Page 2 of Holiday Pines

That’s when he saw the car.

A silver Audi sedan, navigating the dirt road like a nervous cat in a dog park. It bounced over ruts, swerved around the worst of the mud, and finally parked near the barn. Too clean. Too expensive. Too Atlanta.

The driver’s door opened, and a man stepped out.

Dark suit. Polished shoes. Hair that had seen a barber recently, not a pair of kitchen scissors and a mirror. He looked around, spotted Wes, and started walking over.

Wes didn’t move from the tailgate.

Here we go.

“Mr. Dalton?” The man extended a hand. “Jake Marley. Regional First Bank.”

Wes looked at the offered hand, then at Jake’s face—clean-shaven with piercing blue eyes. He was handsome, but also looked like a guy who probably ironed his underwear.

“I know who you are.” Wes didn’t shake. “You’re early.”

“I texted yesterday. Said I’d be here around two.”

“It’s not two yet.”

Jake glanced at his watch—something sleek and silver that probably cost more than Wes’s truck payment. “It’s 1:47.”

“Like I said. Early.”

A pause. Jake lowered his hand, slipping it into his pocket instead. “May I look around?”

“It’s not like I can stop you.”

“You could. But I’d appreciate the cooperation.”

Wes slid off the tailgate, landing harder than necessary. His boots hit the mud, and Jake’s eyes flicked down to them, then to his own shoes, already speckled with red Georgia clay.

Should’ve worn boots, city boy.

“Fine. Let’s get this over with.”

He led Jake toward the rows of trees, moving fast enough that the banker had to work to keep up. Wes didn’t slow down. Didn’t point out the different varieties or explain the lot layout. Just walked.

“How many acres?” Jake asked.

“Forty.”

“And you run it yourself?”

“Mostly. Got a crew for harvesting and busy weekends.”

“Your father—Henry, right?—does he still work the farm?”

Wes stopped so abruptly that Jake almost ran into him. He turned, and the banker took a step back.

“My father,” Wes said, voice low, “had a stroke in February. He uses a walker now. Can’t lift anything heavier than a coffee mug. So no. He doesn’t work the farm.”

Jake’s expression didn’t change. Professional mask firmly in place. “I see. I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Are you?”

“Yes.”