Wendell nods. “I caught the last game,” he says, tapping a finger on the table. “Hudson’s got a hell of an arm. Gonna make a damn good pitcher one day.”
I know Ellis Tate, Wendell’s youngest son, is on Hudson’s team. I’ve seen him on the field, watched Wendell and his wife at the games. But something about him bringing it up now puts me on edge.
I lean back in the booth, crossing my arms. “I doubt you’re here to talk baseball.”
He exhales a short laugh, measured. “You’re right.”
Wendell shifts, straightens a folder in front of him like he’s gathering his thoughts. Then he leans forward, clasping his hands together, all business.
“The truth is, Summit Springs is changing,” he says. “And it has to. We can’t just keep coasting along, relying on tradition and hoping that’s enough to keep this town afloat. We need to be thinking ahead, looking at ways to grow, to make sure that in ten, twenty years, this place is still standing. More than that—thriving.”
I don’t like the way he saysthis place—like it’s some abstract idea, like it’s not real. Not homes and families and history. Not the ranchers who’ve worked this land for generations, the businesses that have held this town together longer than I’ve been alive.
He gestures vaguely toward the window. “Summit Springs has so much potential. We’re sitting on land that could be worth ten times what it is now if we develop it properly. If we invest in infrastructure, bring in the right investors, we could turn this into a destination. A place where people want to spend their money. Imagine a revitalized Main Street—boutiques, high-end dining, an actual hotel instead of a roadside motel that hasn’t been updated since the nineties. Think about the tourism that could bring in, the jobs it could create. The opportunities.”
He keeps going, painting a picture of a new Summit Springs. A town that’s sleek, modern, full of shiny storefronts and polished sidewalks. Something straight out of a marketing brochure.
And the thing is, it allsoundsgood. A town with more jobs? More business? More money coming in? Who wouldn’t want that?
But I can’t shake the feeling that the people who’ve been here all along—the ones who built this town, who’ve kept it alive—won’t be the ones who benefit from it.
I let his words settle for a second. “And what exactly does any of this have to do with me?”
Wendell smiles, the kind that feels rehearsed, like he’s been waiting for me to ask. “Glad you brought that up.”
He flips open one of the manila folders, slides a document across the table. I glance down, trying to make sense of it—property records, land assessments, something about mineral rights.
“You see, the land the Bluebell sits on is…valuable,” he says, dragging out the last word like he’s savoring it. “More valuable than you might think.”
I lift a brow. “Valuable how?”
He exhales, like he’s about to drop some great revelation. “Oil.”
I blink. “Oil.”
He nods. “There’s a reserve right underneath this block. Not just a small deposit, either. A significant one. We had it surveyed years ago, but the infrastructure wasn’t in place to make it profitable. That’s changing.”
My stomach twists.
“This land is prime real estate, Lark. And not just for oil. The location, the foot traffic—it’s a key piece of the puzzle for the future of Summit Springs.” He leans forward slightly, lowering his voice like we’re conspiring. “I want it.”
I let out a short laugh, because what else can I do? “You want the Bluebell?”
He lifts a shoulder. “More or less.”
Of all the things Wendell Tate could’ve said to me today,thatwas definitely not on my bingo card.
I glance down at the paperwork again, heart thudding in my chest. It makes sense now—the pitch, the shiny new Summit Springs he’s trying to sell me. He doesn’t just want to build a town that looks good in brochures. He wants control. And in order to have control, he needs this land.
I grip the edge of the table, forcing my voice to stay even. “And what exactly do you expect me to do about that?”
Wendell leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table, like we’re just two old friends having a casual conversation.
“Well, seeing as Alice Westwood left the Bluebell to you, and your name is the one on the deed,” he says smoothly, “that means the only way we can move forward is with your approval.” He smiles. “Which is why I’m here.”
I let out a short, dry laugh. “So, what? You want to buy it from me?”
“Not just the diner,” he corrects. “The land it sits on.” He flips open another folder, slides a paper across the table toward me. “It’ll be more than worth your while.”
