Rust & Starlight
Chapter 30 : The Secret Wren Has Kept for Three Years
The call came on a Tuesday afternoon, when Wren was alone in the farmhouse.
Mason was still in Nashville, deep in the recording sessions, and the house felt cavernous without him. She’d been cleaning — not because the house was dirty, but because keeping her hands busy kept her mind from wandering to the phone, to the mailbox, to the stack of unopened bills on the corner of her desk.
The bills.
She’d been avoiding them for weeks. Not because she was irresponsible — because she was terrified. Every envelope that arrived from the bank, from the feed supplier, from the equipment rental company, was a reminder that the farm was bleeding money faster than she could staunch the wound.
The orchard had been a major investment. Three years of planting, pruning, waiting for the trees to mature. And then the frost had killed everything. No crop. No income. Just debt.
She’d taken out a second mortgage to pay for the trees. Luke had insisted — “It’s an investment in our future,” he’d said. “The farm will outlast us.”
He’d been right about that, at least. The farm would outlast them. But only just.
The phone rang.
Wren looked at the caller ID: Mom.
She almost didn’t answer. Her mother, Carol, had moved to Florida three years ago, after Luke’s funeral. She’d begged Wren to come with her, to sell the farm and start over somewhere warm, somewhere without memories. Wren had refused. They’d argued. They’d stopped speaking for months.
Now they talked once a week, on Sundays. This was Tuesday.
Something was wrong.
“Mom?” Wren answered.
“Sweetheart.” Carol’s voice was strained, the way it got when she was trying to be strong. “I need to tell you something. And I need you not to panic.”
Wren’s stomach dropped. “What is it?”
“The bank called. Your loan officer, Mr. Hendricks. He’s a friend of mine — we went to high school together. He called to give me a heads-up.”
“A heads-up about what?”
“They’re foreclosing, Wren. On the farm. The paperwork is already filed. You have sixty days to pay the outstanding balance or they take the property.”
The room tilted. Wren grabbed the edge of the table to steady herself.
“That’s not possible. I’ve been making the payments. Every month. On time.”
“The payments you’re making are interest only. The principal is past due. Three years past due. Didn’t you read the loan documents?”
Wren closed her eyes. The loan documents. Luke had handled the loan documents. He’d been the one with the head for numbers, the one who understood compound interest and amortization schedules. She’d just signed where he’d told her to sign.
“Luke took care of the paperwork,” she said. “After he died, I just… I assumed…”
“You assumed the payments were covering everything.” Carol’s voice softened. “I know, baby. I know. But Hendricks says the principal has been accruing this whole time. You owe a hundred and twenty thousand dollars. And if you can’t pay it in sixty days, the farm goes to auction.”
A hundred and twenty thousand dollars.
Wren had less than two thousand in her checking account. The sheep were worth maybe five thousand, if she sold them all. The equipment was old, the truck was barely running, and the house — the house was a century old, with a leaking roof and a temperamental furnace.
She didn’t have the money. She didn’t have any way to get the money.
“Mom,” she said, her voice cracking. “What am I going to do?”
Carol was quiet for a long moment. Then: “There’s one option. I didn’t want to mention it, but…”
“What option?”
“Clive Hanson. He’s been calling me, Wren. For months. He says he’ll pay off the loan and give you a hundred thousand on top of it, if you sell him the land.”
Wren’s blood turned to ice. “Clive Hanson is a predator.”
“He’s a businessman. And he’s your only way out, unless you’ve got a hundred and twenty thousand dollars hiding under your mattress.”
“I’ll find another way.”
“Will you? You’ve got sixty days. You’ve got a farm that’s barely breaking even. You’ve got a boyfriend who’s about to go on tour and leave you behind. I’m not trying to be cruel, sweetheart. I’m trying to be realistic.”
Wren hung up.
She sat at the kitchen table, the phone in her hand, the silence pressing in around her. Outside, the sun was setting, painting the dead orchard in shades of gold and shadow. The trees would bloom again next spring — but only if she still owned them.
She thought about calling Mason. He would help. He had money — the advance from the record label was half a million dollars. He could write a check and the problem would disappear.
But she couldn’t ask him. She couldn’t be that woman, the one who needed saving, the one who turned love into a transaction.
I have to do this myself, she thought. I have to find a way.
But she didn’t know how.
The next day, Wren went to the bank.
She dressed carefully — not in her usual coveralls, but in the black blouse she’d worn to confront Clive Hanson. She pulled her hair back in a severe ponytail. She wanted to look serious. Professional. Like someone who belonged in a bank.
Mr. Hendricks was waiting for her in his office. He was a small man, balding, with kind eyes and a nervous smile. He’d grown up in Millbrook, had known Wren since she was a girl in pigtails. This was not a conversation he was enjoying.
“Wren,” he said, gesturing to a chair. “Thank you for coming in.”
“I don’t have many options,” she said, sitting. “My mother told me about the foreclosure.”
Hendricks nodded. “I’m sorry. I should have reached out sooner. But the loan was structured in a way that… well, it was complicated. Luke set it up before he deployed. He intended to refinance when he got back, but then…”
“Then he died.”
“Yes.” Hendricks pulled a file from his desk. “The good news is, the interest rate is fixed. The bad news is, the principal hasn’t been touched. You owe a hundred and twenty thousand, plus late fees and legal costs. Call it a hundred and thirty.”
Wren stared at the file. Her name was on the cover, typed in black ink. Calloway, Wren R.
“What if I sell the sheep? The equipment? The truck?”
“You’d get maybe fifteen thousand. Maybe.” Hendricks leaned back. “Wren, I’ve known you your whole life. I’m going to be straight with you. The only way to save this farm is to find an investor. Someone with deep pockets who believes in the land.”
“Like Clive Hanson.”
“I was thinking more like…” Hendricks hesitated. “Your friend. The singer. He’s got money, doesn’t he?”
Wren’s jaw tightened. “I’m not asking Mason for money.”
“Why not? He loves you. Anyone can see that.”
“Because if I ask him for money, I’m not his partner anymore. I’m his dependent. And I’ve spent three years learning to stand on my own. I’m not going to fall into someone else’s arms just because it’s easier.”
Hendricks nodded slowly. “I understand. But pride won’t save your farm.”
Wren stood up. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Hendricks. I’ll find a way.”
She walked out before he could respond.
That night, she called Mason.
She didn’t tell him about the foreclosure. She couldn’t. Not yet. But she needed to hear his voice, to remind herself that something good still existed in the world.
“Hey,” he said, picking up on the first ring. “I was just thinking about you.”
“I’m always thinking about you.”
“Liar. You’re probably thinking about that sheep that hates you.”
“Clarabelle doesn’t hate me. She’s just… opinionated.”
Mason laughed. The sound was warm, familiar, and it made her heart ache.
“How’s the recording going?” she asked.
“Good. Better than good. We finished the duet today.”
“With Brandi?”
“With Brandi. She was actually professional. Kept her distance. Sang her part and left.” He paused. “It’s a good song, Wren. Not as good as the ones I wrote about you, but good.”
“I can’t wait to hear it.”
“Soon. I’ll be home in a week.” Another pause. “Are you okay? You sound… different.”
Wren closed her eyes. She could tell him. She should tell him. But the words wouldn’t come.
“I’m fine,” she said. “Just tired. The farm keeps me busy.”
“Get some rest. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Okay.”
“Wren?”
“Yeah?”
“I love you.”
She swallowed the lump in her throat. “I love you too.”
She hung up and sat in the dark kitchen, the phone cold in her hand, the weight of the secret pressing down on her chest.
Sixty days.
She had sixty days to save her farm.
And no idea how.