The Legacy of Buchanan's Crossing

By Rhea Rhodan

Winner of the EPIC ebook award for Fantasy Romance!

Breaking denial’s spell takes more than magic

Cayden Sinclair: BBW—big, beautiful witch—struggling to control her power and become worthy of her legacy. 

Clint MacAllen: Blinded by ambition and desperate to save his failing construction company;  he’s not expecting to find redemption wrapped in goth and toting a truckload of crazy.

J Milton: Mega-developer with plans for the Crossing.

Buchanan’s Crossing: One of the last magical strongholds on earth. Each has everything to lose. All will stop at nothing to win.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rhea Rhodan
• Release date: Mar 2, 2015
• ISBN: 9780996133319

Rhea Rhodan

Award-winning author Rhea Rhodan resides in Minnetonka, Minnesota. She’s been telling herself stories since long before she learned to write. She attended the University of Minnesota with a focus on Journalism, then Brown Institute for Broadcast Journalism. After many adventures, misadventures, and a couple of short marriages, she found the love of her life in Regensburg, Germany, and has been living happily ever after since.  She journaled those adventures extensively (some might say rabidly) beginning in middle school, but didn't combine her writing and story-telling until several years ago, when one of the stories grabbed her by the throat and shook her like a rag doll until she gave in and wrote it. Having tasted freedom, her muse refuses to return to the confines of her head, and has successfully turned the tables, keeping her at the keyboard to appease it.  She welcomes feedback and fan mail :>) ([e-mail]). You can join her on Facebook and Goodreads, too. Rhea is always happy to meet new friends. http://www.rhearhodan.com http://www.facebook.com/rhearhodan https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6152084.Rhea_Rhodan For (very) occasional updates with great contests, subscribe to Rhea's newsletter: [e-mail] with the word "newsletter" in the subject line. 

Book preview

The Legacy of Buchanan’s Crossing

By Rhea Rhodan

Copyright © 2015 Rhea Rhodan

All Rights Reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, place, brands, media, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publications/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

Originally published by Musa Publishing, November 2013

2nd Edition published by Rhea Rhodan, March 2015

This e-book is licensed to the original purchaser only. It may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with someone, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. Thank you for respecting this author’s work.

Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of International Copyright Law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines and/or imprisonment. No part of this e-Book can be reproduced or sold by any person or business without the express permission of the publisher.

ISBN: 978-0996133319

Editor: Helen Hardt

Additional Line Edits: Maressia Twele

Cover: Wicked Cover Designs

Warning: This e-book contains adult language and scenes. This story is meant only for adults as defined by the laws of the country where you made your purchase. Store your e-books carefully where they cannot be accessed by younger readers.

Singular strands of great power have run through our world since its birth. Here and there, now as then, they cross one another and join. Some crossings are larger, some smaller. Some are quite famous: a henge in The Isles, a mountain in Peru, a region below the ocean off Bermuda. And some, no less potent but perhaps more so, are all but unknown outside of the precious few who ward them.

Warded they must always be. For evil seeks to subvert the divine gifts of love, hope, and faith that flow from them, aware that these can defeat fear, its most favored and potent weapon.

Chapter One

Clint MacAllen’s eyes flew open, but he saw only darkness. Heart pounding, gasping for air, he struggled against clammy bonds. No, just sheets, soaked with the cold sweat drenching his body. Rising to rest his elbows on his knees, he took a deep breath.

It had been one hell of a nightmare.

The thing was, it had included everything he’d ever wanted: the German sports car, a hot yet classy wife, two point five perfect kids, a big beautiful house. It was all there. The dream had begun with the proposal he’d received yesterday in the mail, a very real offer from a mega developer he was meeting later this morning. He’d have pounced on the job even if he weren’t desperate. The development was a green builder’s dream come true and a fast track to the top.

Yeah. Then he’d gotten a load of the view from up there and found himself in the pit of hell. Recalling the unnatural geometry made him queasy.

He walked unsteadily to the bathroom, filled the glass at the sink, and took a couple of swallows. A casual glance in the mirror made him jump. One side of his face was bathed in the eerie blue light of the electric toothbrush, the other in the red light from his razor’s recharging stand. The familiar face had been replaced by the image of someone he didn’t know and never wanted to meet. The man’s eyes were soulless, his lips twisted in a hideous grin.

