Then he asks the question I wasn't expecting.
"Have you thought about what it's worth now versus what you paid?"
I lean back in my chair. "In what context."
"In the context that the market has moved. Ranch properties in that corridor have appreciated significantly in the last six months. You bought well, Beckett. If you wanted to exit you'd do it comfortably."
I'm quiet for a moment. "I'm not looking to exit, Marcus."
"I know. I'm just saying the option is there. You've got a clean operation, good staff, an established cattle relationship. It would sell fast." A pause. "Something to keep in mind."
We talk for a few more minutes about other things. Former colleagues, a deal that closed last week, the general state of the market. I wrap up the call and set the phone down and look at the ranch through the office window.
Exit.
The word sits in the room like something that doesn't belong there.
Like somebody accidentally tracked city life across the floorboards of Silver Mesa.
I'm still at the desk twenty minutes later when I hear Laney's boots on the porch. The front door opens, her particular stride crosses the living room, she appears in the office doorway with a question about the east pasture water schedule that she answers herself before I finish processing it.
Her eyes are moving to the phone on the desk.
"Everything okay?" she says.
"Fine. Business call."
She nods, turns to go.
"Marcus Webb," I say. "My former partner. Calls to check in occasionally."
She stops. "What did he want?"
I consider how to answer that. Not because I want to hide anything. Because the answer requires context that I don't have the right words for yet.
"He wanted to know how the ranch is performing," I say.
She turns back. Her expression is carefully neutral in the way it gets when she's managing something. "And?"
"He thinks it's performing well."
She nods slowly. Looks at the notebooks on the desk. Looks at the phone. Looks at me with an expression I recognize from the very early weeks, the guarded, assessing look she used to give me constantly and has largely stopped using.
It's back now.
"He give you any advice?" she asks. Careful. Even.
I open my mouth.
From outside Remy's voice carries across the yard about something with the tractor and Laney's attention shifts automatically, the ranch pulling her back the way it always does.
"I'll catch you later," she says. Flat, professional, the ranch manager voice she hasn't used with me in weeks.
She's gone before I can finish the sentence.
I sit at the desk and look at the empty doorway.
She heard enough to worry, not enough to understand.
