Chapter 7 - The Incident at the Diner
By December, the town of Willow Creek had turned into an icebox. The wind from Lake Michigan had frozen the river into a thick sheet of black slate, and the loggers down at the mill were working half-shifts because the timber was too brittle to saw.
Travis Cole sat in the corner booth of the Willow Creek Café, three cell phones arranged on the laminate table before him like small silver weapons. He was shouting into one of them, his face red, his expensive leather jacket open to reveal a silk shirt that looked out of place among the flannel-clad farmers around him.
"I don't care about the circuit court injunction!" Travis yelled, slamming his fist down until his coffee cup rattled in its saucer. "The land is registered under Apex Holdings LLC! If the Madison judge wants a hearing, tell him we’re in the middle of winter rotation! We can't move the cattle before March!"
He hung up the phone with a violent click and looked up.
The entire diner had gone dead silent.
The waitress, an older woman named Sarah who had served Daniel his breakfast every Wednesday since nineteen-ninety-five, stood five feet away holding a fresh pot of coffee. She didn't look at Travis. She looked through him, her eyes fixed on the snowy street outside the window.
"Sarah," Travis said, his voice sharpening. "Give me a warm-up here."
Sarah didn't move. She set the coffee pot down on a nearby table, pulled her apron off over her head, and laid it flat on the counter. "The coffee’s forty cents a cup, Travis," she said, her voice quiet but carrying through every corner of the room. "You can pour it yourself from now on. I don't serve men who steal from their partners."
Travis stood up so fast his knees struck the underside of the table, sending his water glass shattering onto the linoleum floor. "You think I care about your forty-cent coffee, Sarah? I own the mortgage on this building! I bought the bank’s commercial paper last Friday! If you don't like the way I do business, you can find a new kitchen to clean by Monday morning!"
The door of the diner opened with a soft chime.
Grace Mercer walked into the room. She was wearing her old canvas coat, her face pale, her hands tucked deep into her pockets. She had walked three miles through the snow from the rented farm because the pickup truck’s alternator was still sitting in pieces on Daniel’s workbench.
She stopped at the threshold, her eyes taking in the broken glass on the floor, the red face of Travis Cole, and the silent farmers in the booths.
Travis saw her and let out a loud, ugly laugh. "Well, look who it is. The queen of the tenant house. Have you come to ask for an extension on the seed bill, Grace? Or maybe you’ve finally realized that Daniel’s never going to bring you back to the big house."
Grace didn't flinch. She walked toward the counter, her step slow, deliberate, and slightly stiff—the movement of a woman carrying a heavy weight beneath her clothes. She stopped three feet from Travis, her eyes locked onto his with an expression of such absolute, unyielding pity that the younger man’s shout died in his throat.
"I didn't come for the seed bill, Travis," she said, her voice dropping into that quiet, rhythmic register that made the room feel tight. "I came to deliver the egg baskets to the senior home behind the church. But since you're here, I think you should know something."
"I don't need to know anything from you, Grace," Travis sneered, though his hand was shaking as he reached for his phone.
"Daniel’s coming back on Friday, Travis," she said softly. "The circuit court in Madison issued a temporary receivership order at noon today. The sheriff’s going to deliver the papers to Cedar Ridge at four o'clock. They’re freezing the corporate accounts, Travis. All of them. Including the one you used to buy that black truck outside."
The diner stayed so quiet you could hear the grease sizzling on the back grill.
Travis stared at her, his face going from red to a dull, greasy gray. "That’s a lie. My lawyers said the Madison court wouldn't even look at the files until spring."
"Your lawyers didn't look at the notary registry from Rock County, Travis," Grace said, turning back toward the door. "But Daniel did. And so did the state investigator."
As she turned to leave, her boot slipped on a patch of melted ice near the door frame. She caught herself against the wood, but the sudden, violent strain made the fabric of her wool dress twist tight against her legs.
A sharp, dark red stain instantly bloomed through the heavy blue fabric at her knees, spreading across the wool like an ink spot on paper.
Sarah gasped, running forward from behind the counter. "Grace! Honey, you're bleeding! What happened to your legs?"
Travis looked at the red stain, a cruel, ugly smile returning to his face. "Looks like the tenant life’s a bit rough on the joints, eh, Grace? What’ve you been doing? Scrubbing floors on your knees down at the Miller place?"
May you like
Grace didn't answer him. She allowed Sarah to help her onto a stool, her face turning white as the pain finally broke through her composure. But before Sarah could pull the dress back to look at the wound, the door of the diner swung back so hard the glass pane cracked against the iron stop.
Daniel Mercer stood in the doorway, his coat covered in snow, his eyes burning with a light that made every man in the room step back from the counter.
