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  My job was fulfilling, helping support Salvation. But he was right. Farming, especially family farming, seemed to be dying out. On the one hand, I understood that the march of progress couldn’t be stopped. It would have been stupid to continue to fight for harness and buggy makers with the invention of cars and trucks. But farming was about food and other resources we relied on to live. People needed to eat more than they needed another prison.

  “I admire your dedication to the farmers of Salvation,” the mayor said once I reached my desk.

  “But you don’t think I should fight this prison?”

  “I think a committee to look into the impact this will have on Salvation is a good idea. I can tell you, a similar report has already been done-”

  “Paid for by the prison organization, I’m sure.”

  His lips twitched up in the way they did when he was amused by my spunk. “It proves the point I was making earlier. We can always skew data and information to support what we want. As leaders of Salvation, what we want matters less than what the community wants. Give them the information, but they decide, Sinclair. It’s possible they’ll want this prison.”

  “So, the farmers, the one who built this town, they’re out of luck because they’re outnumbered?”

  “Maybe. You said it before, people need to eat. This prison will hire many more people than the farms do. Those people need to feed their families too.”

  I hated that he was right. “I’m not backing off.”

  “I know. But you need to consider all sides of an issue. Farming may have built this town, but not everyone is a farmer. You need to keep them in mind as well.”

  “Is that all?”

  He laughed. “Never get in the way of a woman on a mission. I’ll leave you to it.” He exited my office.

  I sat in my chair knowing he was right. Maybe it was time for Salvation to move forward and away from farming. But not with a prison. There were plenty of other places in Nebraska that could house a prison. If Salvation needed to look at alternative industries, locking people up wasn’t going to be it.

  A little while later, Trina knocked on my door. “I’ve got a list of farms that surround the area of the farms we know have been approached. I don’t know that these are on Stark’s list to buy, but they could be based on proximity.”

  I took the list and reviewed it. My heart had a little extra beat when I saw the name Jones on the list. I’d never forgotten Wyatt. For a long time, I was angry and hurt at how he simply left. Later, perhaps because of age and learning more about his father, I could see how he needed to escape Salvation. I hoped he was happy.

  Rumor was his father left his wife, which could make her property a prime target for Mr. Stark. With her husband and son gone, would she want to continue to farm or would she see this as a chance to take off too?

  “What will you be doing?” Trina asked me.

  “I’m going to talk to these people and see if they’ve been approached.”

  “How much does the town know about this prison? My guess is most people wouldn’t want a prison in their backyard,” Trina said, sitting in the chair in front of my desk.

  “I think it’s just talk now. But we may need to find someone who is willing to form some sort of protest or opposition group.”

  Trina quirked a brow. “You’re a rebel. I like it.”

  “Yeah, well, I’d do it myself, but the mayor is right in that it won’t look right if I take a side based on my personal ideas. But there must be someone who could help the community see that a prison isn’t the answer. To help them show support for our farmers.”

  “Do you have anyone in mind?”

  I looked through the list again, but no one popped out. “Not yet.”

  3

  Wyatt

  Growing up, I’d always helped on the farm. In fact, it was expected I’d take it over from my father, as he had from his father, and my grandfather had from his father, and so on back to the late nineteenth century. The Jones farm was the oldest farm continuously owned by one family in the county. Not that it got any special recognition for that. Clearly, I didn’t care about it as I’d left with no intention of coming back. I had no siblings so unless there were some cousins somewhere who wanted the place, the farm would have passed to someone else.

  Now I was home with every intention of continuing the family tradition. Not much had changed about cattle ranching in the ten years since I’d been gone. In fact, there were aspects of ranching that weren’t much different from the military. I had to get up before the sun. I had to have discipline. And I needed to be strong.

  A few days after being home, I realized I’d gone soft in some areas. I was right in that my ass hurt after my first ride. My shoulders were pissed too from the hauling and mucking out. But physical labor was good. I liked it.

  This morning I was up before five, eating the hearty breakfast my mother made me, as she used to do for my dad, and I was out the door and in the truck before six. I drove with horses in tow to the far pen, and after inventorying the cattle, I and the men still working for us moved the cattle to the lower pen. Now as the head of the farm, I barked out the orders while the two other guys herded the cattle and within a few hours, we had them moved.

  Back at the house, my mother had lunch for all of us, meatball sandwiches, potato salad and chocolate chip cookies. It was a reminder of how much I used to eat too. It was a reward for hard work.

  By late afternoon, I was in the barn taking care of the horses. It was still hotter than hell, and I took a second to remove my hat and wipe the sweat off my brow. I’d already taken off the western shirt I wore when we herded the cattle. Despite the heat, the long sleeves protected me from the sun. But in the barn, I didn’t need the long sleeves, so I took off the shirt and worked in my t-shirt.

  I finished with the horses and went into the office to grab water from the fridge. Still fucking hot, I pulled my t-shirt over my head and used it to wipe my chest. As I guzzled the water, I heard a car pull up the drive to the house. I went to the barn door and looked out as a woman stepped from the car.

