He bows his head, runs a hand through his hair. “We owe back taxes. We’ve been working to pay it off, but if we can’t get the money, the state’s gonna auction the farm off after Christmas.”
“But—but the mountain is yours. It’s named after your family. You can’t lose it.”
“You can when you owe the government.” A frustrated, bitter sound pushes past his lips. “The city changed our mailing address from a PO Box to a street, and we never got any of the bills.”
“That’s their fault, not yours.”
“They don’t care; they just want their money.” His voice rises, not loud, but heated. Zelda barks in affirmation. “I’ve been tryin’ to come up with it. I sold off the horses.” His cheeks burn at the lie he told me. “My Bronco, some saddles, but…Pops won’t let me sell the ranch house. And I sure as hell won’t let him sell his.”
“Oh my God.” I press a trembling hand to my lips. If the tree farm sells, that means the cabin goes with it. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“It’s not your problem, Bell,” he says firmly. “Not anymore.”
My eyes burn with hot, angry tears. Stubborn, idiotic man.
He’s wrong.
He might be my ex-husband, but no one’s more important than Papa Blue. Nothing means more to me than our Christmas tree farm.
I prop my hands on my hips, fire lighting through me. “Tough shit. I’m gonna make it my problem.”
He laughs, probably amused by my indignation. “What are you gonna do, sugar, go down to the bank and break their legs?”
I pull my shoulders back, lift my chin. “I could.”
“Bell, this ain’t on you to fix. It’s on me.” Now he’s unsmiling. Pacing. He rips another hand through his hair and this time keeps it there. His eyes are shiny, that jaw set. “And like fuckin’ everything, I can’t. I let him down. I fucked it all up.”
He’s speaking about his father, but the words are deeper. They’re directed at everything, especially us.
My stomach drops. “How much do you owe?”
“Bell.”
“Tell me, Hank.” I clip the words out, stern. “Now.”
“Twenty grand.”
I gasp.
The strong lines of his shoulders tense. That muscled jaw flexes. Hank’s always been the type to want to fix things. He always tried his damnedest to get my life right in .3 seconds, whether I was upset or hurt or just hangry. And if he couldn’t, he’d find another solution.
It’s got to be killing him that he can’t fix this.
“What about a loan?” I ask.
“Can’t get one,” he murmurs. “Not when we owe back taxes.”
“My money, then.” I exhale a breath, clarity settling inside me.
He frowns, eyebrows slanted low.
“The money in our divorce settlement,” I clarify. “It’s exactly twenty grand.”
“That’s yours.”
“No,” I say quietly, moving toward him. “That wasours.”
“You need that.”
