Chapter Two
Jack
T he sun beats down on the back of my neck. The sweat trickles down my spine and pools at the waistband of my jeans. My hands are raw from grabbing bales, the rough twine biting into my palms right through my worn gloves no matter how hard I try to avoid it. The hay scratches at my arms, leaving red lines that itch like crazy. I swear, this stuff is worse than poison ivy.
I heave another bale onto the flatbed, grunting with the effort. My shoulders ache, my back feels like it’s one wrong move away from snapping, and my jeans are so full of hay it feels like I’m wearing a damn scarecrow costume. I swipe at my forehead with the back of my hand, but it’s pointless—more sweat just takes its place.
“You gonna keep up, or what?” Caleb calls from the other side of the field. He’s tossing bales onto his flatbed like they’re pillows, not even breaking a sweat. Always showing off.
“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter under my breath, grabbing another bale and hauling it up. My legs shake a little as I stack it on top of the others. It’s not that I’m weak—okay, maybe I’m not as strong as Caleb or Michael—but this work just feels wrong. Like I’m pouring everything I’ve got into something that doesn’t mean a damn thing to me.
The tractor rumbles in the distance. I can just make out Dad’s silhouette behind the wheel. I grab another bale, gritting my teeth as the twine bites into my gloves again. The heat is relentless, the air thick with the smell of hay and diesel from the tractor blowing black smoke. The thing is older than I am and is broke down more often than it runs. My shirt is soaked through, clinging to my skin like a second layer. I can feel the sunburn starting to bloom on the back of my neck, but I don’t stop.
“You good?” Michael’s voice cuts through the haze of heat and exhaustion. He’s standing a few feet away, his flatbed half-full already. His tone is casual, but there’s a flicker of concern in his eyes.
“Peachy,” I snap harsher than I mean to, slamming another bale onto the stack. My arms are trembling now, but I keep going. “Just loving every second of this.”
Michael doesn’t say anything for a minute. “It’s not forever, you know,” he says.
“Long enough,” I mutter under my breath.
We’ve been working since dawn. The idea is to start early to beat the heat, but inevitably, we’re still left cooking under the Wisconsin summer sun. From where we are in the hay field, we can hear the telltale sign of the dinner bell.
Yes, we use a dinner bell. It was old-fashioned but effective. It wasn’t actually dinner. It was lunch. We didn’t typically eat breakfast. If we wanted to eat breakfast, we had to sacrifice sleep. None of us are willing to do that.
We all stop what we’re doing and head toward the house. Caleb and Michael are way ahead. The screen door slams behind me as I step into the kitchen, the smell of fried chicken and biscuits wrapping around me like a hug. My brothers are already at the table, shoveling food into their mouths like they’ve been starved for weeks.
“Took you long enough,” Caleb says, wiping grease off his chin with the back of his hand. “Thought we’d have to eat without you.”
I roll my eyes and grab a plate. “You are eating without me.”
I sit down at the table and can’t help but notice they’re all in their work clothes still. “Gross,” I nod at Caleb’s arm. “You’re dirty.”
“Farm work builds immunity,” Michael says. “You’d know that if you spent more time outside.”
I don’t answer. We’ve had this conversation a hundred times. They love the farm, the dirt under their nails, the talk about market prices. Me? I’d rather be at the hardware store, helping Mrs. Jenkins pick out paint colors or fixing Mr. Carter’s busted lawnmower. At least there, I don’t feel like I’m drowning in expectations.
Mom would’ve understood.
The thought hits me like it always does—sharp and sudden. She’d sit right here at this table, humming along when I played my guitar, her fingers tapping the rhythm against her coffee mug.
“You’re finally putting on some muscle,” Patty says as she puts a pitcher of lemonade on the table. She pats my shoulder and gives me a warm smile.
Her silver hair is pulled back into its usual bun, and her floral apron is dusted with flour. She’s been here forever, it seems, always moving around the kitchen like she owns the place—and maybe she does, in a way. After Mom died, Patty stepped in without anyone asking, filling the silence with her humming and the clatter of pots and pans.
“Thanks, Patty.”
The fried chicken is good—it always is when Patty makes it—but it’s hard to enjoy anything when I’m this sore and this worn out. Patty is basically a second mom. When Mom died, Patty was there. Dad was not good at the parenting thing. When Mom got sick, Patty stepped in to help with the cooking and cleaning. And she never left.
In a way, we kind of adopted each other. Patty’s husband worked on the farm for twenty years. They lived in a small trailer on the property. Then one day her husband up and died. Dad didn’t seem inclined to boot her off the property. Dad never mentioned her giving up the trailer. When Patty wasn’t around to cook, one of us boys did, and it wasn’t pretty. It was always simple fare, and I can’t say it was actually good. Edible, but no one was going to be asking for seconds.
“I’m headed out for an appointment,” Patty announces. “You boys will be feasting on leftovers tonight. I’ve made plenty of chicken. There’s a potato salad in the fridge. It’ll be nice and cold by the time you come in for dinner.”
