Page 67 of The Mountain Echoes
“Oranyto trust you.” She tilts her chin in acknowledgement. “Again, thank you. I appreciate it.”
I watch her walk out, her braid swinging provokingly.
That’s one tough woman. Sharp-tongued, suspicious, proud—and still, somehow, elegant in the way she holds herself even when she’s unraveling.
She’s a hell of a woman.
And damn me, I’m attracted to her.
I want her.
Even if she is prickly as hell.
Hell,especiallybecause she is prickly as hell.
CHAPTER 15
aria
Idreamt of Maverick.
The man was fucking with my head. Big time!
If I didn’t doubt his agenda, which I do, the deal he’s proposing is an extremely generous one, and I should grab it with both hands.
I probably will.
No, Idefinitelywill.
I’ve done the math.
I need fifteen to twenty thousand for cattle upkeep—feed, vaccines, and transportation. Ten for a part-time ranch hand ‘cause we can’t do this on our own.
Another twenty for equipment maintenance, hay, fuel, and fixin’ the broken fencing.
That leaves just enough to patch together a barely-working operation, and maybe, if luck stays on my side, carry us through until the fall apple harvest. If we can move cattle at the Gunnison sale and keep the orchardprofitable, I might actually pull this off without selling another acre.
Might.
Selling thirty acres on the south ridge could net me about thirty of that, if Maverick pays fair market value.
I have twenty-five in savings that I can liquidate now, and possibly another twenty if I cash in part of my 401(k) early, although the penalties will sting.
But I’ve got to do what I’ve got to do. Yeah?
With all of this, if Celine says, ‘Fuck no. Sell everything, and no way can you put money back into the ranch,’ I’m up shit creek without a paddle.
She and Hudson sat me down last night, told me I was being selfish.
“Mav is ready to pay twelve million for the ranch and the house. After paying the Federal estate tax and the debts, you walk away with a cool four million.” Hudson’s eyes are full of dollar signs, and his breath is loaded with bourbon fumes.
Five million, I calculate, but then who’s counting?
“We can give you an extra two hundred thousand for the ranch house,” Celine offers.
I look out of the living room window into the darkness. The mountains are still standing, even if I can’t see them. They give me comfort.
“At the height of operations just eight years ago, Longhorn was worth nearly thirty million, and Papa pulled in close to two million annually, after expenses. Between the cattle, the hay, the orchard, and a lease on the west side forseasonal grazing, it worked. We had a balanced operation. It wasn’t flashy, but it was sustainable.”
