“The foreclosure auction is scheduled for the fifteenth of next month.”
“For the covenant to stay proceedings, you need to qualify before the bank files final execution.”
“How long?”
“Thirty days.”
Wade stared across the empty land.
Whitlock moved toward his black sedan.
“Mr. Mercer?”
Wade did not turn.
“I would not wait until day twenty-nine.”
The sedan disappeared down the county road, dragging a ribbon of dust behind it.
Wade stood alone on the porch.
Then he looked down at the covenant.
He read the paragraph again.
Then once more.
Finally he said to no one:
“You have got to be kidding me.”
Two days later he drove to Coldwater.
The town had one grocery store, one tire shop, two churches, a diner called Lou’s, and enough people who knew Wade’s business that he sometimes considered buying groceries ninety miles away.
He took a back booth.
His cousin Travis Boone arrived ten minutes later.
Travis was thirty-eight, built like every Boone man had been carved from fence post, and worked federal border rotations near Del Rio, Texas. He had driven north because his mother was having surgery in Cheyenne, but Wade suspected Aunt June’s knee replacement had become an excuse the moment Travis heard about the ranch.
Wade pushed the covenant across the table.
Travis read it.
Then looked up.
“Well.”
“Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You’re thinking loudly.”
Travis took a sip of coffee.
“You need a wife.”
Wade glared.
Travis continued.
“Quickly.”
“I’m leaving.”
“Sit down.”
Wade stayed.
Mostly because Lou had just brought eggs.
Travis leaned forward.
“I know someone.”
“No.”
“You haven’t heard anything.”
“Still no.”
“Her name’s Marisol Vega.”
Wade stabbed an egg.
“I’m not ordering a bride.”
“She’s not for sale.”
“Then leave her out of this.”
“Listen.”
Something in Travis’s tone changed.
Wade stopped.
Travis lowered his voice.
“Marisol worked bookkeeping for Hale Western Exports outside Del Rio.”
“Cattle?”
“Mostly.”
“Mostly?”
“They move livestock, feed contracts, transport brokerage, border shipments.”
“Big outfit?”
“Big enough.”
“What happened?”
“She started finding records that didn’t match.”
“Shipments invoiced twice.”
“Brand inspection numbers attached to cattle she never saw.”
“Loan collateral assigned to properties that weren’t in Texas.”
Wade frowned.
“Why would bookkeeping know what cattle she saw?”
“She reconciled yard intake against financing schedules.”
Travis tapped the table.
“She asked questions.”
“Owner didn’t like questions.”
“Who?”
“Victor Hale.”
Wade recognized the name vaguely.
“Hale Beef?”
“Same family.”
“What did he do?”
“Fired her.”
“Then made sure nobody else hired her.”
“How?”
“Called her dishonest.”
“Accused her of theft.”
“Her landlord suddenly decided not to renew.”
“Someone broke into her apartment.”
“Police?”
“No proof.”
Travis’s jaw tightened.
“She’s an American citizen.”
“Born in San Antonio.”
“She doesn’t need immigration help.”
“Before you ask.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You were about to.”
Wade looked down.
Fair.
Travis continued.
“She needs somewhere Hale can’t reach easily.”
“You need a spouse who understands cattle records.”
Wade stared.
“That’s your pitch?”
“It’s reality.”
“Marriage isn’t employment.”
“No.”
“But contracts exist for reasons.”
Wade leaned back.
“She agree to this?”