Chapter 5: Desperation and Leverage
The truck’s engine ticked like a bomb as it cooled in the town square’s sliver of shade. Liberty, Texas, wasn’t much: a courthouse from another century, four traffic lights that only blinked yellow after six, and a palpable stillness that felt less like peace and more like waiting.
I’d left Jean-Luc in the passenger seat with a faded baseball cap pulled low. “Do not get out,” I’d told him. “Do not make eye contact. Do not be French.”
He’d just given me a slow blink, like a cat tolerating nonsense.
My boots were loud on the hot pavement. The encounter with the local boys happened outside Hal’s Feed & Seed. TJ Mackey and his cousins, relics from high school with the same smirk and less hair. They were leaning against a lifted Dodge, cans of cheap beer in hand, though it wasn’t yet ten.
“Well, look what the drought blew in,” TJ drawled. “Briar Reed. Hear your cows are producin’ more dust than milk these days.”
I kept walking, my eyes on the courthouse doors.
“Hey, I’m talkin’ to you,” he called, his voice gaining an edge. “No ‘hello’ for old friends? Or you too busy playin’ farmer? Must get lonely out there all by your lonesome.” One of the cousins snickered. “Maybe you need a man around. Someone to help you… manage things.”
The heat on my neck wasn’t just from the sun. I stopped, turned. Looked him over, from his scuffed boots to his receding hairline. “TJ, the only thing you’ve ever managed is to fail your parole officer. You finish that beer and go find a deeper shade to uselessly occupy. You’re blocking the sidewalk.”
His face mottled red. “You got a mouth on you.”
“And you’ve got a beer gut and a future of asking ‘you want fries with that?’ Now shut it.”
I turned my back on their sputtered curses, the humiliation a hot, sharp stone in my chest. It wasn’t the insult. It was the truth humming underneath it. Lonely. Failing. Seen.
The mayor’s office was on the second floor, up creaking stairs that smelled of disinfectant and despair. Sheila, the secretary who’d known me since I was in pigtails, gave me a pitying smile. “He’s in, hon. Go on back.”
Mayor Derrick Sloane’s office was a time capsule. Polished oak, a faded rug, a framed photo of him shaking hands with a prize-winning steer. The air was stale with lemon polish and the ghost of cigar smoke. He rose, all folksy charm and too-white teeth. “Briar! Good to see you. How’s your mother?”
“She’s fine.” I didn’t sit. “Mayor Sloane, I need to talk about the property tax payment plan. The second quarter is due next week. With the hay yield down and feed costs—”
He held up a soft, manicured hand, his smile never slipping. “Briar, please. Have a seat.” He gestured to the floral-print chair facing his desk. It creaked ominously when I sat, as if protesting the weight of my problems.
“Now, I sympathize. Truly, I do.” He steepled his fingers. “Times are tough for everyone. The Johnson place just sold their back forty. The Miller family had to lease their water rights. Farming’s a brutal business.”
“This isn’t about business. It’s my home.”
“And we want to keep it that way!” he said, his voice oozing a practiced concern. “But the county has its budgets too. Roads. Schools. We’re all tightening our belts.” He leaned forward, lowering his voice like we were co-conspirators. “The extension I gave you last year was a stretch. The council’s breathing down my neck. If I make another exception for you, every struggling operation from here to Waco will be lined up out that door.”
The logical part of my brain knew he was just a bureaucrat in a bad spot. The part of me that had just been mocked in the street, that had a photo of a wanted man in my kitchen window circulating online, that was planning to burn down my father’s barn, wanted to flip his desk.
“So that’s it?” My voice was flat. “No flexibility.”
He spread his hands, a gesture of helpless magnanimity. “The system doesn’t have a heart, Briar. It just has rules. I’m sorry.” He stood, effectively ending the meeting. As I rose, he came around the desk and placed a paternal hand on my shoulder. It felt like a lead weight. “You’re a strong girl. Your daddy would be proud of the fight you’re putting up. Maybe… maybe it’s time to think about a different kind of fight. Cutting your losses isn’t a defeat. It’s a strategic retreat.”
