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Nineteen
Archer
I scrolled through my phone as I took the elevator up to NT Land Agency. I should have been delighted to be strolling into work. I was going to make partner after working here since I was twenty-three.
I peered at my watch. There were so many reasons I felt like I was dragging an entire herd of cattle behind me as I commuted to work. The drive had taken two days. One really long day where I had nothing to do but watch the road and review what I’d done with my life. Yesterday, the drive hadn’t been as long, but I’d spent hours compiling information on Sheridan Nine. I hadn’t reached out to anyone. This was a coveted piece of land, and Mr. Hollywood probably thought he had plenty of time. But time would only lower the price.
However, competition might drive the price higher. A few million to these guys wouldn’t hurt, but they didn’t get rich enough to drop five hundred million on something by being wasteful.
I rolled my neck. Last night I had been back in my king-size bed. The best mattress money could buy didn’t help me sleep any better than the full-size mattress I slept on in Coal Haven.
The motel room hadn’t had Delaney’s clothing in the closet or her toiletries stuffed into a drawer.
Like a lovesick kid, I’d found a half-empty bottle of her lotion and tormented myself with a sniff.
Fuck, I was in bad shape.
The amount of work looming ahead of me didn’t help. Normally, I’d be itching to dive into a property that size, gather all the details about the various businesses under Sheridan Nine’s umbrella, and start pumping out financial reports, weather reports, and any tidbit of data that would put me over the top and convince the client he had a leg up in the sale. But it wasn’t even eight in the morning, and I was ready to leave.
The elevator stopped at the fifth floor, and I suppressed an eye roll. For fuck’s sake. I could’ve driven out to the Grangers’ from the motel in the time this elevator took to get to my floor.
On my tablet, I sifted through work emails I hadn’t paid enough attention to in the last week. Notes from Ardell in billing. Forwards from my assistant. Two new leads. A tract of land in southeast Oklahoma and a farm for sale in the middle of Nebraska. The Nebraskan farm was highlighted as a motivated seller. Family illness. They needed to sell and get the money as soon as possible. Not the easiest for a farm in the middle of nowhere.
New leads and this type of challenge usually excited me. I loved making money for clients, and this family needed every cent. I could travel, get out of the office, and meet new people, but my mood tanked. I’d rather be with my wife.
All I had to do was finish this deal. I’d make partner and have some flexibility in my career.
The door finally whispered open on the thirty-second floor. I stepped out and beelined down the hallway straight for my office. Chitchat would only bog down my day. I turned the corner. Wilson’s door was open, and Mr. Truitt was leaning over his desk, his fingertips pressed into the top. Wilson was reclining in his chair with his hands behind his head.
I had suspected that part of my appeal for Mr. Truitt was that I didn’t fill him with the fear I’d jack around until I jeopardized an important assignment. Wilson hadn’t—yet. But he insisted on acting like he was so damn good he could afford to be all casual and shit. Mr. I’ll Take Care Of Y’all.
When he saw me, Wilson raised his arms into the air. “Hey, Archer. Finally decided to grace us with your presence?”
Mr. Truitt turned, and his scowl softened. “Archer.” He waved me in. His gray hair was trimmed short and gelled to the side. He was tanner than when I’d left. He must’ve been hitting the golf course. “Come in and shut the door. We have a lot to catch up on.”
I entered and set my bag down with the multitude of electronics I’d dragged across the country with me next to the chair across from Wilson’s desk. Unlike my office, Wilson had selected a trendier theme. Oranges and greens decorated the space like a frozen yogurt shop, along with the same outside-the-box chairs. The one I chose resembled an orange-colored backward ocean wave, kind of like Wilson’s hairstyle.
Mr. Truitt sat on the edge of Wilson’s desk. He hated the chairs, but even he’d had to admit they fit for the type of clients his son attracted for urban development.
“Did you get a lot of work done on the trip?”
NotHow was your drive?
How was your visit?
Did your wife come back with you or is there a good chance you ruined everything by coming back to work?
“Yes,” I said simply. I should be listing everything I’d prepared last night in my condo and the two nights before that in my motel room. I blamed the lack of sleep.
Mr. Truitt’s neatly trimmed brows lifted. He regarded me with that shrewd gaze of his that instantly earned respect. When I’d first met him after I won the scholarship, I’d noticed all the differences between him and Dad.
Expensive suit, but it hadn’t been the suit. It’d been that his clothes were clean and had no holes. Nice. Professional. Dad had looked like a rumpled mess when Mama had dragged us to church.
Mr. Truitt’s hair was always trimmed. He had a standing appointment every two weeks. In one year, he likely paid more for his haircuts than Dad had his entire life. Could Mr. Truitt tell that my last haircut had cost twenty bucks? I didn’t think so. Why did I use the same hair person as he did?
But more than appearance, it had been the look in Mr. Truitt’s eyes. Undiluted confidence. It had been intoxicating for a kid raised by a guy who hadn’t known how he was going to afford a few cans of soup.
“Is everything taken care of in North Dakota?” he asked.