“Thanks, Patty,” Michael says.
She smiles and pauses at the door before walking out. My dad comes in behind her, muttering under his breath about needing to look at engine on the tractor. He rarely sits at the table at lunch. He typically works right up until dinner.
After lunch, we carry cold glasses of lemonade out to the covered front porch. “Damn, I ate too much,” Michael groans.
He pulls his hat low over his eyes and leans back in the chair.
Caleb sits on the porch swing, gently swaying. This is our ritual. My dad sees the after-lunch rest as lazy, but all of us have learned to ignore his complaining. If he’s not running at full-speed, he’s idle. There is no in between. And idling is never acceptable on a farm.
I grab my guitar, part of the routine, and sit on the edge of the chair in the corner.
I strum a few chords, soft at first, then louder as the melody takes shape. It’s something I’ve been working on—a song about wide-open skies and roads that lead somewhere else.
“That’s new,” Michael says, tipping his hat back. “Sounds good.”
Caleb nods. “You playing that at the fall festival?”
“Maybe.” I grin. “If I don’t chicken out.”
“You won’t,” Michael says. “Mom wouldn’t let you if she was here.”
The words hang there between us. We don’t talk about her much, not directly. But she’s in the quiet spaces of our lives.
I play a little louder, like maybe the music can reach her wherever she is.
Then the front door crashes open.
“Shut up that noise!” Dad’s voice booms across the porch.
My fingers freeze. The last chord lingers, then dies.
Michael and Caleb straighten up like soldiers called to attention. Dad stands in the doorway, his boots muddy, his face red from the sun—or maybe from something else. His eyes lock onto my guitar like it’s personally offended him. He’s always hated my guitar. Music in general.
“You two”—he jerks his chin at my brothers—“get back to work. I need to talk to Jack.”
They don’t argue. They never do. Caleb claps me on the shoulder as he passes, like he’s bracing me for impact. My brothers aren’t exactly supportive of my desire to set off on my own, but they don’t discourage it, either. They know I’m different. Michael shoots me an apologetic look before he follows Caleb inside. The screen door slams behind them, leaving me alone with Dad.
I set the guitar down carefully, like it’s made of glass. It’s the most precious thing I own.
He used to be different . That’s what I can’t stop thinking. Before Mom got sick, he’d sit on the porch with her, listening to me play. He’d even smile sometimes, like he almost got it. But after she died, it was like something in him hardened, turned sharp at the edges. He recoils whenever I pick up the guitar. I can’t seem to say or do the right things.
“You’re quitting the hardware store,” he says. No greeting. No lead-up. Just orders.
I blink. “What?”
“You heard me. Starting Monday, you’re working the farm full-time.”
My stomach twists. “We’ve got enough money to hire help. Michael and Caleb are already out there sunup to sundown. And I’m starting college in a couple months—”
“College.” He spits the word like it’s poison. “Waste of time and money.”
“It’s not. I’ve got the scholarship, but I just need a little more money to—”
“And what’s that gonna get you? A piece of paper?” He steps closer, his shadow swallowing me whole. “This farm is your family’s legacy. It’s your legacy.”
“It’s yours ,” I snap before I can stop myself. “Not mine.”
His hand twitches. For a second, I think he’s going to grab the guitar, snap it over his knee. But he holds back.
“You’re selling that thing.” He nods at the guitar. “Put the money back into the farm where it belongs.”
The words punch through me. “No.”
“No?” His voice drops, dangerous.
“I’m not selling it. And I’m not quitting my job.” My hands curl into fists at my sides. “You don’t get to decide my life.”
The slap comes fast—a crack of skin on skin that snaps my head to the side. My cheek burns.
“Someone’s gotta knock sense into you,” he growls.
I touch my face, stunned. He’s never hit me before. Not like this.
“You’ll do as you’re told,” he says, turning for the door. “End of discussion.”
Then he’s gone, leaving me standing there, on the porch.
For a long minute, I don’t move. The anger boils under my skin, but beneath it, there’s something worse—hurt. Because no matter how much I fight, this farm is a chain around my ankle, and he’ll never let me go.
But I am going. College. The city. Anywhere but here.
I will not spend my life on this farm. Michael and Caleb can have it. They can share this house and raise their kids here. I won’t do it.
But for now, I’ll do my part. I’ll help out. I’ll make sure the cows are fed, and the chores are done. I owe my brothers that much.
Michael and Caleb are out in the fields by now, the rhythmic hum of the tractor cutting through the afternoon heat. I can hear Dad’s voice carrying over the wind, sharp and commanding, barking orders like he always does.
I take the guitar upstairs to my room and put it in my closet in case Dad gets some wild ideas. And then it’s back downstairs. Back to the field to finish stacking the first cut of hay. I hope like hell I’m not stuck doing this when it’s time to bring in the third cutting.