Page 4 of Holiday Pines

He swiped. Another photo. “Mayfield Pecan Grove. Macon. Two years behind, equipment failing, owner ready to walk away.We restructured their loan, connected them with a co-op buyer. They’re still operating.”

Another swipe. “Bellwood Produce. Alpharetta. Eighteen months behind?—”

“Okay.” Wes held up a hand. “I get it. You’re a real hero.”

Jake pocketed his phone. “I’m not a hero. I’m a loan officer who specializes in agricultural recovery. I don’t destroy farms, Mr. Dalton. I save them.”

“For a price.”

“For a restructured payment plan, updated equipment leasing, and better market connections. Yes.”

Wes laughed, sharp and bitter. “And how much is that going to cost me?”

“Right now? Nothing. I’m assessing whether your farm is viable for recovery. If it is, we’ll talk options. If it’s not...” Jake paused. “Then we’ll talk about that too.”

“And you’ll be making that decision when?”

“I’ll be in town through Christmas. I’m handling three properties in the area.”

Three.

“Great,” Wes said. “So you can destroy multiple families’ livelihoods efficiently.”

Jake’s jaw tightened. First crack in the professional veneer. “I told you. I don’t destroy?—”

“Yeah, yeah. You save them. Sure.” Wes turned toward the barn. “You got what you needed?”

“For today.”

“Then I’ve got work to do.”

He didn’t wait for a response. Just walked away, shoulders tight, hands shoved in his pockets.

Behind him, he heard the Audi’s door close, its engine starting with a smooth purr. The tires crunched over the gravel like a predator skulking away.

Wes didn’t want to turn around.

Don’t look. Don’t give him the satisfaction.

He looked.

The Audi was passing, navigating the ruts more confidently now. Jake sat straight behind the wheel, eyes darting briefly at him, offering a brief nod and professional smile.

Wes hated that he’d seen it. Hated that his brain had been cataloging details since the man’s arrival—the way his suit fit snug across his shoulders, the careful way he’d stepped around the mud, the fact that he’d known about monitoring apps because he’d had a foster father who needed one.

Stop it.

The car disappeared around the bend.

Wes pulled out his phone, checking the app. Henry’s dot hadn’t moved. Still in the recliner. Safe.

Miguel waved from the lot, pointing at a customer who needed help with selecting a tree.

The bills were still on Wes’s desk.

The foreclosure notice still said December 24th.

And Jake Marley would be back.