  My breath stilled in my chest as Sinclair Simms made her way to the front steps of my parents’ home. Since coming home, I often thought about her, wondering how she was doing. What she was doing. At the same time, I hadn’t done anything to find out. In some ways, she was still a dream I’d lost. But now she was very real as she knocked on the front door of the house.

  It took me a minute to get my feet working, but soon I was moving toward the house. My mother answered the door. I could see them talking, but I couldn’t hear what they were saying. Then my mother pointed to me.

  Sinclair turned toward my direction and her mouth formed a small O as she watched me approach. I couldn’t stop the smile on my face at seeing her again. Jesus, she was even more beautiful than I remembered. She was rounder. Sexier. Her hair was pulled back, suggesting it was still long. Instead of her usual short shorts from ten years ago, she wore a pencil skirt and a sleeveless white top that looked just as sexy somehow.

  I took the steps up to the porch. Every step that I got closer to her, the more beautiful she seemed to become. In this heat, she was like a mirage and I wanted to drink every bit of her in.

  “Sinclair.” It took all my strength not to grab her and bury my face in her neck. She still smelled like sunshine and honeysuckle.

  “Wyatt.” It came like a surprised squeak. I couldn’t tell if her surprise at seeing me was good or bad though.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  It took her a moment for my question to sink in. She held up several pieces of paper. I recognized the letterhead as being Stark’s.

  “Did you get a letter from Stark Associates?” she asked.

  “We did. We got several actually,” my mother said. “Come in and I’ll get it for you.” My mother looked at me. “Wyatt, you might want to put a shirt on.”

  I looked down, only then realizing I wasn’t fully covered. I laughed,
feeling embarrassed at the situation. “Right. Give me a minute.”

  I followed my mother and Sinclair into the house, and took the stairs up to my room by twos. I wanted to take a shower. Lord only knew what I smelled like. But I didn’t have time. Instead I put on more deodorant and found a clean t-shirt. By the time I got back downstairs, my mother was serving Sinclair iced tea at the kitchen table.

  I sat across from her and smiled. She smiled back but it was tight. Polite. It certainly wasn’t the reunion I’d have wanted. You left her, I reminded myself. Plus ten years was a long time. Hell, she could be married with kids by now.

  I glanced at her left hand and didn’t see a ring.

  “Here are the first two letters. Wyatt has the last one.” My mother pushed the papers across the table to Sinclair.

  Sinclair picked up the papers as she looked at my mother. “They sent you more than one?”

  “Well, I refused him right off. He’s quite persistent.” My mother sat at the table with her own drink.

  Sinclair looked over the letters.

  “I take it we’re not the only ones to get a letter like this.” I said, nodding toward the other letters she brought.

  “No. About six other landowners got them too.” She looked up at my mother. “You said you refused him. Is that still the case?”

  “It’s up to Wyatt.”

  Sinclair looked at me, her eyes full of questions.

  “Right now, with my father gone, the farm is in my hands,” I explained. “I don’t have any intention of selling.”

  “What if your father returns?”

  I flinched at her blunt question. As if she realized it was a bit insensitive, she said, “I’m sorry, I—”

  “He won’t be back and if he does come home, there are things Wyatt can do to retain possession of the property.” My mother’s eyes were sharp, her tone firm. I hadn’t known her to be like that growing up. Had my father’s leaving helped her find her personal power?

  I also wondered what she was talking about. What things could I do to retain control of the farm? Deciding to ask her about that later, I turned my attention back to Sinclair. “We don’t want to sell so a billionaire can incarcerate people in our backyard.”

  “Good. I’m deputy mayor of Salvation and I’m working on stopping Stark from building his prison here. I need families like yours to hold fast and not give in.”

  Deputy Mayor. I could see it. Sinclair was always strong and willful, but now she had an air of power and authority about her. It was sexy.

  Pushing thoughts of sexy powerful Sinclair aside, I said, “I don’t have a problem with that, but the tone of the last letter was less than friendly. I get the sense that Stark is ready, willing, and able to play hardball.”

  “I know how to play hard too.” The fire in her eyes as she said that made me proud that she’d achieved success. It also made me hard. I’d always loved her spirit. Her willingness to stand up for what she believed in.

  I grinned. “You always were a straight shooter. I’m not surprised you’re practically running the show here.”

  “Yes well, there are forces working against us beyond Stark. And we’ll need the community to support all the farmers.”

  “How hard can that be?” I asked. Salvation was a farming community. How could the town not support the very foundation it was built on?

  “This prison will offer jobs that many people in town need. Family farming is seen as a dying occupation,” Sinclair explained.

  “People still want their hamburgers, don’t they?” My tone was sharper than I’d intended.

  Sinclair wasn’t affected. “Like most other industries, family-owned businesses are being usurped by big corporations. We let it happen in the name of cheaper prices or progress. I don’t know if we’ll win, but I don’t plan to stand idly by while Stark buys land for less than it’s worth. I don’t want farmers shafted so other residents have a job that will probably underpay too.”

