Rust & Starlight
Chapter 22 : A Deal with the Feed Store Owner
They stayed in the Colorado cabin for five days.
Five days of silence and snow and the slow, careful work of rebuilding. Mason chopped wood. Wren cooked. They played cards by the fire, and Mason taught her the chords to an old John Prine song, and she taught him how to whittle — though his first attempt at a wooden bird looked more like a deformed potato.
They didn’t talk about Brandi. They didn’t talk about the reporters. They didn’t talk about the dead orchard or the future of the farm. They just were — two people in a small cabin, learning to exist together without the weight of the world pressing down.
But on the fifth day, the world found them.
Mabel called Bobby’s landline — the only phone for miles — and Bobby trudged through the snow to deliver the message.
“Your friend Mabel says you need to call her back,” he said, handing Mason a slip of paper with a number scrawled on it. “Says it’s urgent.”
Mason looked at Wren. Her face had gone pale.
“I’ll call,” he said. “You stay here.”
“No.” She stood up, wrapping a blanket around her shoulders. “If it’s about the farm, I need to hear it.”
They walked to Bobby’s cabin — a larger, more cluttered version of their own — and Mason dialed the number. Mabel answered on the first ring.
“Finally,” she said. “I’ve been trying to reach you for two days.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Feed supply. Hanson Ag called this morning. They’re canceling your contract. Something about ‘reputational risk’ and ‘undesirable publicity.'” Mabel’s voice was tight. “They won’t deliver to a farm associated with a celebrity scandal.”
Wren closed her eyes. Hanson Ag was the only feed supplier within fifty miles. Without them, the sheep would starve before she could find an alternative.
“How long do we have?” she asked.
“They’ve already stopped delivery. You’ve got maybe two weeks of feed left in the barn, if you ration.”
Wren’s mind raced. Two weeks. She could drive to the next county, maybe, find a smaller supplier. But the cost would be double, triple. And with the orchard dead, she didn’t have the money.
“Is there anyone else?” Mason asked.
Mabel hesitated. “There’s… one other option. But you’re not going to like it.”
“Who?”
“Clive Hanson. The owner. He’s been trying to buy Wren’s land for years. He’s the one who canceled the contract. I think he’s trying to force her hand.”
Wren’s blood ran cold. Clive Hanson was a predator — a wealthy businessman who had been circling Calloway Farm like a vulture ever since Luke died. He’d made offers before, lowball offers, and Wren had refused every one.
“He wants the farm,” she said.
“I think so, yes.”
“Then he’s not getting it.”
“Wren, listen to me. You can fight this. But you need to talk to him. Make a deal. Even a temporary one.” Mabel’s voice softened. “Pride won’t feed your sheep.”
The line went quiet. Wren stared at the phone, her jaw tight.
“I’ll call him,” she said finally. “From here. Today.”
“Good. And Wren? Don’t let him see you bleed.”
The line went dead.
Wren made the call from Bobby’s kitchen, standing at the window, looking out at the frozen lake. Mason waited in the other room, close enough to hear but far enough to give her space.
Clive Hanson answered on the second ring.
“Wren Calloway,” he said, his voice smooth as motor oil. “I was wondering when you’d call.”
“You canceled my feed contract.”
“I did.”
“You’ve been trying to buy my land for three years.”
“I have.”
“This is extortion.”
Clive laughed — a dry, humorless sound. “This is business. Your farm is a liability. The publicity from your… houseguest… has made it worse. I’m protecting my company’s reputation.”
“My sheep will starve.”
“Then sell me the land. I’ll give you fair market value. You can move to Florida, be near your mother. Start over.”
Wren gripped the phone so hard her knuckles went white. “I’m not selling.”
“Then find another supplier. Good luck with that.” A pause. “Or… we could make a different arrangement.”
“What kind of arrangement?”
“You come to my office. We talk. Man to woman. No lawyers, no contracts. Just a conversation.” His voice dropped, intimate and oily. “I’ve always admired your spirit, Wren. It would be a shame to see it broken.”
Wren’s stomach turned. She knew what he was offering — or what he thought he was offering. A meeting. A chance to pressure her in person. Maybe something worse.
“Send me the details,” she said. “I’ll think about it.”
She hung up before he could respond.
Mason came into the kitchen. His face was dark.
“What did he say?”
“He wants to meet. In person.”
“Absolutely not.”
“It’s not your decision.” She turned to face him, her arms crossed. “This is my farm. My fight.”
“He’s a predator, Wren. You can’t go alone.”
“Then come with me. But stay in the car. This is between me and him.”
