Part 13 (1/2)

”I'm sorry to hear about that.”

”I've got what I've got to deal with. When are the boys going to be arriving?”

His face drops. ”Yeah, they, ah. They ain't comin' in today.”

”Is something wrong?”

His face gets straight again, and then whatever doubt that might have been in his mind is gone from his face.

”Don't worry about it.”

The way he's looking doesn't look like something she shouldn't worry about. But against her better judgment...

She'll let it go. Then his lips press against hers and she whatever concerns she had, they would wait.

Chapter Thirty-One.

Philip Callahan shouldn't be working. G.o.d only knows what he should be doing, but the one thing he knows he shouldn't be doing is carrying a bundle of fence rails on his shoulder out to the truck to finish a job that got stuck in time.

There's a boy in a hospital waiting for surgery.

There's a woman who, for all the surprises in the world, seems to be interested in more than just what she says she's interested in.

And sure, there are animals that need feeding. It's the same as every day. That was hours ago.

More than anything, though, he should have been getting ready for lunch. It's not something that he normally worried about. He ate when he was hungry, and when he wasn't, then he didn't worry about when he was going to get hungry. And there was no 'getting ready' for lunch-he hopped in the truck and headed out.

Most days, he wasn't meeting Glen Brand to talk numbers on a black stallion that he had to trust to rescue him from the tax burden that was doubtless going to drop on his head any day now.

He takes a deep breath and refocuses himself. The rails drop into the bed of the truck easily. This isn't what he should be doing right now. He's right about that. With a deep breath he heads inside. He's not going to go to a meeting in his work clothes, his hands still torn-up and dirty from work in the yard.

An hour later he's walking into the little diner. Glen's got a little pad with him, spiral bound at the top and sized to fit in his breast pocket. It shows a wear that tells Callahan that he can't just a.s.sume the sale is final until the ink dries on the contract and the cash is sitting in his account.

”Afternoon, Phil,” he says, standing up and reaching out for a firm handshake. It's always strange to deal with Glen because he's got the body of a man who works for a living. His wrists are near as thick as a baseball bat, and he's got a grip like iron.

”Glen. I didn't realize I'd be keeping you waiting, I'm sorry.”

The other man gives a hard smile. ”Only a minute or two. Don't worry about it.”

”You talked to a waitress yet?”

”Like I said-only a minute or two.”

Callahan slips into the seat opposite. Unlike Glen, this place is only a few miles from home-he's got the menu just about memorized.

Which means that for better or worse, he's got all the attention in the world to pay to how much he's worried about the next few minutes, and how they're going to go.

”I've been trying to reach you,” Glen starts, looking down.

”Yeah, we had a bit of trouble at the ranch. I haven't been able to spend as much time as I'd like.”

It's not a lie, exactly, but it doesn't get down to the point, which in reality is that he's been avoiding returning the calls, because when he does, it's going to mean that either things go well, and the horse goes, or it doesn't go well, and...

Turning over the cards was just too much for a long time. But now, the choice was out of his hands. He needed to get the work done, and that was how it had to be. More than that, he needed the money, and he needed it yesterday.

”s.h.i.+t, I don't know.” Glen looks up. ”What's good here?”

”You like eggs?”

”Sure, I guess.”

”Eggs are alright. Get the sausage, Saul likes to burn the bacon.”

”Right,” he says. He looks at the menu a second longer before putting it down. ”If you say so.”

The waitress comes a minute later, and they order.

”So what were you hoping to get for him?”

It's been a long time since Callahan's had to negotiate. Some part of him worries that he's going to have forgotten something. The thing that he doesn't wonder about, though, is that he's not supposed to be the first one to say something. The first one to say a number loses.

”How about you tell me something you think is fair?”

Glen chews on that thought a minute. Part of him must be thinking that he'd rather not say a number any more than Philip had. But someone's going to have to, at some point.

”I could justify fifteen.”

Philip's throat tightens. It's a starting number. It's low, and perhaps too low. But it's only a starting number.

It's a starting number he's going to have to bring up.

The food comes.

”The horse is worth twenty-five,” Philip says. ”I can't let him go much less than that, I'd be losing money.”

Any hope that Glen might buy that is gone when Callahan looks up.

”Fifteen is fair, Callahan. Don't bulls.h.i.+t me.”