They Said She Was Wild And Unfit, Until The Cowboy Said, “Good, You’ll Match Me Just Fine”

Chapter 5

She wore her mother’s dark blue riding skirt to the bank, the one that had been intended for weddings and christenings and other soft occasions. Quentyn had changed too — clean shirt, brush of dust off his hat — and the sight of him making the journey presentable on her behalf made her chest tighten in a way she could not afford to examine.

“Head high,” he murmured as they rode down the main street. “You’ve got nothing to be ashamed of.”

The bank manager, Harold Holloway, looked up from his desk with poorly concealed surprise at seeing her accompanied. “Miss Evans. Mr. Blackwood. Please, have a seat.”

“Your message said it was urgent.” Kinley remained standing. “Has something changed regarding my loan?”

Holloway cleared his throat and would not meet her eyes. “I’ve received instructions from the regional office. All outstanding loans are to be reviewed immediately in light of recent economic forecasts. I’m afraid they’re requiring accelerated repayment schedules.”

“Meaning what, exactly?”

“Meaning your payment is now due at the end of this month, rather than the end of summer.” He finally looked at her, and there was genuine regret beneath the professional mask. “I fought this decision, Miss Evans. It comes from above my authority.”

Two weeks. She had two weeks to find two hundred dollars she had been counting on two more months to gather.

“That’s impossible.” Her voice stayed level. “The cattle won’t be ready for auction by then, and you know it.”

“I understand your position. However, there are options.” He leaned forward. “Mr. Pritchard has expressed interest in purchasing a portion of your land. The amount he’s offering would more than cover your debt.”

Something cold and clean crystallized in her chest. This was not about economic forecasts. This was the mayor’s hand, reaching through the banker to take her water rights — the prize he had been circling for years.

“Are all loans being accelerated, Mr. Holloway,” Quentyn asked, “or just Miss Evans’s?”

The banker fidgeted. “Well — those deemed most at risk, of course.”

“And who determines that risk?”

“The board reviews each case individually.”

“The same board that includes Mayor Pritchard.”

The question hung in the air like a thrown gauntlet. Holloway’s silence was the answer.

“As I said,” Holloway pressed on, “Miss Evans has options. Selling a portion of the land would resolve the immediate issue while allowing her to keep the homestead.”

“No.” Kinley’s answer was immediate, iron. “I won’t sell. Not even an acre.”

“Then I’m afraid you have until the end of the month to produce the full payment, or foreclosure proceedings will begin.”

Outside, on the boardwalk, the reality of it pressed down on her like a physical weight. Two weeks. Two hundred dollars. Everything her family had built teetering on a knife’s edge.

“They’re trying to force you out,” Quentyn said quietly, close beside her. “This isn’t about banking.”

“I know.” She took a breath against the tide of despair. “But knowing doesn’t change the facts. I need two hundred dollars I don’t have.”

“What about selling some of the cattle early?”

“They’re not at weight. I’d take a serious loss and still might not make enough.” She straightened her shoulders, forcing the despair back into its box. “But I’m not giving up. There has to be a way.”

“We’ll figure something out.” His hand touched her arm — brief, a gesture of alliance that meant more than it should have. “We.”

The word carried a weight she wasn’t ready to examine.

Mrs. Pritchard found them at the wagon, her smile a study in counterfeit concern. “Miss Evans. I heard about your meeting at the bank. Such unfortunate timing. My husband mentioned he’d be happy to discuss purchasing options with you — anytime.”

“Please tell the mayor I have no interest in selling. Not now. Not ever.”

The older woman’s eyes went hard. “Pride comes before a fall, dear. Sometimes accepting help is the wiser course.”

“That’s not help,” Quentyn interjected, his usually easy voice carrying an edge. “That’s opportunism.”

Mrs. Pritchard’s gaze flickered over him with undisguised disapproval. “Mr. Blackwood. I see you’re still employed at the Evans Ranch.”

“Happily so.”

She sniffed. “I’ve said my piece. Good day to you both.”

As she walked away, Kinley released a breath she hadn’t known she was holding. “Thank you. For standing with me.”

“Always,” he said simply — and the word carried a promise that reached far beyond this moment.

On the ride home, her mind raced through impossible arithmetic. Her mother’s jewelry. Other ranchers. Santiago’s brother in Denver. All straws, each more desperate than the last. The truth was stark and unavoidable: the town’s powerful men had decided she should fail, and they had positioned themselves to profit from that failure.

“You’re thinking so hard I can practically hear it,” Quentyn observed as they neared the ranch.

“Just trying to perform financial miracles.”

“Tell me something.” His voice was thoughtful. “What would your father do in this situation?”

The question stopped her cold. “He’d look for an angle they hadn’t thought of. Dad always said the straightest path isn’t always the best one.”

“Smart man. So what angle haven’t they considered?”

She frowned — and then the pieces fell together like flint striking steel. “They expect me to either sell land or fail. Those are the only outcomes they’ve planned for.”

“And if you did something they haven’t planned for at all?”

“The cattle drive,” she said slowly. “The summer drive north to Cheyenne. Cattle fetch higher prices at the railhead than they do at our auction. Nearly two hundred miles.” Excitement crept into her voice, then urgency. “If I could get the herd there in time, I could make enough to pay the bank and have money left over for improvements.”

“Kinley.” He was watching her with a mix of concern and something like admiration. “That’s a major undertaking. Normally takes a crew of six or seven. We’ve got three — counting Miguel, three and a half.”

“Four capable hands who know what they’re doing beats seven who don’t.” She was warming to it now, the impossibility of it drowned out by the potential reward. “We’d have to move fast. Leave within days.”

“It would be the hardest thing you’ve ever done. Dangerous, too.”

“More dangerous than losing everything?”

He held her gaze a long moment. Then he nodded. “Then we’d better start planning. If we’re doing this, we’re doing it right.”

Hope — real, glittering hope — flooded the hollow place where despair had been sitting. It was a desperate gamble. It was also her only chance to save her legacy on her own terms.

And for the first time since her father’s death, riding home beside Quentyn Blackwood, Kinley Evans did not feel alone in the fight.

Whether that was a comfort or a complication, she had yet to decide.