Chapter Two
Friday Morning
Ellen McKenna watched her son Jake ride off across the field on horseback alongside their ranch hand, Mateo Delgado.
Yesterday they’d discovered that the run-in—a simple, three-sided structure used to give cattle shelter from the elements—had been seriously damaged during last weekend’s hailstorm.
Overnight rain had caused part of it to collapse.
With a brief break in the weather this morning, they planned to make repairs so the herd would have protection when the storm returned this afternoon.
The rain last night had been short-lived, but the already saturated ground couldn’t absorb the sudden two-hour downpour.
The narrow gravel road that cut through their farm toward the pasture still had standing water, leaving the surface pocked and muddy, but fortunately it hadn’t been washed out.
Jake and Mateo would also check for damage along the road, making notes and fixing whatever they could in the few hours they had before the rain was supposed to start up again.
She’d packed them each a full thermos of coffee and sandwiches in case the job took longer than expected.
Their cattle grazed on the far side of their fourteen hundred acres, half of which was dedicated to their herd.
There was plenty of high ground for the cattle to migrate to if the fields flooded.
Most of their crops had survived the hailstorm last weekend, and though the ground was still saturated, the plants were thriving.
But they might not thrive if the fields flooded. They might lose everything.
They’d lost half their grapevines in the hailstorm, but it looked like the rest were going to flower. It would be the first year they had fruit on the vines.
It had been John’s dream to create their own wine label, but it had never been the right time to start the vineyard.
Three years ago, after a particularly good year for cattle, they planted a small, uneven twelve-acre plot bisected by Whisper Creek.
It was the perfect soil for wine grapes, according to John, who’d consulted with his closest friend—a successful vintner—on the project.
On one side, they planted Tempranillo, on the other, Sangiovese.
But it takes three years, sometimes four, for the vines to age and flower.
This was the year, and John wasn’t here to see it.
She looked up at the dark gray sky, thinking—believing—that her husband was watching over them, that he would see the first grape harvest. They wouldn’t have their own winery—she’d have to sell the grapes this year and maybe next—but it was a start.
And someday, she would turn the old bunkhouse into a winery and bottle their own label—a label John had designed years ago.
Whisper Creek Vineyard.
“John, I miss you so much,” she murmured.
Two and a half months from now, on July first, would have been their twentieth wedding anniversary. Now, she was a widow at forty-one.
It had been eleven months since her husband died in a tragic accident. Eleven months since her life had been shattered. She was still broken, but she’d put the pieces together as best she could for their four kids.
Some of those pieces still had wide cracks between them that she filled with work, because that helped. Being busy, being exhausted, thinking about the farm and everything she had to do to survive, all that helped her ignore the pain in her heart.
Running a farm was so much harder and more expensive without John. But she would not lose it. She couldn’t lose it. It had been in the McKenna family for generations.
And she could feel her husband here, on the land. She saw him in the field, felt his presence in the house, heard his laugh when the wind flitted through the drafty barn. If she lost the farm, she’d lose her husband all over again, and she knew she would never recover.
She saw a white Ford truck turn up their long driveway. She recognized it immediately. Verdacorp.
She didn’t need this today.
“Ellen?” Penny called out from the house. “Come in and eat.”
“Just a minute, Grandma,” she said.
Penny McKenna stepped out the side door, drying her hands on her apron. She squinted and saw what had caught Ellen’s attention.
“Them again,” she said, her jaw tilted up. “I swear, those good ole boys don’t know how to take no for an answer.”
“Grandma, let me handle it, okay?”
“I’ll get the shotgun.”
“I don’t want to antagonize them.”
“Maybe if you antagonized them some, they’d stop coming here and making you upset.”
The truck stopped in front of the house.
Across the yard, Lyla stepped out from the barn, and Ellen waved her back in.
She didn’t need her daughter in the middle of this; sometimes, Verdacorp didn’t play nice, and she didn’t want Lyla to get scared or worried.
Penny, irritated, turned and went back into the house, muttering under her breath.
“I swear, those Robinson brothers need a good whooping and—” then the closing door cut her off.
Ellen walked to the edge of the porch, crossed her arms over her chest, and looked down at the two men in the truck.
Clive Robinson stepped out from behind the wheel. She pointed down the driveway and said, “You can turn your truck around and go. I have a lot of work today.”