  “They’ll take this farm over my cold dead body.” I nodded at her so she knew the seriousness of my vow.

  “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

  4

  Sinclair

  I can’t breathe. I was already tense when I drove up to the Jones’ property knowing this was the place Wyatt had grown up in. I’d never been here before. I didn’t think Ryder had spent much time here either except on a few occasions when he did some work for Wyatt’s father on the ranch. Wyatt never talked much about his family and I got the feeling that was on purpose. I wasn’t sure why although rumors were that his father was an alcoholic and abusive. Whatever the reason, Wyatt never invited his friends over and so this would be my first time at the place he’d grown up in.

  Several times over the last ten years, I’d driven here wanting to talk to his parents to see if they knew where he was, but I never made it up the driveway. He’d left. If he’d wanted contact with me, he knew where I was and how to reach me. He never called or texted or made any effort to talk to me, and that was my answer. He left, breaking all ties to me and everyone in Salvation.

  That was what I reminded myself of as I drove up the drive and parked in front of the old, tired yet charming farmhouse to talk to his mother. I knew who Peggy Jones was. Everyone in Salvation knew of everyone else. But that didn’t mean I knew her personally. I’d never spoken to her before. I suspected she knew my brother, as Wyatt and him had been best friends since grade school, but she probably knew me the same way I knew her. To her I was Ryder’s sister or perhaps Mr. and Mrs. Simms’ daughter.

  The woman who answered looked as tired and worn as the house, and yet her hazel eyes were friendly. I introduced myself and told her I was from the mayor’s office and had some questions. I’d relaxed until she pointed behind me and told me her son Wyatt should join us in any discussion about the property.

  My heart jumped to my throat as I turned and saw Wyatt crossing the grounds from the barn toward us. Immediately I was thirteen years old and watching Wyatt, with that same sexy smile he wore now, as he and my brother played basketball on the makeshift court my father made at our house. Wyatt had been shirtless then too.

  The boy I’d seen then was now a full-grown man. Even more so than the last summer we spent together. His chest was broader, harder, more sculpted. He had scars; one on the skin over his heart and one below his left pec that hadn’t been there before. I wondered what he’d been doing that caused it. For a moment, I longed to press kisses to the scars to heal whatever wound was there.

  His once slightly-too-long dark hair was short all around except for on top, where it looked like it had been combed back by his fingers. He was the epitome of sexy cowboy.

  I wasn’t sure how I got through the first few minutes of our discussion. I felt like I was in a firestorm and my brain had melted. I was glad when he left to put a shirt on and I could compose myself.

  Now, sitting across from him, my mind was in a whirl. Where had he gone to? Why didn’t he contact me? Why was he back? Was he here to stay? It sounded like it, but who knew? And how was that going to impact me? That last question sent a shiver of panic up my spine.

  “How does the mayor’s office expect to beat a man like Mr. Stark who has such deep pockets? Won’t he offer more money? There are plenty of people around who’d be tempted by that,” Peggy asked me.

  I tore my gaze away from Wyatt. “Well, if people stick to their guns, eventually he won’t be able to offer enough to make it profitable. If no one sells, he’ll be forced to look elsewhere.”

  “We won’t sell.” Wyatt took his mother’s hand. “This is our home.”

  She looked at her son with such love and gratitude it made my chest fill with warmth. He was still the sweet man I knew. A sweet man who abandoned me, I reminded myself.

  “What do you need us to do besides not sell?” he asked.

  “If you could talk to your neighbors and convince them not to sell, that would be a help.” I took a sip of the cold tea, hoping i
t would cool me down and settle my nerves.

  “I think Martha and James are going to sell,” Peggy said of her neighbors. “I don’t want to offend you, Ms. Simms, but is the mayor’s office going to do more than just talk?”

  “I understand your concern.” I clasped my hands together on the table to keep from nervously fidgeting. “Another tactic is to garner farmer support from the community and pressure the board of supervisors to not grant permission to build. I have to be honest, Mrs. Jones, the mayor’s office is limited to what it can do. The mayor believes he needs to do what is best for the community-”

  “This is a farming community,” Wyatt said, clearly irritated.

  “Yes, I agree. That’s why I’m here. The community needs to come together on this and pressure the board of supervisors and yes, the mayor.”

  “The mayor should support us,” Wyatt said.

  I hated having to defend the mayor on this, but I wanted them to know what we were up against. “The prison would bring jobs and tax revenue that Salvation needs. Plus, it would help businesses because families of inmates would visit and stay in town.”

  Wyatt’s jaw tightened. “So, he doesn’t give a shit about the farms.”

  “Wyatt…language…” His mother’s cheeks colored as she looked at me apologetically.

  “I’m only telling you that there is another side to this issue. He’s the mayor of Salvation, not just the farmers of Salvation.” God, that tasted like vinegar as I said it.

  “So, you can’t do anything to help us?” Peggy asked.