I removed my shoulder from under his hand. “Thanks for your time, Mayor.”
The walk back through the courthouse was a blur of white plaster and judgmental portraits. The sharp click of my boots echoed. Strategic retreat. My mother’s guest house. Selling out. Letting the name Reed fade off the parcel map. Letting the men who took Tommy win.
I pushed through the heavy doors, the Texas sun hitting me like a physical slap. Across the square, I could see the lumpish shape of my truck. And in the passenger window, I could just make out the pale, observant oval of Jean-Luc’s face. He had seen it all—the taunting, my stiff-backed march into the courthouse, the longer-than-expected time inside, my now-slumped exit. He was a spectator to my complete and systematic dismantling.
By the time I yanked the driver’s door open and collapsed into the seat, the anger had hardened into a cold, silent lump. I shoved the key in the ignition.
“Well?” His voice was quiet.
“He offered thoughts and prayers. And a pat on the shoulder.” I put the truck in gear, the transmission groaning. “So, no. No extension.”
“The young men by the feed store,” he said, not a question.
“What about them?”
“They have the mentality of cornered rats. Small, angry, and they travel in packs. Their opinion is irrelevant.”
“Easy for you to say.” I pulled onto the main road, heading out of town. The fields began to blur past, green and gold and endlessly demanding.
“It is not easy. It is factual.” He adjusted the brim of his cap, watching the town shrink in the side mirror. “You appealed to a man whose power is defined by strict, small rules. You cannot win by asking him to break them. You can only win by making him believe following your suggestion is a newer, better rule.”
“I didn’t see you in there giving me lessons.” The words came out sharper than I meant.
“You did not need a lesson in asking. You have just received a masterclass in rejection.” He was silent for a mile, the only sound the whir of tires on asphalt. “The photograph online. The mayor’s refusal. The petty insults in the street. These are not separate problems. They are symptoms. You are perceived as vulnerable. An easy target. The system, the rivals, the fools… they all sense it.”
“What’s your point, Jean-Luc?” I snapped, my knuckles white on the wheel.
“My point is that asking has failed.” He turned his head, and I could feel the intensity of his gaze without looking. “We are past asking. We are past hiding. We have two matches to strike. The order is clear. The feed mill first.”
My heart jolted. “What? We can’t just— The plan was the barn. The insurance.”
“The plan adapts. Your brother’s friend is a variable that introduces chaos. Every hour he is in their hands is an hour he might break, might say something about the strange man on the Reed farm. Resolving that variable is now the priority. It removes a threat and acquires an asset—gratitude, or at least silence.” His logic was ice-cold, flowing into the cracks of my panic. “Then, with that settled, we create our disaster. With funds secured, you are no longer vulnerable to mayors or loan officers. The perception changes. You are not a woman struggling to keep her farm. You are a woman who rebuilt from the ashes. That is a different story. People respect that story. They fear it.”
I thought of Tommy, with his dumb jokes and his loyalty, stuck in some dank, dark place because of us. Because of me. I thought of the mayor’s patronizing pat. Strategic retreat.
“We don’t even know for sure he’s there. It’s a guess.”
“It is the only guess we have. And in my experience, action based on intelligence, even imperfect intelligence, is superior to paralyzed inaction.” He settled back in his seat, watching the fence posts fly by. “We go tonight. After midnight.”
The rest of the drive was quiet, the weight of the decision settling between us. When we pulled up the gravel drive, Carter was on the porch, his face pinched with worry. He’d clearly been pacing.
“Well?” he called out.
I killed the engine. The silence of the farm rushed in, heavy and expectant. I looked at Jean-Luc, then back at Carter’s hopeful, anxious face. I saw the barn, the planned fire. I saw my father’s face. I heard TJ Mackey’s laugh.