Mason wanted to argue — she could see it in his eyes, the set of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders. But he nodded.
“Okay,” he said. “But if he touches you—”
“He won’t.” She walked to him and placed her hand on his chest. “I’ve handled worse than Clive Hanson. I buried my husband. I rebuilt my farm. I can handle a greedy businessman.”
Mason covered her hand with his. “I know you can. But you don’t have to do it alone anymore.”
She looked up at him. His eyes were steady, warm, full of a fierce protectiveness that made her heart ache.
“I know,” she said. “That’s the strange part.”
They left Colorado the next morning.
The drive back to Kansas was long and silent, both of them lost in their own thoughts. Wren watched the mountains give way to prairie, the snow to brown grass, the isolation to the slow creep of civilization. By the time they reached Millbrook, the sun was setting, and the reporters were gone.
Mabel had been right about one thing: the scandal had moved on. Brandi’s post was old news, buried under newer, juicier gossip. The tabloids had found someone else to destroy.
But the damage remained.
Clive Hanson’s office was in Hays, a forty-minute drive from the farm. Wren dressed carefully — not in her usual coveralls, but in a black blouse and dark jeans, her hair pulled back in a severe ponytail. She looked professional. Unapproachable. She looked like a woman who would not be intimidated.
Mason drove. He parked across the street from the office building — a glass-and-steel monstrosity that looked wildly out of place among the grain elevators and diners.
“I’ll be here,” he said.
“Don’t come in unless I call.”
“I won’t.”
She leaned over and kissed him — quick, hard, a promise.
Then she walked into the building.
Clive Hanson’s office was on the top floor, with windows that overlooked the whole town. He was waiting for her behind a massive desk, a smile plastered on his face. He was in his fifties, overweight, with small hands and smaller eyes.
“Wren,” he said, standing. “Thank you for coming.”
“Let’s skip the pleasantries, Clive. You canceled my feed contract. What will it take to reinstate it?”
He gestured to a chair. She didn’t sit.
“Direct,” he said. “I like that.” He walked to a sideboard and poured himself a glass of whiskey. “The feed contract is just business. But the land… the land is personal.”
“I’m not selling.”
“You might change your mind when your sheep start dying.”
Wren’s hands curled into fists. “Is that a threat?”
“It’s a fact.” He took a sip of whiskey, savoring it. “You’re a smart woman, Wren. You know you can’t compete with the big operations. You’re barely breaking even as it is. And now you’ve got a celebrity boyfriend bringing unwanted attention. Sell me the farm. Take the money. Walk away.”
“No.”
Clive set down his glass. His smile faded.
“Then I can’t help you. The feed contract stays canceled. And I’ll make sure every other supplier in the region knows about your… publicity issues.” He shrugged. “It’s nothing personal. Just business.”
Wren stared at him. She thought about Luke, who had died in the barn. She thought about Mason, waiting in the truck across the street. She thought about the orchard, dead from frost, and the sheep, who would starve without feed.
And then she thought about her grandmother, who had built this farm from nothing. Who had survived the Dust Bowl and the Depression and the death of her own husband. Who had never, not once, backed down from a fight.
“You’re wrong,” Wren said.
Clive raised an eyebrow. “About what?”
“About it not being personal. This has always been personal. You’ve wanted this land since the day Luke died. You thought I’d be weak. You thought I’d give up.” She stepped closer, her voice low and steady. “But I’m not weak. And I’m not giving up.”
She pulled a folded paper from her pocket and tossed it onto his desk.
“That’s a letter from my lawyer. I’m filing a complaint with the state attorney general’s office for predatory business practices. I’m also contacting every farm bureau and agricultural association in the state to let them know how you treat small farmers.”
Clive’s face reddened. “You wouldn’t.”
“Watch me.”
She turned and walked to the door.
“Wren.” His voice was sharp, angry. “You’re making a mistake.”
She looked back at him over her shoulder.
“The only mistake I made was thinking you were worth negotiating with.” She opened the door. “Goodbye, Clive.”
She walked out.
Mason was waiting by the truck. He saw her face — the set of her jaw, the fire in her eyes — and knew before she said a word.
“You didn’t make a deal,” he said.
“No.”
“What did you do?”
She climbed into the passenger seat and buckled her seatbelt.
“I started a war.”
Mason got in the driver’s side, started the engine, and pulled away from the curb.
“Then we fight it together,” he said.
Wren looked at him — really looked — and felt something shift in her chest. Not fear. Not doubt.
Hope.
“Together,” she agreed.