The Cowboy and the Pencil-Pusher

Pulling his dark brows together, Cort shook his head. “I knew something was wrong, but he doesn’t like to talk about money.”

I cleared my throat. “He’s five months behind.”

Cort chewed his lip with a line between his brows. “Honestly, I’m not lying about him being sick. I can tell him you came by, but he’s not up to visitors.”

“Oh, well, just let him know we were here,” Benji said cheerfully, turning toward the door.

“Hold up.” I frowned at my coworker and then turned back to Cort. “The bank isn’t going to just go away. That’s not how this stuff works.”

With a long sigh, Cort shrugged. “You can’t get blood from a stone.”

“Sure you can. You simply foreclose on the stone and sell it to the highest bidder. That way you can at least recoup some of your money.”

Cort scowled. “That’s an asshole thing to say.”

Heat prickled my cheeks at the disgust in his voice. “We’re a loan company, not a church.”

He ran his gaze over my expensive coat and shook his head. “What’s a city boy like you know about running a ranch?”

“Nothing. But I know numbers.”

Benji nodded. “He lives, eats, and breathes numbers.”

Cort didn’t look impressed. He also didn’t seem to understand I didn’t want to be here any more than he wanted me here. I peered out the window as a young girl pulling her horse past paused to let the animal unload a pile of shit near the trailer.

Jesus, get me out of this hellhole, please.