Clint brought a hand to his face to reassure himself. His lips were pursed, not spread. But when he moved his hand, his reflection broke into a maniacal echoing laugh.

He screamed and jerked.

And found himself in bed, damp sheets sticking to him, sour breath scorching a parched throat.

Christ almighty.

A crow’s feather glinted in the moonlight as it drifted in through the open window. Clint closed it against the sudden draft and went to the kitchen this time, straight to the fridge for ice water. That was it. No matter how wide awake he was or how brave he felt, anchovies on late-night pizzas from HandiMart were off the menu.

His gaze strayed to the business card on the countertop next to the pile of overdue bills. Its raised blue letters glittered in the light from the stove’s digital clock. Five twelve. He leaned on the counter and guzzled the glass empty. A shower would help too, along with some aspirin for the blooming headache. Sleep though, would be out of the question. It often was.

The shower’s multiple jets took their time working the pulsing hot water into his tense muscles. He dried off slowly, pleased he’d sprung for the extra-large bath sheets and not settled for the dinky, regular-sized ones. He wrapped one around his waist and flashed on unbidden memories of his youth, before he’d started working construction on summer vacations, when he’d been such a gangly weakling. Another batch of nightmares there. He grinned as he stepped up to the sink and caught his muscular reflection. Those days were long gone.

From the corner of his eye, he saw the drinking glass sitting on the edge of the sink and froze. It was half full.

Since one horrible night when he was barely a teenager, he had never walked away and left something partially consumed. He either ate it, drank it, or dumped it. Always. The layers of the nightmare started to come back to him in waves, then that awful view, then the beer and the pizza.

After drinking a glass and refilling it with a shaky hand, he drained it again and set it back on the shelf above the sink. Empty, damn it. Unfortunately, when he opened the medicine cabinet for some aspirin and something to settle his stomach, it was empty too. Fine and damned-dandy. Once his teeth were brushed, he’d have to drive back to the scene of the crime: HandiMart.

The annoying little bell on the door jingled. Cayden looked up from behind the counter and the page of her book.

He’s back.

She glanced in the convex traffic mirror at the corner of the aisle. Her hair comprised its usual hopeless nest. She smoothed her short black leather skirt, straightened the little black tailored Victorian jacket she liked to wear with it, and stood up tall. As tall as her five feet plus the four-inch lace-up platform boots allowed, anyway.

He was probably in his early thirties, a few years older than she. Deeply tanned and tall, his broad shoulders and hard, lean muscles stretched his navy blue T-shirt across his chest and biceps. His sandy hair was sun-streaked and conservatively cut. He was much, much too all-American. But since he usually looked good enough to eat, drooling over him couldn’t be any worse for her than a pint of Ben & Jerry’s she didn’t need either. Presently though, he looked like something had eaten him. Then spit him back out.

She offered him a nod and her gentlest tone. You want the back of aisle three.

He stared at her.

Past the ibuprofen, you’ll find the Pepto-Bismol and Alka-Seltzer.

Mr. Sinfully Delicious turned up the aisle with a grunt and without a backward glance. That was nothing new. In the year and a half she’d worked the graveyard shift, he’d stopped in once or twice a week. While he’d never been rude to her, he’d never given her a reason to believe he knew she was alive, either. Why should tonight be any different?

Between his appearance and his purchasing habits, she’d pegged him as an insomniac with an outdoor job. Yet one more reason he was pure fantasy material. What could she do with someone who chose to be in the sun all day? She went back to reading the sad tale of someone much more her type, Roderick Usher.

She had a near overwhelming urge to sneak a peek up the aisle for a breathtaking view of a world-class butt wrapped in snug jeans worn thin in all the right places. Sadly, such a temptation also provided an excellent opportunity to develop some desperately needed self control. With great pride and determination, she avoided looking up until the clatter of small boxes on the counter and a not-even-remotely-subtle throat-clearing forced her to.

That part of the costume?

Excuse me? Cayden tried a little throat-clearing of her own. Not because her mouth had gone dry as the Sahara or she needed the time to get her brain functioning again. Of course not. But because something had drawn her to meet his eyes for the first time. Their color made her feel a bit seasick. Past that, something—

"I mean the story you’re reading, The Fall of the House of Usher. Is the Poe part of your getup?"

