“The development partners are auditing my accounts now,” he continued, looking down at his scuffed shoes.

“I have nothing left in Westlake Hills but an empty concrete slab and a pile of lawsuits.”

I looked at his wrinkled suit and the desperate lines on his face.

The husband who had spent years trying to make me feel small now looked incredibly frail.

“You have what you built, Richard,” I said.

“And I have what my father left me.”

He stared at me for a long moment, his mouth opening as if to argue, but no words came.

He looked up at the vast, empty Texas sky, then at the hills stretching out behind us.

“This is a wasteland,” he muttered, turning back toward his vehicle.

“It is my home,” I said to his retreating back.

Richard opened the door of his SUV, climbed inside, and slammed it shut.

He reversed down the gravel driveway at high speed, leaving a thick cloud of dust that slowly drifted over the cedar trees.

Nathan let out a long, slow whistle.

“Well,” Nathan said, adjusting his hard hat. “He seems pleasant.”