“We’re going to get Tommy,” I said, my voice surprisingly steady. “Tonight.”
Carter’s eyes went wide. “The mill? For real?”
Jean-Luc opened his door, the sound harsh in the quiet. “For real.” He stepped out, then leaned back in, his blue eyes catching mine. “But first, we need better intelligence. And a different vehicle. And, if possible, a distraction.” A faint, dangerous smile touched his lips. “You said your mother’s husband plays golf.”
The plan was evolving, spinning out from under us into something darker, more direct. We were done asking. We were done being targets. As I walked toward the house, the Texas sun beating down, I felt the last fragile thread of my old life snap. We were holding the matches now. And it was time to see what they could burn.
The heat in the kitchen was a physical weight, pressing down on the chipped enamel table between them. Carter had pulled up satellite images of the old mill, his laptop humming like a trapped insect. Jean-Luc studied them, his fingers steepled, while I poured three glasses of iced tea. The cubes cracked in the silence.
“The golf course,” Jean-Luc said, not looking up. “Your stepfather’s membership. It provides a… credible reason to be near the municipal buildings. And their security is for keeping people out, not in. We borrow a car from the lot. Something common, forgettable.”
“Borrow?” Carter snorted. “You mean steal.”
“Temporary relocation,” Jean-Luc corrected, his mouth a thin line. “But before we risk any of that, we must secure your position here. The tax deadline is a noose. We cut it first.” He finally looked at me, his blue eyes cool and assessing. “The barn fire would solve it immediately. Cleanly. The insurance adjusters are predictable, especially with a witness like the mayor to comment on ‘old wiring’ and ‘dry conditions.’”
“Absolutely not.” The words left my mouth like a shot. “We are not burning anything. Pops would rise up from his grave and grab me by the neck for even thinking it. That barn is staying right where it is, charmed life or not.”
Jean-Luc held my gaze for a long moment, then gave a slight, conceding nod. “Then we try a different kind of fire. We go back to town. Together. You ask for nothing. We simply have a conversation.”
An hour later, his presence in the passenger seat changed the truck’s entire atmosphere. He’d swapped Carter’s flannel for a simple, dark button-down I didn’t know he had, the sleeves rolled precisely. He looked out of place and entirely in command, a paradox that turned heads as we parked again in the square. Women coming out of the antique store paused, their conversations dipping as they looked him over with open curiosity. Men, like old man Pettigrew washing his storefront windows, slowed their strokes, their eyes narrowing with instinctive wariness.
The same group of boys was conglomerated outside the feed store, a fresh case of beer already at their feet. TJ Mackey saw me first, a greasy smile spreading. “Back so soon, Reed? Forget how to get home out there in the sticks?”
I felt my spine lock, but before I could spit a retort, Jean-Luc was beside me. He hadn’t moved fast, but somehow he was just there, his posture relaxed, his hands in his pockets.
TJ’s eyes flicked to him, the smile faltering. “Who’s this?”
Jean-Luc looked at TJ as if he were a mildly interesting bug on the windshield. Then he turned to me, his voice carrying just enough. “These are the old friends you mentioned?” The way he said ‘old friends’ made it sound like a chronic disease.
“Something like that,” I muttered.
Jean-Luc nodded, then addressed TJ directly, his tone conversational, almost apologetic. “You will have to excuse her. She is in a poor mood. I made the mistake of asking her to dinner in Austin. She said the drive was too far.” He shrugged, a beautifully crafted gesture of masculine bafflement. “She turned me down.”
The silence was profound. TJ’s mouth opened, then closed. His cousins stared. The dynamic in the dusty street pivoted on a dime. I wasn’t a lonely, struggling woman anymore. I was a woman who could dismiss a man who looked like Jean-Luc over a minor inconvenience. TJ’s mocking posture deflated, replaced by a confused, almost respectful appraisal. He actually nodded at me, a clumsy, conceding dip of his chin. “Well, hell, Bree. Austin is a haul.”