Cayden was used to being ridiculed about the goth thing, especially by guys like him. She might have responded with something cool and cutting or simply a haughty laugh. If only she hadn’t already been reacting to the something in his eyes that was resonating with the ring in her pocket, she would have had some precious control. That’s what she told herself later.

Instead, she blurted out a favorite line from Poe’s poem: All that we see or seem, is but a dream within a dream.

Wh-What? His too-sexy mouth fell open, and those mesmerizing ocean-colored eyes widened as though she’d touched a nerve.

A telltale flicker of the overhead lights reminded her to keep her head above those dangerous waters. The rack next to the cash register started wobbling dangerously, then spinning wildly, unleashing sprays of breath mints. It was screeching loud enough to distract him from the sound of boxes rattling on the shelves all over the store—she hoped.

In a burst of brilliance—or inspiration, she’d grudgingly admit to Gran when she had to—Cayden slipped the ring out of her jacket pocket and tossed it into the fray. It was likely the best chance she’d ever get to verify the suspicion that glimpse in his eyes had planted, sprouting consequences she was battling to contain.

Persuading the rest of the inventory not to join their suicidal breath mint brothers was a feat requiring power and effort, rather than brilliance or inspiration. It left her drained and shaky. She sent rich prayers of thanks to every god and goddess she could think of. They’d not only helped her control her magic, they had also favored her with a generous gift. She was now able to give that particular aspect of Mr. Sinfully Delicious’s anatomy, the one she’d denied herself earlier, the closer inspection it so richly deserved.

Too bad she couldn’t leave him bending over the kamikazes’ scattered remains forever. Sighing deeply, she joined him on the other side of the counter. He began apologizing as though she’d been expressing dismay over the mess, rather than forcing herself to part from the view.

She knelt on the floor next to him, gathering runaway breath mints. Don’t worry about it. You should have seen the mess a drunk made with his pizza here a couple of hours ago. And uh, speaking of pizza, I did warn you about those anchovies, remember?

He hmm-ed noncommittally, re-relegating her status to that of service droid. Except when she glanced up, he was staring. His attention had probably been drawn by nothing more than the cleavage the little jacket would reveal from his angle.

Now she had to focus her own attention. She pointed past him to the copper ring gleaming more brightly than it ought to under the store’s dreary fluorescent-tube lights. Did you drop that? The words had come out nice and casual, even if she’d had to call on her remaining power to make them.

She held her breath when he turned and picked up the ring. He examined it carefully, almost as if he’d seen it glow and pulse with a grayed blue-green light the exact shade of his eyes. He couldn’t have, though. That welcome vision was for her alone. She rose weakly, light-headed, until she remembered to breathe.

He straightened too, frowning and shaking his head. It’s not mine.

There went her breath again. The rejection was an unexpected blow, following as closely as it did on the heels of her elation at having found the man meant to wear the ring. Recognition had been too much to hope for, a romantic pipe dream she’d carried as long as she’d carried the ring, since her eighteenth birthday.

They both stared as it lay glowing, more dimly now, in his open palm.

Maybe he only needed some encouragement, because as romantic pipe-dreams went, this one was particularly reluctant to be on its way. Are you sure? It looks like it would fit.

Of course it would. The ring always fit its Keeper perfectly. That was its nature. Even if said Keeper’s hands were remarkably large and richly callused, his fingers distractingly long and thick. Cayden swallowed the sudden excess of moisture provoked by the southward migration of her thoughts. Part of her was thrilled to discover this supremely hot man was the one who—

Yeah, I’m sure. I’ve never seen it before.

Like bright sunlight piercing languid shadows, the comment wrenched her from her reverie, reminding the other currently impaired part of her—the one with brain cells—how next to impossible him being who he was made her mission.

As if to reinforce her first clear thought since he’d spoken to her, he shoved the ring into her hand. She had no choice but to accept it. The instant their fingers brushed, the vision filled her mind’s eye: dark grasping tendrils drifting all around him. Whatever they were, they definitely tipped the scale closer to impossible.

