“If that’s true, why did you call your uncle directly, instead of calling his realtor?”

“Because he wants me to handle everything,” she said. “He’s eccentric and it’s best if I talk to him, but I won’t see a penny of the money or the paperwork for his end of the deal.”

I had no reason to believe her and every good reason to run screaming from this shady deal. Except that I really, really wanted this land, and I believed her. She and I might not agree on much, but I trusted her. “Okay,” I said. “I’m willing to try it your way, but if I get a hint of anything underhand going on, I’m out.”

“And you should be. But you have to understand that I’m taking a risk here, too. If this goes bad I could get in real trouble, maybe even lose my license.”

A huge, rusty red truck pulled up next to Mary Ellen’s car and a man, in overalls and a shirt as red as his truck, with a white beard to rival the members of ZZ Top, and weighing nearly as much as his truck, stepped out and narrowed his eyes at me through the windshield.

Mary Ellen walked over and hugged the older man. He placed a kiss to the top of her head, but he didn’t take his eyes off me for a moment.

I walked over and held out my hand. “Sir, I’m Cody Reynolds. It’s nice to meet you.”

He took my hand and shook it, squeezing harder than necessary. “Bartholomew Gregory. Why don’t you come on inside and we’ll have us a little chat.”

He lumbered toward the house and I followed. I looked back to see Mary Ellen pulling bags out of the truck with the logo of a local diner on them.

Bartholomew led me through a small, dirty living room to an enormous kitchen that looked like it hadn’t been touched since the 1960s. Mary Ellen was right that it needed to be updated, but the size of it was perfect for hosting events. Bartholomew took a seat in a chair and a half that had been pulled up to a table that was covered in piles of what appeared to be junk mail and old newspapers. Bartholomew gestured for me to have a seat and Mary Ellen went to work clearing the mail and the papers off the table so we could eat.

“Well, boy,” Bart said. “My Mary Ellen tells me you want to buy my land and make a winery out of it. Is that right?” he leaned forward and narrowed his eyes, like he might be some sort of human lie detector.

Mary Ellen set out buckets of barbecue, mashed potatoes, and biscuits. “Yes, sir,” I said. “It’ll be small to start off. I’ve already got a few wines that another winery makes for me. I can sell them here until I’ve got my own vineyard and winery, and I’m hoping to add events and make the place a real destination once we’re up and running.”

Mary Ellen set three plates on the table and poured three glasses of iced tea, Bart loaded up his plate and took a bite of food before he spoke. “So, you’re telling me you have no plans to lie to me, buy this land under false pretenses, and then sell it to a natural gas company that will destroy this land and this town?”

My heart sank and my stomach dropped. “You’ve heard of me.”

He smirked. “I’m not so old or so backward that I don’t know how to use the internet, young man.”

This was beginning to feel more and more like a set-up, since clearly Mary Ellen had mentioned me to him before she’d brought me out here to see the property. I didn’t know anything about this guy, except that he was eccentric, but I knew his type. One thing my father taught me was how to read people, how to identify what they wanted most, because that was how you made the sale or the deal. I knew I wasn’t going to charm my way out of this or flash some money and impress him, even if I did have money to flash. Only the bald truth was going to convince him of my good intentions. Unfortunately, the bald truth may just be what caused this deal to fall through. “As you know from your internet search, my family is in the hospitality business. We own several hotels and destination properties.”

Bart gestured for me to get on with it.

“My father was of a mind that he was ready to slow down and spend more time with my mother, and he’d found his dream property. Fifty acres of prime real estate in South Carolina where they could open a horse farm that would keep them just busy enough not to die of boredom and would allow them some time together to relax and travel.”

Bart settled into his chair. “Your daddy sounds like a good man.”

“He was. In order to get my mother this property and build her the place she wanted, he needed some cash. My brother and sister were more than ready to take over the family business and he didn’t want to take any money out of the business or out of his retirement stash to fund this new venture.”

“Didn’t your Daddy have any cash set aside?”

I stifled the anger that rose at the implied insult to my dad. “My father worked hard all his life, Mr. Gregory. But he didn’t start making real money until I was fifteen and my brother joined him in the business. My father had a business to grow and six kids to put through college and he didn’t put aside much cash other than what he put into his retirement fund. He bought the retirement property assuming he’d have no problem selling another property and cash-flowing the whole deal.” I rubbed my temples. I really hated telling this story. “He sent me and my brother to negotiate the sale of a hotel in the southern part of South Carolina to an old friend of his. I’d gone to school to be an enologist and my dream was to add a winery to our family business, but my father wasn’t interested in that sort of undertaking, so I was biding my time and working for the family business in whatever capacity he saw fit.”

“Can’t imagine you’re making excuses for yourself, son,” Bart said.

“No. I’m not making excuses for myself. I’m just explaining where my head was at. I didn’t take the job as seriously as I should have and when the daughter of our buyer made eyes at me, I bought her a drink and I made a bad choice.” Bad choice was a nice way to put it. “That bad choice destroyed the deal. Payments were coming due on the new property that my father couldn’t afford and he had to let it go. He sold it to the first person to offer.”

“A fracking company.”

“Yes sir,” I said. “My father died two days after the deal fell through and my mother never got her horse farm or the years she should have had with my father.”

Bart was silent for a long moment and my heart raced as I awaited his verdict. “I appreciate your honesty,” he said. “But how do I know you won’t do the same thing to my property? How do I know you’re even qualified to run a winery?”

“Before my father died, he fired me from the family business. I’ve worked at three different wineries over the past six years and I’ve learned everything I can about every aspect of running one. I’ve already got three wines with my company name on them and I’ve been selling them in town here. I can’t promise my winery will succeed, but I can promise that if it doesn’t I won’t sell it to a fracking or mining company.”

“That’s a bunch of pretty words,” Bart said. “You seem like a good kid, but I would feel a whole lot better about this deal if I knew you had some connection to Catalpa Creek, some tie here that meant you were truly invested in the town.”

“I’m not sure I—”