“Told you,” I said, my voice miraculously steady. Jean-Luc placed a light hand on my lower back, guiding me past them without another glance. The touch was possessive, calculated, and it worked. They didn’t say another word.
Inside the courthouse, the same stale air smelled different. Sheila at the front desk didn’t offer a pitying smile. She stared, her eyes wide, flicking between Jean-Luc and me. “Mayor Sloane is just finishing a call,” she managed.
“We’ll wait,” Jean-Luc said, not with arrogance, but with the serene assumption of a man whose time is always worth waiting for.
When we were shown in, Mayor Sloane’s folksy grin was already in place, but it tightened at the edges when he saw I wasn’t alone. “Briar! And… friend?”
“Jean-Luc,” he said, stepping forward and shaking the mayor’s hand with a firm, brief grip. “A associate of the family. Here to consult on some sustainable diversification models.” He didn’t sit. He inhabited the space in front of the desk, forcing the mayor to look up.
“I see. Well, Briar and I just spoke this morning about the difficulties—”
“She mentioned,” Jean-Luc interrupted, his voice smooth as good bourbon. “It sounded less like a difficulty and more like a timing issue. A cash flow misalignment, not a failure of will or asset.” He paced a slow step along the edge of the rug, studying the framed photo of the steer. “Briar has been offered significant private investment for a value-added dairy operation. Cheese aging, specifically. But investors, as you know, are skittish. They see a county that won’t work with a legacy operation, and they wonder about the stability of the entire business climate here.”
The mayor’s smile was gone. “Now, wait a minute. The county is very supportive.”
“Are they?” Jean-Luc turned, his eyebrow slightly raised. “Because from the outside, it looks like you’re about to let a historic farm—a potential flagship for artisanal produce—fail over a few weeks’ delay. Which seems a very short-term view for a man with… long-term ambitions.” He let the word ‘ambitions’ hang. He hadn’t threatened. He hadn’t begged. He’d simply reframed Briar’s struggle as the county’s poor judgment.
Mayor Sloane’s eyes darted to me, then back to Jean-Luc. He cleared his throat. “The… the system does have some discretion. For demonstrated future viability.”
“Exactly,” Jean-Luc said, as if the mayor had just uttered a profound truth. He finally sat, not in the floral chair, but in a side chair he pulled closer, leaning in confidentially. “So. What if we viewed this not as an extension, but as a bridging period? A ninety-day window to finalize her investment package and present a new, bolstered financial picture to the council. That would give you a success story to champion. Rather than a foreclosure to explain.”
The mayor blinked. He looked at me again, and I saw it: I was no longer just Briar Reed, the struggling daughter. I was a project with potential, with a sharp-dressed man vouching for her. He straightened his tie. “Ninety days might be possible. With a reevaluation of assets at that time.”
“I think that’s very reasonable,” Jean-Luc said, standing and offering his hand again. “Thank you for your time, Mayor. We won’t take more of it.”
We were back in the truck before the full impact hit me. The engine was still off. The square was quiet. I gripped the steering wheel, my hands trembling.
“He said yes,” I whispered.
“He preserved his ego and avoided a future problem,” Jean-Luc corrected, staring straight ahead. “It was a simple transaction.”
I turned to him. The late afternoon sun cut across his profile, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw. He had walked into that office and, with a few sentences, changed the entire reality of the past hour. He had changed how TJ Mackey saw me. He had changed how the mayor saw me.
He could change how the world treated me. The realization was ice water in my veins. It wasn’t relief that flooded me. It was a deep, unsettled fear. Because if it was that easy for him, what else could he make people see? Or unsee?
The keys were cold in my hand. We had our time. We had our distraction. The feed mill waited in the gathering dark. But all I could think was that I had just watched a master at work, and I had no idea what his final masterpiece was supposed to be.