Gripping the counter with her free hand, she forced the other to retreat with dignity and returned the ring to its pocket. She took a long prayer-filled breath as the vision receded and she could watch him less painfully.

He was wiping the hand that had held the ring on the leg of his jeans. It wouldn’t help. The ring had found its Keeper, whether the Keeper accepted it or not.

Cayden allowed herself a small smile. At least he wasn’t completely insensitive to its magic, and he did have integrity. That was something, anyway.

Yeah, by the way, I’m Clint, Clint MacAllen. For a second, she thought he was going to take her hand in his. Instead, he went back to wiping it on his jeans.

Her smile faltered. Great. He didn’t even want to touch her. Why would he? An extra all-too-literal thirty pounds heaped on the impossible end of the scale.

All she could think of to say was, Cayden Sinclair. Nice to meet you. She propped up her smile, fighting furiously to keep from blushing, in vain. Her face heated anyway. She’d used up all of her power. Lovely. If she were any lamer, she’d be on the floor with the rest of the debris.

Cayden. Mr. Impossibly Gorgeous, Clean-Cut MacAllen marred his handsome face with another frown. Isn’t that a boy’s name?

Wonderful. Yeah. I guess you could say I’ve been a disappointment all around.

He looked her over slowly, nodding.

If debris had emotions, she knew just how it would feel.

The door jingled and the morning clerk shuffled in, along with the invasive rays of the rising sun.

Saved.

Cayden tossed her replacement a heartfelt greeting, then grabbed her book and all but ran to the storeroom for her backpack. Unfortunately, just inside the door, the grungy broom glared at her in guilty reminder of the powdered bones of the breath mints’ remains. She couldn’t leave the mess for her relief to deal with. She owed him.

She didn’t find the dustpan right away, probably because she watched through the small window in the back room door until Clint MacAllen left the store before she started looking for it. By the time she’d returned those few packages of breath mints that had remained intact to their hooks on the rack and given the dearly departed a proper burial, the sun was rising. It made sufficient inroads to reveal the streaks in the storefront’s big plate-glass window. Ugh. Comprehending why anything without chlorophyll in its veins would worship the sun was beyond her.

The spelled black leather backpack from Gran was broken in to perfection, though the ignorant might call it beat-up. Cayden usually found whatever she wanted in it effortlessly. But with her hands shaking the way they were, finding her very dark round wire-rimmed sunglasses took far too much digging. Locating her black lace parasol was easier. Trying to pull the snug black lace gloves on was not. She slipped on the backpack, opened the parasol, and reached down to trip the levers, dropping the row of wheels that converted her boots into roller blades.

If she skated hard, she could make the next bus to Bradley and from there to East Granby in time for breakfast with Gran at Buchanan’s Crossing. This wasn’t the kind of news to share over her specially-grounded iffy-anyway landline. This was too big for anything less than Gran’s cozy kitchen.

Chapter Two

The trendy chair in the outer office of the Long Meadow, Massachusetts branch of J. Milton Developments—one of twenty in the United States, thirty-one worldwide—was amazingly uncomfortable. No matter how often Clint shifted his position, relief continued to elude him.

This theme had repeated itself ever since he’d been jerked too early from his bed this morning. Hazier by the hour, the nightmare might have been a hellish dream within in a dream. Or maybe that idea had been triggered by the crow’s feather he’d found stuck on the sill of the bedroom window. Or it could be because the goth-girl clerk at HandiMart, Cayden-something, had quoted the line after he’d given her shit for using an apparently authentic early edition of Poe as a prop for her costume.

Up until this morning, when she’d pissed him off by doing that, he’d managed to ignore her. Sure, she was cute in an exotic sort of way. Her outfits, such as they were, were always well put together, her super-heavy makeup artistic, rather than appearing as if it’d been applied with a putty knife. She simply wasn’t someone he could allow himself to be interested in, or distracted by.

His type was more along the lines of the secretary sitting across from him. As sleek and fashionable as everything else about the place, she could moonlight as a runway model. He’d turned down the coffee she’d offered because he still suffered from the damn headache and he didn’t trust his stomach, having failed to actually buy the stuff he’d gone to HandiMart for in the first place.

