Page 46 of Lost in the Reins

“Worse.” She settles back, satisfied. “But you can fix it. If you’re brave enough.”

The road stretches ahead, worn and familiar.

“Besides,” Emma adds, “Martha says if you don’t figure it out soon, she’s gonna lock you both in the diner freezer until you talk.”

I groan. “Martha needs to mind her own business.”

“Uncle Wes?”

“Yeah?”

“Mom would want you to be happy.” She pauses, then softer, “Not just responsible.”

The Pine Ridge National Bank stands like a monument to small-town stubbornness with the same faded brick and the same creaky door. Inside, nothing’s changed since I was a kid tagging along with Dad to deposit cattle sale checks. The carpet’s worn in the same desperate paths, and the fake plants look like they’ve been dying slowly since the Carter administration. Even old Mrs. Jensen is still at her desk by the window, probably approving the same loans she’s been signing off on since Moses was in short pants.

Time doesn’t move here; it just settles, like dust on old accounts and unpaid debts. The air carries the scent of burnt coffee and furniture polish, wrapped in that particular weight of small-town banking, where everyone knows your business but pretends not to.

Frank Thompson’s office feels smaller than it did two weeks ago when I dropped off my loan application. Maybe it’s the way he won’t quite meet my eyes, or maybe it’s just that reality takes up more space than hope.

“Wes.” He shuffles papers like they might rearrange themselves into better news. “Thanks for coming in.”

His tie doesn’t quite match his shirt, and the knot’s off-center, like his conscience. You can tell when bad news is coming by the way bankers dress.

“Frank.”

His desk is cluttered with papers that probably hold other people’s futures. Family photos are arranged just so, like heneeds a reminder of what really matters. Behind him, a window looks out onto Main Street, where life keeps moving, completely indifferent to the fact that mine is about to skid straight into a ditch.

“Coffee?” He gestures toward a pot, whose contents look thick enough to patch potholes.

“Rather hear what’s in that folder you’re avoiding.”

He winces, caught stalling. “Right. Well…” More shuffling, more eye-dodging. “We ran your application through twice. Called in favors with regional?—”

“Frank.” My voice is steady, even if my stomach isn’t. “Just say it.”

He exhales, finally meeting my gaze. “The numbers don’t work, Wes. We’ve run them every way we can, but between the medical debt from Sarah’s accident, the market volatility, the projected revenue streams…” He spreads his hands like he’s laying out bad news in bite-sized pieces. “The risk assessment alone?—”

“Cut to the chase.” The words come out sharper than intended, but we’ve known each other too long for sugarcoating.

“You’re carrying too much debt against too little income.” He taps the folder—like it’s just another Tuesday, just another ranch going under. “The heritage tourism idea has promise, but it would take time to turn a real profit. Time you don’t have.”

I lean back, jaw tight. “And?”

Frank shifts, sympathy creeping into his voice. “And there’s Sarah’s medical bills. You’ve been making payments, but the outstanding balance, combined with the ranch’s operating costs…” He adjusts his crooked tie. “Your debt-to-income ratio makes traditional lending impossible.”

The weight settles deep in my bones, familiar as an old saddle. “What exactly are you saying, Frank?”

He pulls out another paper—crisp, clean, untouched by the dust of reality. “I’ve done some projections. The land value, especially with the water rights…” He slides it across the desk. “You could clear all debts, set up a college fund for Emma, maybe even have enough left to start fresh somewhere else.”

One word stands out, stark as barbed wire.

Sell.

“It’s an option,” Frank says carefully. “The market’s strong. Developers are looking at similar properties for resort projects.”

A sharp, humorless laugh escapes. “Resort development.” The words taste like dirt. “Turn my family’s legacy into luxury cabins and petting zoos.”

Frank leans forward, like he’s trying to reason with a spooked horse. “The Montgomery name still carries weight in this valley. You could be involved. Consult on the heritage aspects?—”

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