For two weeks, nobody called.
Then Brandy arrived with her folder.
At first, I assumed she simply wanted to ask about the station.
But when she mentioned sixty thousand dollars, I realized the story was much larger.
I told her exactly how the purchase had happened.
The foreclosure.
The bank’s sale.
The financing.
The recorded deed.
The fact that Chance had never held any ownership interest.
Brandy listened carefully.
Then looked toward the folder.
“He told me the station would be his by Christmas.”
I stared.
“Christmas?”
She nodded.
“Last Christmas.”
I thought about the timing.
Dad had already been struggling to refinance the business.
The bank had been asking questions.
And Chance had been telling Brandy he would soon own the very property that secured the debt paying his attorneys.
I took a breath.
“Brandy, you should talk to your lawyer before showing me anything else.”
She studied me.
Then nodded.
“That’s exactly what I was thinking.”
She wrote her phone number on the back of a gas receipt.
Then slid it across the counter.
Before leaving, she looked toward the coffee machine.
“Is that coffee any good?”
I shook my head.
“No.”
She poured a cup anyway.
Took one sip.
Then made a face.
I laughed.
“It’s been like that since 1991.”
She paid for it.
Then left.
I stood behind the counter wondering what Chance had promised in order to keep the house during his divorce.
The following week, rumors began circulating around town.
At first, customers asked casually.
“How’d you get the station so cheap, Ian?”
I explained the bank sale.
Then another customer mentioned hearing I’d bought it behind Dad’s back.
Then somebody said Chance had been cheated out of his inheritance.
The story changed with every telling.
Ian waited for his father to fail.
Ian bought the station for pennies.
Ian took the business away from his brother.
Some versions made it sound as though I’d convinced the bank to foreclose.
Others suggested Dad had secretly arranged the purchase for me and then regretted it.
None was true.
But the stories spread.
Mom worked at a grocery store where hundreds of people passed the deli counter every week.
She knew how quickly a sentence could travel through Broken Bow.
I didn’t argue with strangers.
When someone asked directly, I answered plainly.
“The bank sold it through a public process. I bought it. The documents are recorded.”
Some people nodded.
Others didn’t.
Business slowed for a few weeks.
A few regular customers went elsewhere.
Mr. Ruby’s Buick passed the station one Monday morning and continued toward the chain store near the bypass.
That hurt.
He’d been coming here since before I was old enough to work.
I watched his car disappear.
Then returned to the fuel invoices.
The station wasn’t going to survive because I gave speeches about fairness.
It would survive because I kept it clean, supplied, safe, and useful.
So that’s what I did.
I opened early.
Made sure the fuel pumps worked.
Kept the restrooms clean.
And handled repairs with the same care I’d given them when Dad owned the place.
Little by little, customers returned.
One Tuesday morning, a white pickup pulled into pump two.
There was a seed company’s logo on the door.
I’d seen the vehicle before, but the driver usually paid at the pump and left.
That morning, the card reader wasn’t working.
A woman came inside carrying her card.
She was about thirty, with dark hair tucked beneath a baseball cap and a clipboard filled with seed orders.
She looked at me.
“Your pump doesn’t like my card.”
I smiled.
“It doesn’t like anybody today.”
She laughed.
I processed the payment inside.
Then she glanced toward the coffee machine.
“Any good?”
I shook my head.
“Not really.”
She thought about that.
Then poured a cup.
Took a sip.
And laughed.
“You’re right.”
I smiled.
“Tried to warn you.”
She held out her hand.
“Mara.”
“Ian.”
She glanced at my name tag.
“I gathered.”
Then she paid for the coffee and left.
She didn’t ask about my family.
Didn’t mention the foreclosure.
Didn’t want to know whether I’d stolen somebody’s inheritance.
She just bought gas and coffee.
For some reason, that made the whole morning easier.
A few days later, Chance arrived with a borrowed utility trailer.
He backed it toward service bay one.
I stepped outside.
“What are you doing?”
He climbed out.
“I’m here for Dad’s equipment.”
I looked toward the trailer.
“What equipment?”
“The lift. The tire machine. Some of the shop tools.”
I stared.
For a moment, I thought he must be joking.
Then I realized he was serious.
“Chance, those assets were included in the bank sale.”
He folded his arms.
“Dad bought that tire machine.”
I nodded.
“Using business financing secured by the equipment. It was part of the lender’s collateral, and I purchased it under the asset agreement.”
He stared.
“That’s not fair.”
I took a breath.
“Fair or not, it’s documented.”
He looked toward the service bay.
Then back at me.
“I’ll get a lawyer.”
I nodded.
“You’re welcome to have someone review the paperwork.”
For several seconds, he seemed uncertain.
Then he turned toward his trailer.
I could see the frustration in his face.
But there was one thing at the station that really did belong to Dad.
An old red rolling toolbox.
He’d purchased it before buying the business.
His initials were scratched into the top drawer.
D.D.
It hadn’t been pledged as business collateral, and it wasn’t listed among the assets I purchased.
I’d kept it safe in the back office.
I went inside.
Rolled it toward the entrance.
Then stopped beside Chance.
“This is Dad’s.”
He looked down.
I continued.
“Take it to him, please.”
Chance stared at the toolbox.
Then shook his head.
“I’m not your delivery driver.”
He climbed into his truck.
Then drove away with an empty trailer.
I watched him go.