Keeping anything straight after being run over by the truckload of strange his big mouth had gotten him into there was a small miracle. But some things stood out more than others. Like the way Cayden’s scent, rain-soaked wind blowing across a green field, had eased the pounding in his head while she’d been on her knees across from him, cleaning up the mess he wasn’t quite sure how he’d made. Then he’d looked up, right down the low V of her tight little jacket.

He licked dry lips. When he’d forced his gaze up, he’d caught the provocative flare of gold in her hazel eyes. Since the mop of curls on her head was scattered equal parts black and an impossible shade of flaming red, and her complexion was so fair, he wondered which one, if either, was her natural color. Not that he’d ever find out. Not that he wanted to, right?

There was no good reason to think about her at all. Especially not remembering her on the sidewalk while he was on the way to his truck. She’d raced by—on roller blades!—toting a beat-up backpack and carrying a lacy black umbrella. What really stuck in his head, though, was the last glimpse of a short leather skirt hugging a well-rounded ass above strong pale thighs.

The door to his highness Dean Cumberland’s office opened, disturbing Clint from his ruminations. The angle prevented him from getting a look at the source of a mumbled apology with words like sorry and important. Yeah, right. He couldn’t wait for the day he didn’t have to put up with this kind of bullshit. The entire set up of the reception area was designed to be intimidating and uncomfortable, to put someone like him in his place. The same with the thirty minutes he’d been cooling his heels and cramping his ass out here.

A glance at the mighty king of developers had him scrambling to his feet.

Please, come in. The tone was cultured and smooth, private school-educated, possibly in Europe.

Cumberland couldn’t have stood more than five foot six in his Italian loafers. With his orange curly hair, slightly flushed face splashed with freckles, and toothy smile, Dean Cumberland looked more like a circus clown than the formidable CEO Clint had spent hours last night researching. Which probably explained why he hadn’t been able to find a photo of the guy.

Have a seat. Cumberland gestured to an overstuffed leather chair that probably cost as much as half a year’s payments on Clint’s truck. He didn’t sit on it so much as sink into it. The chair was every bit as comfortable as the one in the outer office had been uncomfortable. As opposed to the reception area’s warm and stifling air, this office was pleasantly cool, the colors soothing, the scene through the large window to the right of a gorgeous mahogany desk tranquil. He sighed. Oh yeah, this was more like it.

You can’t know how much I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. Cumberland beamed enthusiasm and sincerity. Didn’t my secretary offer you any coffee? He sat behind the desk and pressed a button on an impressive-looking communications array. Say, sweets, could you bring—

No thank you, Mr. Cumberland. She did offer. I’m afraid I turned her down.

Cumberland flashed him an indulgent grin and continued as if he hadn’t heard, —us a carafe of your wonderful coffee and some of those butter cookies? Thanks. He released the button and rolled his chair back. You simply must taste the coffee, Clint. May I call you Clint? I’d like to dispense with the formalities. You and I will be doing great things together.

Clint wasn’t aware how much Cumberland’s voice had dulled his niggling doubts until he scratched an itch on the ring finger of his right hand. A couple of things hit him immediately. The first was a memory flash of the peculiar copper ring he’d picked up off the floor at HandiMart; the next pushed that and everything related to it aside.

How could he have missed it? All of the genial comfort surrounding him was nothing more than another kind of set-up; this one designed to lull the unwary. Well, he was too hungry for this contract not to be wary. And he wasn’t dumb enough to think Cumberland wasn’t fully aware just how desperate he was, either. For the CEO of a multi-national corporation, the little man did seem awfully happy to be meeting the humble owner of a small struggling construction company.

Only a fool would walk into a lion’s den with his eyes closed, no matter how much that lion resembled a tabby cat.

Clint kept his expression on the cool side of neutral. Thank you, Mr. Cumberland. I’m sure you can imagine how happy I am to hear you say that. Before we break out the champagne, though, I have a few questions.

Cumberland was frowning at Clint’s hand, the one that had itched, when a knock on the door announced sweets’ arrival.

She deposited the tray on a side table. May I get you anything else, Mr. Cumberland?

Not right now. Thanks.

She left and closed the door softly behind her.

Cumberland coughed and winked. She makes excellent coffee, too.

