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But he was in no position to try to do any negotiating. It was an absolute and utter wonder that he'd bought what property he had. But he wasn't at his best, and he wasn't prepared to deal with a difficult case like Phil Callahan's.
She's not willing to say that, though. Not in the least bit. Because that would mean throwing her father and his memory right under the bus. And not only didn't she want to do that, but it wouldn't even serve any purpose.
"Well, to start, as I said I’ve been treating this as a long-term project. As a matter of course, Mr. Callahan doesn't intend to sell. But that's only a starting position, of course.
"There's no reason to assume that under the circumstances, he might not change his mind, or that I might find some situation in which he might be more willing to part with the land.
"If I can find that circumstance, then I can try to triage the situation and put us both into positions where we're happy with the outcome. In our case, buying that specific plot of land, which enables easy and convenient housing for Lowe employees, as well as more direct transportation between the Eastern and Western factories."
She lets her shoulders slump a little forward. No problem. No reason to be stressed. It's fine. It's easy. She answered the question sufficiently. No doubt about it.
The voices on the other end of the line don't respond right away.
"Any thoughts or objections?"
"None on my end," comes the first response. Nobody counters it with objections of their own. Perfect.
"Now, if that's all for the new business, I'd like to bring your attention to our other locations, which you'll be more familiar with. I'm confident that there aren't going to be any surprises for any of you here, but let's go through some of these reports together…"
She turns the page on her notes.
The good news was that she couldn't have done any better than that. The bad news was, now she'd promised the Callahan ranch, and she had no way to be sure she could deliver on that.
Chapter Seventeen
Glen always has a big smile on his face. It's not the least bit genuine, but then again, nobody who knows the man expects it to be. He's never been genuine in his entire life.
Everything he's ever done has been a con masked behind a friendly smile and a pretty face. It's not that he's hard to read. He's easy to read, as long as you believe his act that he likes everything and is always happy with the results you're showing.
He's brought along a couple of guys. It's hard to know for sure how they're going to respond to the Black, especially with how wild he is. He should've been trained by now. But the physical pieces of a champion thoroughbred are all there.
They introduce themselves with names that immediately leave Philip's mind, in one ear and straight out the other.
The scout is short-ish and has a penetrating sort of look to him, while the guy there to look through the documentation is taller and wears a suit with arms that are way too short for him.
"Morning," he says. The weather is good. If it had started raining, all that Philip knows for sure is, he would've been pissed. Because sight-unseen would spell the death of this sale, and because now he needs to get the money a hell of a lot faster than he did before. "The horse is through here."
They head through the stable entrance. There's an animal smell in the air, but it's the same one that they're all used to in the first place.
"He's a big one," Callahan offers as they stop in front of the stall. The stallion isn't being quite as rowdy as he usually is. They might not even get bit this time, if he's feeling particularly generous.
Then again, maybe he's not feeling particularly generous. Philip's hand shouldn't have been reaching into the stall, but the positioning, leaning in like that… it had just seemed fine at the time.
"He's an ornery bastard, ain't he?" Glen offers that one. The same smile. As if that were perfect. And, to an extent, it is. You want to have an ornery son of a gun if you want a good horse. A horse that can't stand to lose.
"Sure, but you get yourself a solid trainer, and you can work that out."
"He's had his shots? All up on that?"
"Sure. I should've had you in here a year back, but fact is that—"
"Don't mention it," Glen says. He's still smiling. "We understand just fine, Phil. How's he run?"
"Like the damn wind. And if you don't have a place for him on a race track, he bucks like a son of a bitch, too."
Glen looks in at the horse. His fingers are carefully placed just out of reach of the horse's teeth, and the Black is watching to make sure that they stay there. Or, more likely, to make sure that if they don't, he'll be ready.
"Do we get to see him out of the stall?"