“Ellen, we just want to talk for a few minutes.”
“Clive, we’ve known each other for how long? Twenty years? And have I ever changed my mind on anything I’ve set it on?”
“Ellie—”
“Don’t call me Ellie.” Only her husband and family were allowed to use that nickname.
“Ellen, I have some numbers for you to look at. We can make a deal today, and you can have a check on Monday.”
“I don’t want Verdacorp money.”
“It’ll help.” Clive reached the steps.
“Do not,” she said with a glance to his feet. He stopped walking.
“I know it’s been tough for you here since John died.”
“I’m tired of this, Clive,” she said. “You’ve known John since high school. You know my family. And you’re part of a company that is destroying farms throughout the valley.”
“We’re not—”
“Cut the bullcrap. I’m not buying what you’re selling. Off my property, I mean it. I have work to do before the storm, and you’re just wasting my time.”
Tom Garza, who had come with Clive and had the finesse of a steer on roller skates, said, “We know you’re struggling, and with these storms, you’re gonna lose your crops and it’s too late in the season to replant. You’re barely holding on; we can save you.”
“I don’t need you, or Verdacorp, to save my family.”
“Come now,” Tom said. “The Coulters signed the land lease. You’re the last holdout. You don’t want to stop progress.”
The Coulters? Millie and George told her just last week that they would never sign with Verdacorp.
“I don’t believe you,” she said.
But she worried. If the Coulters sold the right-of-way, that meant her land was in Verdacorp’s way. They needed her to lease to them to connect the properties they already owned.
And it meant that all the conversations she and John had had with the older farming family were for naught.
While they hadn’t been ready to sell when John had made them an offer the month before he died, the Coulters had promised they wouldn’t sell to anyone but the McKennas.
Leasing a right-of-way for utilities—which included the underground mineral rights—would negatively impact the value of their land.
And it would create problems for the McKenna property.
John had told her over and over, grow or die. She needed the Coulters’ land.
“Ellie—Ellen,” Clive said, “if you let me come in, we can sit down, have a cuppa coffee, and I can share a new proposal, one that will satisfy both you and Verdacorp.”
“Does this new proposal have me selling or leasing any part of my land?”
“Yes, but—”
“Then the answer is still no.”
The door swung open and Penny came out with the shotgun, which she could barely lift to her shoulder. Ellen feared if she fired it, it would knock her on her ass and she’d break a hip.
“Miz Penny!” Clive said warmly.
“You heard my granddaughter,” Penny said. “Skedaddle, and don’t come back. No means no, boys.”
They didn’t immediately move. Penny racked the shotgun.
Clive and Tom quickly climbed back into the cab. When Clive didn’t turn the ignition, Ellen took the shotgun from Penny and aimed at the truck.
The truck came to life and they drove off.
Ellen had to smile, but still admonished Penny. “John told you five years ago you weren’t allowed to shoot anymore.”
“I wasn’t going to press the trigger, but back in my day I was a sharpshooter.”
“I’ve heard.”
Ellen went inside, unloaded the shotgun, put the shells on the high shelf inside the door—out of Penny’s reach—and propped the gun in the corner. “Avery!” she called up the stairs. Her older daughter was the only night owl in a house filled with morning people.
Bobby ran down the stairs, hand gripping the newel post as he swung around and headed down the hall, Whiskey, their yellow Lab, at his heels.
“No running,” Ellen said automatically as she put her hand in front of Penny to prevent her from tripping over the dog.
“Sorry, Mom! Morning, Grandma!” Bobby grabbed a muffin off the cooling rack, ran out the kitchen door, down the steps, and out to the barn, Whiskey in pursuit as if this was a game. “I’m gonna look for Cleo!” he shouted over his shoulder.
“That boy,” Penny said with a wide grin.
Ellen poured more coffee and grabbed a biscuit.
Penny was an amazing cook, and while Ellen had repeatedly told the eighty-four-year-old that Ellen didn’t expect her to cook, Penny dismissed her.
They’d developed a comfortable rhythm where Penny made breakfast—she was up before dawn anyway—and Ellen or Avery made dinner.
This week, their schedules had been off. Storm prep last week, then days of cleanup after the weekend rain, and now more storm concerns, all while managing the fields and cattle.