“Problem?” Nathan asked quietly. “That’s Frank Doyle. He holds my mortgage.” Marcus dried his hands on a dish towel and went to open the door. “Frank, what can I do for you?” Frank pushed past him into the house, his eyes sweeping the room with practiced assessment before landing on Nathan. “Heard you had some excitement out here. Whole field burned up, from what I understand.”
“About a third of it,” Marcus said evenly. “A third?” Frank whistled low. “That’s going to make it tough to come up with your payment next month, isn’t it?” “I’ll manage.” “Will you?” Frank pulled a folder from under his arm and dropped it on the kitchen table. “Because I’ve been looking at your account, Marcus, and you’ve been just barely scraping by for the past three years. One bad season and you’re done. And now you’ve had a bad season.”
Nathan watched Marcus’s jaw tighten, watched his hands curl into fists at his sides. “I said I’ll manage,” Marcus repeated, his voice harder now. Frank opened the folder and pulled out several documents. “Your payment is due in ten days, eighteen thousand four hundred sixty-two dollars and seventeen cents. You got that kind of money lying around?”
“Not yet, but the rest of the field is still good. When it comes in—” “When it comes in won’t matter if you can’t make the payment on time. That’s what due date means, Marcus. You’re either on time or you’re in default.” Frank leaned back against the counter, arms crossed. “Course, if you can’t pay, I’ll have to start foreclosure proceedings. Bank policy, nothing personal.”
“The hell it’s not personal,” Marcus said, his voice low and dangerous. “You’ve been waiting for this, haven’t you? Waiting for any excuse to take this land.” “I don’t need to wait for excuses. You’re poor, Marcus. You’ve been poor since your wife died and left you with all those medical bills. You were barely hanging on before the fire. Now?” He shook his head. “You’re dreaming if you think you can still send that girl of yours to college. Maybe it’s time you faced reality.”
Nathan saw Marcus take a step toward Frank, saw the violence coiling in his shoulders, and stood up quickly. “Mr. Doyle.” Frank turned to him, eyes narrowing. “And who the hell are you?” “A friend.” “Friend?” Frank’s lip curled. “You the one who crashed that fancy car into his field. Bet you feel real guilty about it. Guilty enough to help old Marcus out with his money problems?”
Nathan opened his mouth to say yes, he absolutely would help, but Marcus cut him off. “We don’t need your charity,” Marcus said, his voice sharp. “Either of you. I’ll figure this out on my own.” “Marcus,” Nathan started. “I said no.” Marcus turned to face him, and his expression was harder than Nathan had seen it. “I appreciate you wanting to help, but I don’t take handouts. Never have. Not going to start now.”