He’d been busted trying not to ogle Cumberland’s secretary while she’d bent over right in front of him to fuss with the cream and sugar. Her skirt had slid up those sky-high legs far enough to reveal a scrap of red lace. What Cumberland didn’t know was, instead of appreciating the view in front of him, Clint had been brooding over another pair of thighs, not nearly so long, trim, or suited to his future.

Whether the display had been a planned distraction or not, the result had served to remind Clint he couldn’t afford to take his eye off the prize: ultimate success.

Mr. Cumberland—

Dean, please.

The man’s grin didn’t make it any easier for Clint to ask what he had to. Okay, Dean. As long as we’re being open and friendly, you won’t mind if I ask, why Green Man Construction? Why offer a contract prior to meeting me? A company the size of J. Milton doesn’t need an outfit like mine to build a mall, even a cutting-edge green one. You could hire your own people to do it, or work with someone you’re already familiar with.

I knew I was going to enjoy doing business with you. I appreciate someone who gets right to the point. Since you’re being up front, allow me the same. You’ve obviously done your homework. I’m guessing a smart man such as yourself was able to discover a few, shall we say, issues involving J. Milton and some rather radical environmental groups.

Issues was an understatement. And no matter how desperate Clint was, he couldn’t allow Green Man’s reputation to become associated with those kinds of issues. So he had to test Cumberland, throw him enough rope and hope like hell he wouldn’t hang the whole deal with it.

Clint led with, When you put it that way…

I’m not saying some of those complaints might not have had a degree of legitimacy. But that was the old J. Milton Developments, the one my father founded and ran. I want—no, need—to separate myself from that. To make it clear the company is in different hands now, caring hands.

Nice save. Dean did look pretty puny sitting behind the massive desk. It didn’t take much imagination to picture him getting pounded on a lot as a kid, no matter what school he’d gone to. Clint would lay a fifty this was as much about Dean wanting to make a name for himself as it was about his company’s bottom line. Clint understood the drive to succeed. Before becoming a recluse, Dean’s old man, Milton Cumberland, had been ruthless in his tactics and immensely successful. It was a lot to live up to.

Clint leaned forward in the chair. And you believe Green Man can resolve these issues for you?

I do. You’re small, you’re local, and your name is above reproach. Dean flashed that smile of his and gestured to the side table. Hey, you haven’t tried the coffee yet. It’s fresh-ground, shade-grown, organic Hawaiian Kona. Those cookies are baked fresh daily in a shop around the corner.

Clint poured himself a cup. Odd, now that Dean had invited him to drink it, he couldn’t remember why he hadn’t wanted any. He inhaled the rich aroma, took a sip, sat back, and tried not to moan in pleasure. He popped a cookie. It melted in his mouth, a perfect complement to the best cuppa joe he’d ever tasted.

Dean cleared his throat again, calling Clint away from paradise. My only concern is that this mall project is somewhat larger than anything you’ve done to date. There’s a deadline of June twenty-first, and frankly, I don’t see it happening with the manpower Green Man currently has at its disposal.

The second cookie turned to powder in Clint’s mouth. There it was, the other shoe that was always waiting to drop-kick his ass. Experience made it easier for him to calmly take another sip of coffee while he formulated his response.

You’re right, this project is somewhat bigger than what Green Man’s built in the past, and with construction being what it has the last few years, I have had to thin the crew some. Corporate-speak for the grim task of laying off his crew, good people, one by one until he was down to the bare essentials. He hoped hiring again would help him forget what that had felt like. Filling it in won’t be a problem. I’ve got a solid call-back list, and the union locals here have plenty of qualified people looking for work.

Unions? No wonder your resources have been stretched.

Dean’s voice was light, teasing, as if they were old friends, or at least as if they were back to where they’d been a few minutes ago. When someone in Dean’s position was generous enough to offer his advice, it couldn’t hurt to consider his ideas.

Clint set his cup down. The funny itch in his finger had returned.

His father was a union man. Clint had never considered running anything but a union shop.

He consciously sat deeper in the chair, smoothed his best tie, and said, You don’t need to worry about Green Man. We do top-notch work, and we can meet your deadline. Feel free to leave the construction details to me. And don’t even think about telling me how to run the company I built from scratch with more sweat and blood