The Cowboy's Bride. Carolyne Aarsen
Читать онлайн книгу.
in Montana to train and show their horses. I need my share of the money to build the arena now. Besides, you have the place up for sale, and you told me you finally have a buyer.”
“I can’t do it,” Lane said flatly.
“What?” Joe let the chair legs fall to the floor with a hollow thunk. “Why not?”
“The buyer backed out, and then I got this.” Lane got up, picked a folded piece of paper from the top of a desk overflowing with papers and wordlessly handed it to Joe.
Joe unfolded the letter and skimmed the contents, his heart pounding at what he read. He reread it more slowly, laid the letter on the table and pulled his hand over his face. “When did you get this?”
“A couple of days ago.”
Joe leaned his chin on his hand, turning to look out the fly-specked window. The same window he had spent much of his youth looking out, wishing he were anywhere else but here in this old house at this selfsame table. “How did this happen? A bank doesn’t begin foreclosure unless as a last resort. How could you let things go so far?” he asked, turning to Lane.
“You said you didn’t want to be involved with the day-to-day stuff of the ranch. Told me to make my own decisions. Well, I did. I’ve had nothing but problems with this place. Disease, a bull that was no good. A couple of lousy hay crops and I had to buy hay. I couldn’t keep all the cows we had so I had to cut down. Which made less income.”
Lane leaned forward, his gaze intent. “We’re going to lose the ranch, Joe. If things go the way the bank is talking, they’re going to foreclose. I’ll have to declare personal bankruptcy, and I can’t do that. They’ll run my life for the next five years. I can’t stand that.”
“I don’t know why you say we are going to lose this place, Lane. You got your name on the title when Dad died. All I got was a cash payout.” And a small one, at that, which he still didn’t have, Joe thought, staring morosely at his brother.
Lane wasn’t worried about the ranch, and they both knew it. Lane never did like having people tell him what to do. If he declared personal bankruptcy, he would have someone hanging over his finances for years.
“Joe, this ranch is a part of you.” Lane tried another tack.
“Not the best part,” retorted Joe. “I’m not exactly awash in fond memories of it.” He glanced around the cramped kitchen, its painted wood cupboards still the same grimy cream color they had been all those dreary years that Lane, Joe and their widowed father lived here. Under the table and in front of the kitchen sink, the gray floor tiles were worn away to the wood subfloor. Behind him, the wall sported a hole from Joe’s teenage years when he lost his temper over his father’s unreasonable demands on his time. He had put his fist through the drywall and kicked a chair across the kitchen. It had no effect on his father. Joe’s loss of temper seldom did.
“I don’t know where I’m going to come up with enough cash to pay out these loans,” Lane continued with a sigh. “The ranch is not selling. I’m stuck. I know you have a bunch stashed away. You gotta help me out.”
Joe sighed as he picked up the letter and again read the stilted language, trying to find a way he could salvage something for himself from this fiasco. “Why don’t you go to another bank? Get a loan to pay me out?” It was a long shot, and given Lane’s financial woes, hardly a solution, but Joe was grasping at anything.
Lane looked at the table, tracing his fingers in one of the gouges as he narrowed his eyes. “I went to the banks from Rocky Mountain House to Okotoks and even to Calgary. None of them would help me out.”
Joe put the letter down. “Let me see last year’s financial statement.”
Lane sighed, pulled at his ear and got up. He riffled through some papers and pulled a large manila envelope from a pile. “Here,” he said, throwing the envelope on the table. “I can’t make heads or tails of them so I don’t know if a high school dropout like you could.”
Joe let the slight pass over him as he opened the envelope. Lane would sooner eat glass than ask Joe for help. That Lane had was a measure of how desperate he was. In spite of that, Lane still couldn’t stifle his petty tendencies.
A quick look showed Joe that Lane had borrowed on virtually everything he could. The income side of the statement showed a decreasing amount for the past three years.
Joe closed the statement and slid the book across the table to his brother. “I can’t help you out. I don’t even have a quarter of what you owe in cash, and even if I had less, I wouldn’t give you anything. It wouldn’t help. You’re too far down. You can’t sell the place. Live with the consequences and let it go.”
“My brother,” Lane said, his voice heavily sarcastic. “This is how a so-called Christian like you helps out his own flesh and blood.”
“Giving you money isn’t necessarily a Christlike thing. I’ve got my own plans, Lane.”
“Your training arena?” Lane snorted. “Don’t be a fool. You don’t have enough money without your share of this ranch.”
Joe pressed his lips together, praying he could ignore the derision in Lane’s voice.
“There’s a perfectly good arena on this place,” Lane continued. “You could rent it from me.”
“We’ve gone over that already, Lane, and you know the answer. The money from that is only an inch against the mile of debt you have.”
Lane slammed his fist against the table. “You haven’t changed a bit, have you, you self-righteous—” Lane sputtered, trying to find the right words. “You know what your problem is? You’re jealous. You’ve always been jealous.”
As Lane ranted on, Joe reminded himself of the verse in Proverbs. “He who keeps his tongue is wise.” He didn’t feel very wise right now, because he didn’t feel like holding his tongue. And his new-found faith was sorely tested by the grain of truth buried in Lane’s many angry words.
Yes, he had been jealous of his brother. Jealous of the fact that his father’s approval was bestowed more quickly on Lane than Joe. That no matter how many blisters and bruises Joe got pitching bales, handling calves or putting in fences, it was never enough.
Joe had struggled with the jealousy Lane accused him of, and it was still a source of discontent in his life that required daily prayer.
Joe held on to his temper, his hands clenched. He took a breath, got up, took his hat off the table and set it on his head. “My advice to you is let the bank take the ranch and then go out and get a real job.”
Lane looked contrite as he tried another tack. “I’m sorry, Joe. Really. There’s got to be a way to save this place. Doesn’t it mean anything to you at all?”
Joe looked around once more. The kitchen counter held dishes from a few meals. The floor was littered with crumbs. Beyond the archway to the living room, Joe saw the couch from his youth covered with magazines. A couple of beer cans lay on the floor beside it. He knew that an inspection of the bedrooms would show him the same things.
It looked much as it had when he was growing up.
“No,” Joe said with finality. “It means nothing.” He turned and left.
“So after the accident you began your physio program in Calgary?” Heather Anderson picked up a clipboard that held Rebecca’s physiotherapy program and flipped through a few of the pages.
“Yes.” Rebecca smoothed a wrinkle in her sweatpants, looking around the physio department of Wakely General Hospital. It was smaller than the one in Calgary. But the department in Calgary didn’t have Heather Anderson as an employee. And Heather was the therapist Rebecca wanted to work with.
Heather nodded and made a note on the chart. “According to your report, you’ve sustained some residual nerve damage as a result of the accident. You realize that this can’t