“I know.”
“I was tired of answering.”
“Whatever helps you sleep.”
He smiled.
A year later, Carter Equipment had six employees.
Two women.
Four men.
Noah became her first formal apprentice.
He was nineteen by then.
Good hands.
Too fast.
Maya constantly told him:
“Speed comes after repeatability.”
He constantly ignored her until mistakes made the lesson expensive.
Clayton loved watching someone else suffer Daniel Carter-style instruction.
One afternoon Noah stripped a bolt.
Maya stared.
Noah whispered:
“I know.”
“What do you know?”
“I’m an idiot.”
“No.”
“You made a bad decision.”
“Don’t turn it into personality.”
Clayton, nearby, looked at her.
That line stayed with him.
A bad decision is not a personality.
He had made many.
Trusting Logan.
Ignoring Daniel.
Mocking mechanics.
Believing wealth made him good at every kind of judgment.
But if every failure became identity, change would become pointless.
Logan’s case ended nearly two years after the wager.
He pleaded guilty to conspiracy to commit insurance fraud, theft-related offenses, and evidence tampering.
Trent Maddox pleaded too.
Restitution orders followed.
Some money was recovered.
Not all.
Clayton attended sentencing.
Maya did not.
When he returned, he was quiet.
“Feel better?”
she asked.
“No.”
“Why would you?”
“I thought I would.”
“What happened?”
“His wife was there.”
“His daughter.”
“They cried.”
Maya nodded.
“Consequences have relatives.”
Clayton stared.
“You always have a sentence.”
“No.”
“Sometimes I just nod.”
He laughed.
Then said:
“Logan apologized.”
“To you?”
“Yes.”
“What did you say?”
“Nothing.”
“Good.”
He looked toward the shop.
“He said he started because Trent told him everybody skimmed something.”
“Then it became bigger.”
“He said he thought I’d never notice.”
Maya looked at him.
“He was right for a while.”
Clayton nodded.
That hurt.
But he accepted it.
“What about your father?”
he asked.
“What about him?”
“I owe him an apology too.”
“He’s dead.”
“I know.”
Maya looked toward the old red toolbox on the bench.
Clayton continued.
“I should’ve listened.”
“Yes.”
“I should’ve called after Big Sky closed.”
“Yes.”
“I should’ve gone to funeral.”
“Yes.”
He sighed.
“You could make one of these easier.”
“No.”
He smiled sadly.
“Tell me something good about him.”
Maya thought.
“He would’ve liked that you kept the hundred-cow deal.”
Clayton smiled.
“He would’ve called me idiot for making it.”
“Yes.”
“He would’ve been right.”
“Yes.”
That spring Maya found an old notebook in her father’s desk.
Most pages contained part numbers.