still stuck in the bottom right corner, I give the overwhelmed man in the reflection a pep talk.
“Get a grip, Goodman. What’s done is done. It’s not how you make the mistake, but how you correct it that defines you,” I insist. “You have a plan, and now it’s time to focus on the future. To rebuilding, and being even greater than you were before.”
The overwhelmed man rolls his shoulders back and lifts his chin higher, an assertive smile spreading across his face.
“You’re going to go downstairs and tell Grandpa exactly what happened and how you plan on it fixing it,” I continue, pumping my fist in front of my puffed chest. “Then you’re going to pull your head out of your ass and start looking for a nice little submissive wife to make you and your grandpa happy, and forget all about this ridiculous fantasy about Finley Farewell.”
“Yes, I am!” He nods confidently, fist pumping again. “Autobots, transform, and roll out!”
I drop my arm and roll my eyes at him. “Too much, Teague, too much.”
A quick splash of water on my face and fingers through my hair later, I bound down the stairs with a renewed sense of balance and walk into the kitchen just as Nancy’s pulling the casserole dish out of the oven. I move over to where Grandpa’s already sitting at the table, keenly watching his nurse as if he’s ensuring she doesn’t poison his plate.
“Hey, Nancy! Hey, Gramps!” I lean down and give him a man back-pat hug then slide onto the chair across from him. “Sorry I’m late getting home tonight. Had to go into the city.”
“Yeah, she told me,” he rumbles, still not taking his eyes off Nancy.
She glances back over her shoulder and smiles, her hands busy with the food. “Perfect timing, Teague. I hope you’re hungry.”
I grin and rub my stomach. “Starved. I didn’t get a chance to stop for lunch today.”
Nancy twists her attention back to the hot dish and I open my mouth to begin the lead-in to the conversation with Grandpa I had practiced, but a knock on the door followed by the doorbell ringing three times stops me.
“Who in the…” I grunt, pushing up from my chair. “Are you expecting anyone?”
“Not that I know of.” Grandpa shakes his head.
Annoyed by the terrible timing of the interruption, as well as anyone who would ring the doorbell three times instead of only once, I clomp to the front door, still in my work boots from the day on the farm. Ready to tell whoever the hell is on the other side of the door to go away and while they’re there to learn proper doorbell etiquette, I grab the knob and throw open the wooden monstrosity.
So much for my pep talk. I’m screwed.
Ten minutes prior…
Finley
“ARE YOU SURE we’re going the right way? I swear I just passed that field a minute ago.” Farrah squints out the windshield and points off to the right.
“All the fields look alike. It’s miles and miles and more miles of corn,” I sigh, checking my watch for the hundredth time since we left Cedar Rapids a little over an hour-and-a-half ago.
It’s almost seven o’clock and we’re about to run out of daylight, but there is no way after spending over eleven hours on the road psyching myself up, all the way from Cheyenne to here, that I am going to spend one more night in a hotel, knowing I’m this close to him.
We had shown up at his office at five, hoping to catch him at the end of the day, only to find out he’s taken a leave of absence to stay with his sick grandfather. Luckily, his secretary was easily wooed by the sight of cold hard cash and was quick to give up the address to where Grandpa lives, tacking on another sixty-plus miles to the seven-hundred-and-fifty we already traveled today.
If I was thinking clearly and not working off the five hours of sleep I finally managed to get on the couch of Doc’s cabin last night, I probably would’ve realized getting a good night’s rest with a shower and a fresh mind is the better way to confront the man who is responsible for flipping my world upside down. But I’m not, so I’m going to show up looking like a hot mess in wrinkled clothes, my hair piled in some kind of wild ball on top of my head, and sleep-deprived shadows under my eyes, and hope for the best.
“The GPS says we’re going to turn left in one mile, Mummy,” Fiona announces. “Look closely. It’s going to be a small road.”
A pang of nervousness echoes through me as I sit up straighter in the seat and flip the mirror down on the visor, doing a last check for anything in my teeth or nose, then snap it back up once I’m satisfied. At this point, I can’t do anything about the rest of me, but I’ll be damned if I walk up there with a floret of broccoli taking root between my canine and incisor or a big booger or nose hair dangling out of my nostril.
“Do you know what you’re gonna say? Should we practice something before we go up there?” Farrah asks, as if this thought just hit her.
“I think it’s a little late for that now, don’t you?” I snap, my tone much harsher than I intend.
She hisses like a cat and make a clawing motion with her hand. “Sor-ry, geez. I was just trying to be helpful.”
