The Foxe & the Hound

“Madeleine, have I ever once, in all our time together, said I’d like to put an offer in on a house?”

“No.” That much I know for a fact.

“So listen to me when I say, I’d like to own this ranch. I’ve had my eye on it for a few years, and it’s finally up for sale. I wanted to have a real estate agent on hand for when it eventually came up.”

For a crazy person, he sounds incredibly confident.

I decide to humor him. “So for the last year, you’ve worked me to the bone so I’d be ‘on hand’ for when you buy this ranch?”

He smiles. “I admit, I put you through the ringer, but I liked your work ethic. Now I don’t have to second-guess giving you the commission from this sale.”

I burst out with a laugh that’s impossible to contain.

“What’s the commission on a property like this?”

“I was thinking about that. A million seems fair.”

“Huh,” I say, humoring him. “After much consideration, I’d have to agree.”

“Have I ever told you what I used to do before I moved to Hamilton?”

I shake my head, stunned into silence. This whole exchange feels like a dream.

“My father started B&G Steel, and when he retired, the company was passed down to me. I worked at that company my whole life right up until about five years ago, when I finally sold it and retired.”

“B&G Steel,” I repeat to myself.

Even I’ve heard of the company.

“What month is it, Mr. Boggs?”

“August.”

Huh. So this isn’t an elaborate April Fools’ prank.

I’m scrambling to think of another possible explanation when the sound of tires on gravel behind us draws my attention. I turn in time to see an old Ford truck roll past the entrance gate of the property, kicking up dust and dirt with its approach.

It parks a few yards away, and then an old man slides out wearing a cowboy hat and beat-up wranglers. I know who he is right away: Steve Hamilton, a descendent of the original settlers of the town. He and his family are as good as celebrities around here.

He dips his hat in greeting to Mr. Boggs and then holds his hand out to me.

“Steve Hamilton, nice to meet you.”

“Madeleine Thatcher.”

He smiles and claps a second hand over mine. He has a nice handshake, sturdy and warm.

“Pleasure to meet you, Madeleine. I hear you’re going to facilitate this deal for us.”

What the hell is happening?

“Um, I…”

“Have you ever worked as a transactional realtor before?” Mr. Hamilton asks after he drops my hand and steps back.

I shake my head. “No. I mean, I think I can do it, but…aren’t these types of deals usually handled by, y’know, big brokerage firms?”

He grins. “Call me old fashioned, but I don’t need a team of vultures blowin’ smoke up my ass for months. And Mr. Boggs here has already made a verbal offer that’s more generous than any others I’m likely to get. So I’m happy to pay someone local to handle the nitty-gritty.”

I glance back at Mr. Boggs, but he’s staring out at the land as if he’s not even listening at all.

“Oh, okay.” I decide it’s best to continue on with the charade, in case Ashton Kutcher is behind some bush with a video camera. After all, Mr. Hamilton is very convincing. “Well then yes, I would love to step in and act as the transactional realtor for the property.”

“All right. Good.” He nods. “I think that means your commission would increase a bit, since you’ll be getting a cut from each of us.”

I feel faint. I fan my face, laugh, stifle it, and then offer up a gentle, sane smile.

“If I email you the details, can you have the paperwork drawn up this afternoon?” he asks, very calm, so blasé. Ha.

I will draft the paperwork in my blood, right here in the dirt if this is legitimate. I decide not to tell him that. Instead, I nod enthusiastically and promise an expedient turnaround.

“Good. All right. I’ll see you two at the title company at eight tomorrow morning. I’ve already scheduled an appointment to close.”

Then, as quickly as he arrived, he’s gone, back in his old truck, reversing on the dirt road.

“I’m assuming you believe me now?” Mr. Boggs asks with a good-natured smile.

“Can you blame me for being skeptical?” I ask with wide eyes.

He shrugs. “I have kept a pretty low profile since moving here.”

We head back to our cars. In all, the showing took less than half an hour, yet I stand to make piles and piles of money, more money than I’ll know what to do with.

“You know what this means, right?” I ask as we cross below the iron gate.

“You’ll finally have to replace that old car.”

I laugh and nod. “I’m not ready to let it go yet.”

But then, as if on cue, the rearview mirror on my passenger side falls off. For months, it’s been hanging in there with some duct tape, but apparently, it’s had enough. It rolls unceremoniously in the dirt a foot or two away from the car.