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CHAPTER
ONE
Jackson swore as a lick of pain streaked through him, his back bent, as he planted the last of the season's seeds in the parched ground, hoping that this year would be different. The Walker family farm had been in his bloodline for generations, and he couldn't bear to be the one to let it go under.
The land, his land, was a tapestry of tilled earth and it whispered stories of generations that toiled upon it. His calloused hands and strained muscles, were testaments to his devotion, and harked back to his ancestors.
The farm was not just a livelihood.
It was his legacy.
Last season's plight, however, was etched deeply into the furrows and ridges of the land. Winter had been a harsh mistress blanketing the soil with a heavy, suffocating snow that refused to melt until well into what should've been spring. The delayed thaw had given way to a spring that was mercilessly dry, the rainfall merely a miser's drop.
The crops had suffered—corn stalks stunted, wheat thin and spindly. They rustled with a dry, crackling laugh in the wind, mocking Jackson's perseverance. His bank account ached like the drought-ridden earth, the financial strain almost too palpable.
This season, as winter approached, Jackson was in no better of a place.
Yet, standing there, silhouetted against the twilight sky, Jackson's eyes held a fire that not even the most barren winter could smother. Resolve tightened his jaw. His farm was not going to fall—his heritage would not be reduced to dust and empty stalks.
Wiping sweat from his brow, he squinted up at the ominous clouds churning in the sky above. The weatherman hadn't predicted a storm, but the unpredictability of the weather these days made it hard to trust forecasts.
With a sigh, he straightened his aching spine and trudged back to the red barn.
As he passed the tumbledown barn, Jackson's thoughts drifted back to his late grandfather, who'd always said, "Jackson, this farm was ours for the taking. It will never steer you wrong so long as you do right by it."
Jackson chuckled bitterly. "Yeah, right, Gramps. All I'm getting from this land is a headache."
The screen door of his farmhouse creaked and clapped shut, a defiant drum in the quiet evening. "Jackson! Supper's ready!" Aunt Marie’s voice was as warm and comforting as the quilt she'd hand-sewn him when he was a boy.
Only then did he realize he left a field unchecked. "In a minute, Aunt Marie!" he called back, a gentle twang in his voice, one honed by the land he stood upon. "Just gotta check on the north field real quick!"
Turning back on his foot, Jackson moved to check the field he’d missed during his mumbling complaints. His boots sucked at the mud as he moved to the closest field — a sign that perhaps the desperate prayers for rain had been heard—as he trudged towards the last stretch of green land that clung to life. He knew some of the brightness would have drained from his blue eyes had anyone been watching him.
"Dammit," he murmured, kneading his forehead with gritty fingers.
The north field was no better than the rest. He knelt, cradling a wilted soybean plant in his hand that no longer stood on its own out of the ground. The leaves were a sickly yellow, its edges brown and curled like old paper.
Plucking one as if it could be fine inside the withered wrapper, Jackson peeled it open and popped the miserably small bean into his mouth.
The bean was tasteless. There was no juice, no life, in it.
The pre-grown beans he cheated with and planted last week stood out like sore thumbs - they were already shriveled, their vines turning brown and brittle. He pulled one out of the ground, inspecting its wrinkled form.
"This isn’t right," he muttered, feeling the texture with his rough hands.
Moving down to the next crop marking, Jackson knelt down to check on the corn that typically grew strong here.
The vibrant green stalks were long gone, replaced by brittle brown ones that crunched under his touch. They’d not sprouted in fall, and with winter coming, he wasn’t looking at a random late harvest. Not from this corn. The roots seemed to cling on to life, but even they couldn't withstand the harsh weather any longer.
It wasn't just his bank account that was withering away.
It was hope, too.
His family's legacy was slipping through his fingers like sand in an hourglass, each grain representing another desperate attempt to keep his head above water financially. Failure didn't scare him - he had endured plenty of those in his thirty-one years of life - but this time, it felt different.
This time, it threatened their entire way of life.
"There’s gotta be something else," he whispered, almost in prayer, to the soil that seemed to cry out for salvation just as he did.