“No, I’m sorry,” I say, shaking my head. “I’m just really nervous. I feel like I’m gonna vomit or something.”
“Well, not that I know from experience or anything, but vomiting is usually a big turn-off to guys. Something about the stitch,” she chuckles, reaching out to pat my leg, letting me know she understands.
I grin over at her, knowing I should tell her its stench not stitch, but I don’t have the heart. Not after how good of a sport she’s been this entire trip. Although, if I have to hear about how Doc didn’t try to kiss her last night when she gave him the official ‘I want you to kiss me now’ look one more time, I may gag her until I can ship her ass back to him so he can stick his tongue in her mouth and shut her up.
“There it is!” Fiona shouts, her small hand shooting between the seats, pointing at a dirt road turnoff.
Farrah makes the turn like she’s trying out to be a stunt driver on The Fast and the Furious, stirring up a huge cloud of dust and debris around the car. Not prepared for the sudden movement, I don’t get a chance to brace myself, and the force slams me into the passenger door, my head thumping hard against Fiona’s umbrella that flies through the air from the backseat.
I scream as my hand flies to the right side of my forehead, where an intense pain throbs bone deep. “Owwww! What the hell, Farrah?”
“Shit, sorry!” Farrah yells, the car quickly slowing down. “Are you both okay? I didn’t realize it would come that soon.”
“I’m fine,” Fiona answers from the backseat, “but a little less Formula One next time please, Mummy.”
Bringing my hand down away from where I hit, I immediately notice the trails of bright red blood dripping down my fingers and palm and suck in a deep breath through my clenched teeth.
“I think I’ve got a problem,” I mumble, scared to pull the mirror down again and look at myself now.
“What? What is it?” my sister asks, concerned as she pulls up in front of the well-kept, traditional farmhouse at the end of the road.
I twist slightly to face her, and when her eyes catch the right side of my face, she gasps and covers her mouth with her hands. “Oh, great goobly woobly!”
“Let me see! Let me see!” Fiona yells, crawling up on the middle console to get a glimpse of me. When her eyes nearly bulge out, I know it’s got to be a pretty gnarly gash above my temple.
A warm trickle of blood snakes its way down the side of my cheek, dripping on the shoulder of my shirt before I can think to swipe at it. My vision is blurry and my thoughts are muddled; nothing feels real except the relentless pulsing pain.
“Come on, we’ve gotta get you inside and clean you up.” Farrah turns the car off and tosses the keys in her purse then throws the door open and runs around to my side to help me out. Fiona jumps out, bloody umbrella in hand, and runs up t
he stairs of the front porch in front of us, knocking on the door and frantically ringing the doorbell.
Just as Farrah and I make it to the top step, her arm wrapped around my waist to help steady me as I walk, the front door swings open, and there he stands, in all of his deep-dimpled, bottomless blue-eyed glory. Teague Goodman. My Prince Charming.
For several, extremely long and drawn out movie seconds, he and I stare at each other, lost and in disbelief. A strange vibe of intimate familiarity ricochets around inside of me, leaving a wake of intrinsic warmth and relief. And somehow I know he’s been thinking about me too.
“Well who is it, Teague? Dinner’s gonna get cold!”
The trance is broken as my eyes snap over to an old man with a thick head of white hair, and glasses set low on his nose, who rounds the corner and comes into view in the entryway. Immediately, he — who I’m assuming is his grandpa — hones his focus in on my head wound and hastily scuffles to Teague’s side, who still has not said a word.
“What is wrong with you? Get them inside. Have you forgotten all the manners I taught you, for Pete’s sake?” he scolds his grandson, pushing him out of the way and ushering us into the house. “This poor girl needs help. Go get Nancy. She’ll know what to do. Come on, hurry up. I’ll take her to the bathroom.”
Teague hesitates briefly then spins around and takes off in the direction his grandpa came from, while the older man leads us in the other direction, down a hallway.
“I swear, I don’t know what’s gotten into that boy lately,” he murmurs, then looks down at Fiona and winks, adding, “I guess he’s just not used to three beautiful women showing up at the door all at once.”
She giggles and nods. “Cat must’ve got his tongue.”
“I bet that’s exactly what happened, smart girl,” he chuckles, opening a door and flipping on a light to a guest bathroom. Shifting his attention to me, he tips his chin, and says, “You go on in there. Teague went to get my nurse, Nancy, and she’ll fix you right up, good as new. I’ll take these two to the kitchen and get them a bite to eat. You and Teague can join us once you’re all cleaned up.”