Rose walked to the barn door and saw a man in his 40s impeccably dressed despite the harsh weather. Expensive coat polished boots, a face that would have been handsome if not for the calculating coldness in his eyes. Wyatt's entire body had gone tense. Clayton Burch, what brings you to my property? Can't a neighbor pay a friendly visit?
We're not friends, Clayton. State your business or leave. The man called Clayton laughed, but there was no humor in it. Still direct as ever. Very well.
I'll be blunt. I want to buy your ranch. Rose's hands tightened on the barn door. She should go back inside. Give them privacy.
But something about Clayton Burch made her skin crawl, and she found herself staying listening. The ranch isn't for sale, Wyatt said flatly. Everything's for sale at the right price. I'm prepared to offer you $12,000. That's generous, Wyatt.
More than generous considering your debt situation. Wyatt's jaw tightened. What debt situation? Your bank loan. $3,000 due in six weeks. Clayton's smile was predatory.
Did you think I wouldn't find out? My brother-in-law is the bank president. He tells me everything. The loan will be paid on time. Will it?
Clayton pulled out a cigar, lit it with deliberate slowness. Because from where I'm standing, you're cutting it close, and if you default, the bank will foreclose, at which point I'll buy the property for a fraction of what I'm offering now. Then you'll be disappointed because I'm not defaulting. " And A Clayton took a long draw on his cigar. I need this land, Wyatt. The railroad is coming through next year, and your property sits right in the path of the most profitable route.
The company is willing to pay top dollar for the right of way. With your ranch and mine combined, I stand to make over $50,000. Then I guess you'll have to find another route. There is no other route, not one that makes financial sense. Clayton's voice hardened.
Be reasonable. Take my offer. 12,000 is more than enough to start over somewhere else. I don't want to start over somewhere else. This is my home.
This was Anna's grave, you mean? Clayton's words were deliberately cruel. She's dead, Wyatt. Holding on to this place won't bring her back. Rose saw Wyatt's hands curl into fists.
Saw the muscle jump in his jaw, but his voice when he spoke was deadly calm. Get off my property now. Think about my offer. You have 6 weeks. Clayton dropped his cigar in the snow, grounded out with his heel.
After that, the price drops considerably. He mounted his horse and rode away without looking back. Wyatt stood in the yard, rigid with fury until Clayton was out of sight. Rose emerged from the barn. How much trouble are you in?
Wyatt spun around clearly, not having realized she was there. For a moment she thought he'd tell her it was none of her business. They were married in name only after all. He had no obligation to share his financial problems with her, but then his shoulders sagged slightly, and he gestured toward the house. Come inside.
I'll explain. In the warmth of the kitchen, Wyatt laid it out. He'd taken the loan 18 months ago to expand his breeding program, bought three exceptional mares from a ranch in Colorado, invested in better facilities. The investment was paying off his horses commanding premium prices. But the loan terms were aggressive, $3,000 due in full by March 15th.
I've got 2,000 saved, Wyatt said, staring into his coffee cup. I was planning to sell some yearlings in February to make up the difference, but the market's been slow this year. Fewer cavalry contracts, more ranchers breeding their own stock. How much would the yearling sales bring? Maybe $800 if I'm lucky, which leaves me 200 short.
Rose did the math in her head. My veterinary fees, I've made $140 in the past 2 weeks. At this rate, I'll have 200 by mid-March. Wyatt looked up sharply. That's your money, Rose.
You earned it and I'm choosing to invest it in our partnership. Rose met his eyes steadily. This ranch is my home now, too. If Clayton Burch takes it, I lose as much as you do. You could take your money and leave.
Start your own practice somewhere. You've got the skill for it. I could, Rose agreed. But I don't want to. I want to stay here and build something that matters with you.
The last two words hung in the air between them. Wyatt's expression shifted something warming in those gray eyes. You mean that? I do. Wyatt sat down his coffee cup and crossed to where Rose sat.
He extended his hand, formal, serious. Partners, then equal partners. Your veterinary practice and my breeding operation combined. Rose took his hand. His grip was firm, calloused, warm.
Partners. They shook on it. And Rose felt the fundamental shift in their relationship. This was no longer a marriage of convenience, no longer a desperate arrangement between strangers. This was choice, mutual choice.
The next few weeks passed in a blur of work and worry. Rose saw patients every day building a reputation that spread beyond the immediate area. Ranchers traveled from 20 m away to have her examine their stock. She treated everything from simple collic to complex fractures. And her success rate was high enough that people started calling her Dr.
Caldwell despite her lack of formal credentials. The money accumulated. By early March, Rose had saved $215. Combined with Wyatt's yearling sales, which had brought in 750, they had just enough to pay the loan with $20 to spare. But Clayton Burch wasn't finished.
It was Hank who brought the news writing in hard just after dawn on March 8th. His horse was lthered, his face grim. Boss, you need to see this. Wyatt and Rose followed him to the eastern pasture where the yearlings grazed, or where they should have been grazing. Instead, the fence was torn down in three places, and the pasture stood empty.
They're gone, Hank said. All 20 of them. Tracks lead northeast toward Bir's property. Wyatt's face went white. He stampeded them.
That son of a stampeded my yearlings. Rose felt ice settle in her stomach. The yearlings represented not just money, but the future of Wyatt's breeding program. Carefully selected stock, the best of last year's full crop. We need to track them, she said.
See where they went. But even as she spoke, she knew Clayton Burch had taken them or killed them. And either way, Wyatt's ability to pay the loan had just vanished. They found the yearlings 3 hours later scattered across a ravine 5 miles from the ranch. Some were injured, limping from falls on the rocky terrain.
Four were dead, their necks broken from tumbling down the steep slope. Rose and Wyatt worked through the day, gathering the survivors, treating injuries. A fractured leg here, lacerations there, one Philly with a deep gash in her shoulder that required 30 stitches to close. By nightfall, they'd accounted for all 20 yearlings. 16 alive, four dead.
But of the 16 survivors, only eight were sound enough to sell. The others would need weeks or months of recovery, assuming they recovered at all. Wyatt sat on a boulder head in his hands while Rose finished bandaging the last injured yearling. His shoulders shook, and Rose realized he was crying. Silent, wrenching sobs that came from somewhere deep and broken.
She crossed to him, sat beside him, didn't say anything, just put her hand on his back, and let him grieve. I can't pay the loan, he said finally, his voice. Eight yearlings won't bring enough. Birch wins. He's going to take everything.
Rose looked out over the ravine at the injured horses at the ranch hands working to move them to safety. Thought about Tom Bradley's debt, about the network of ranchers she'd helped over the past month. "Not everything," she said slowly. "And not yet. " Wyatt raised his head, looking at her with red rimmed eyes. What do you mean?