had brought the Morgan file to him wi th the hopes of converting the r anch into a hotel or resort. Lane had every faith in Greg Tanner and his ideas , but after the past few hours, Lane had shaped another possibility— a dude ranch.
He had worked out bids and projections and was ultimately pleased with the results. Of course, further research would need to be conducted before he even presented his father with his proposal .
The projected expense for the transition was pocket change to Tanner Enterprises compared to the income they would make on grand opening alone.
It was, Lane thought idly, a good investment. And the Morgan Ranch had currently been downsized and according to his reports, had yet to make a financial comeback. He would need to have a look at the ir books — a task only attainable if th e Morgan’s were willing to sell— but he would bet a year’s salary that their finances weren’t going to change anytime soon. He would use that to his advantage, he decided, making notes in the folder. When the intercom buzzed, he answered it absently.
“Mr. Tanner is on line one for you, sir.”
“Thank you, Monica.” He pressed line one. “Father.”
“Lane, have you looked through the Morgan file I sent over this morning yet?” Greg Tanner’s voice vibrated through the speaker. Straight to business, Lane mused.
“Just closed it. This could be big.”
“It will be big. I’ve already spoken with Mrs. Morgan. She’s agreed to talk terms. I want a man out there next week. She’s offered to accommodate with lodging until her lawyers have read the contracts and a decision is made.”
“It sounds like you have this in the bag.” What he really meant was ‘why do you need me?’
“Your mother is ill, Lane. It’s not looking good. We’re going to be in San Francisco for a time. She wants to visit her sisters there while she’s fit too.” Greg sighed. “I’m leaving this contract to you. I’m counting on you.”
Did he even think about inviting me to San Francisco? Lane wondered dispassionately. No, he wouldn’t.
“Send Mother my love as well as Aunt Kate and Susanne. Leave the Morgan’s to me.”
“I’ll fax over the flight information to your office today. Tell whoever you’re sending it’ll take about a week, maybe two to get projections and documents drawn up. A nd I want them there until the contracts are signed and the checks are written.”
“I’ll go,” Lane decided. No way was he letting this get away.
“Well, good then. I know I can count on you, son. Take care.”
Lane ended the call and sat back in his chair. For years his father had always said those same words. I know I can count on you . And he had always been able to count on Lane. Everyone had.
From the time Lane was a young boy, he had strived to earn his father’s approval. Whether it was by earning perfect grades through out school or choosing to dive into the family business, nearly every aspect of Lane’s life was centered on his family.
And had he ever heard the words he had worked for for twenty-eight years now? I’m proud of you, son. No, he had not. Instead, he was acknowledged with rewards or criticized with lectures.
A good grade when he was a boy would mean a bump in his allowance. When Lane was sixteen, he was accepted into Harvard University and was rewarded with a brand new Lincoln. After graduating top of his class from Harvard, Lane received access to one of his trust funds.
Now, when he was successful with contracts or projections, he was rewarded with a grunt of approval or a slap on the back. Never “ I’m proud of you, son. ”
Lane came to attention as his fax machine hummed behind him. H e retrieved his flight information and a copy of the preliminary contracts. They would change of course, depending on how much the Morgan’s wanted to negotiate. He read and reread the contract before slipping it into his briefcase and leaving the office.
After slipping his tall frame under the
He had worked out bids and projections and was ultimately pleased with the results. Of course, further research would need to be conducted before he even presented his father with his proposal .
The projected expense for the transition was pocket change to Tanner Enterprises compared to the income they would make on grand opening alone.
It was, Lane thought idly, a good investment. And the Morgan Ranch had currently been downsized and according to his reports, had yet to make a financial comeback. He would need to have a look at the ir books — a task only attainable if th e Morgan’s were willing to sell— but he would bet a year’s salary that their finances weren’t going to change anytime soon. He would use that to his advantage, he decided, making notes in the folder. When the intercom buzzed, he answered it absently.
“Mr. Tanner is on line one for you, sir.”
“Thank you, Monica.” He pressed line one. “Father.”
“Lane, have you looked through the Morgan file I sent over this morning yet?” Greg Tanner’s voice vibrated through the speaker. Straight to business, Lane mused.
“Just closed it. This could be big.”
“It will be big. I’ve already spoken with Mrs. Morgan. She’s agreed to talk terms. I want a man out there next week. She’s offered to accommodate with lodging until her lawyers have read the contracts and a decision is made.”
“It sounds like you have this in the bag.” What he really meant was ‘why do you need me?’
“Your mother is ill, Lane. It’s not looking good. We’re going to be in San Francisco for a time. She wants to visit her sisters there while she’s fit too.” Greg sighed. “I’m leaving this contract to you. I’m counting on you.”
Did he even think about inviting me to San Francisco? Lane wondered dispassionately. No, he wouldn’t.
“Send Mother my love as well as Aunt Kate and Susanne. Leave the Morgan’s to me.”
“I’ll fax over the flight information to your office today. Tell whoever you’re sending it’ll take about a week, maybe two to get projections and documents drawn up. A nd I want them there until the contracts are signed and the checks are written.”
“I’ll go,” Lane decided. No way was he letting this get away.
“Well, good then. I know I can count on you, son. Take care.”
Lane ended the call and sat back in his chair. For years his father had always said those same words. I know I can count on you . And he had always been able to count on Lane. Everyone had.
From the time Lane was a young boy, he had strived to earn his father’s approval. Whether it was by earning perfect grades through out school or choosing to dive into the family business, nearly every aspect of Lane’s life was centered on his family.
And had he ever heard the words he had worked for for twenty-eight years now? I’m proud of you, son. No, he had not. Instead, he was acknowledged with rewards or criticized with lectures.
A good grade when he was a boy would mean a bump in his allowance. When Lane was sixteen, he was accepted into Harvard University and was rewarded with a brand new Lincoln. After graduating top of his class from Harvard, Lane received access to one of his trust funds.
Now, when he was successful with contracts or projections, he was rewarded with a grunt of approval or a slap on the back. Never “ I’m proud of you, son. ”
Lane came to attention as his fax machine hummed behind him. H e retrieved his flight information and a copy of the preliminary contracts. They would change of course, depending on how much the Morgan’s wanted to negotiate. He read and reread the contract before slipping it into his briefcase and leaving the office.
After slipping his tall frame under the
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