Chapter 1
JACE
Iwill never understand why folks consider fall to be the scariest time of year.
I’m sure it’s because of Halloween. The holiday makes fall the clear winner of spooky season—for most people.
There’s logic in their choice, but they’re not from the mountains.
Winter is far more terrifying here—crops die, animals go into hibernation, the ground freezes, and all secrets become buried beneath layers of snow.
The world becomes cold and isolated, shrouded in darkness.
For several long, bitter months, all living things focus solely on one goal: survival.
Fall is for spooky decorations and fake haunted houses. Winter is unforgiving.
I’m no stranger to the desolation of the season.
Each winter, I help my parents prepare themselves and their livestock for the months ahead.
This year is no exception, but normally, I help from a distance, ordering enough animal feed, supplies, and fuel to get them through mid-March.
This year, I’m heading home after begging them to come stay with me instead became a fruitless endeavor.
Finding a farmhand was out of the question, both feasibly and financially, and without help, they can’t leave.
There was no counterargument; no one wants to come home in spring to a pasture full of thawing carcasses.
It was much easier for me to find a college kid, one who didn’t want to leave for winter break, to take over my lease until I return.
After last winter, the thought of surviving another at their home so soon is daunting.
The memory of struggling to make it through those lonely months is still fresh, and I don’t want to slip into another spiral of grief when I’m barely hanging on now.
My parents are aging, though, and I’ve run out of excuses not to come to them—excuses I won’t admit out loud, anyway.
It’s only a few months; that’s what I’m telling myself, just for the winter.
I’ll help take some of the winter chore load off them, keep all their grazing dollar signs alive, and attempt to repay them for keeping me together last year.
They took care of me when I was at my absolute lowest, so I owe them this much at least.
The dirt road stretches out in front of the same beat-up pickup truck I’ve had since high school.
The truck bed is full of feed bags, and the cab is full of classic rock, with me drumming out the beat against the steering wheel.
This road always seems to take double the time it should.
The trees rush past the window, appearing to duplicate, leaving you unsure which mile of the stretch you’re on as the road winds through the hills.
Tiny snowflakes crystalize on the windshield before turning to slush as the wipers swish them away.
The first snow has already come and gone, but this snowfall is the first to stick.
It’s only supposed to come down an inch or two over the next few days.
This hint of snow is nature’s way of giving a final warning before unleashing her full fury.
A flash of brown careens over from the side of the road, tumbling to the center. My hands white-knuckle the steering wheel, and I slam on the brakes. The tires squeal across the slick gravel, stopping just short of the fence post obstructing the road.
“Sorry ‘bout that!” someone yells from the tree line. A man with stringy dark hair and faded coveralls appears to my left, running out of the woods and waving his arms at me.
“Shit!” I gasp, trying to catch my breath from the unexpected stop.
I peel my fingers off the wheel so I can roll the window down.
My eyebrows knit as I fix to hit him with a string of obscenities.
The words die in my mouth as my jaw slams shut and my stomach plummets down to my ass—I recognize him.
It’s Elias Gibson, Cyrus’ dad, whom I haven’t seen since, well, before his son left me two years ago.
He’s also my parents’ neighbor, if you consider existing on the property next to theirs one.
His small cabin is several miles away, separated by acres of dense woods.
I’ve always taken Elias with a grain of salt.
Cyrus wasn’t fond of him, nor was my mother.
Our families moved here from Devil’s Nest eleven years ago.
You’d think we’d be closer, considering we all moved from one end of the Appalachian Trail to the other, but my mama used it as an excuse to cut ties instead of bond.
She made it a point to keep the Gibson family at arm’s length, a constant source of tension in my relationship with Cyrus and Pop’s friendship with Elias.
Despite her protesting, Elias and my pop still drank beers together, and I still fell in love with his son.
I guess Mama wanted more of a fresh start than we did, but I don’t think her distaste for the Gibsons ever left Cyrus’ mind.
“Don’t mind me!” Elias hollers, already dragging the wooden post back the way he came.
I chew my lip, anxiously waiting for Cyrus to appear from the woods to help his dad, but no one comes.
“Just puttin’ in some winter fencing for the hogs.
Wanted ta get a few posts in ‘fore the ground freezes solid.”
I remain silent, throwing my hand up in a half-wave before rolling up the window.
I press down on the door lock, and it clicks loudly into place.
If he recognized me, he gave no indication, which is a relief.
Elias hasn’t lost his creepy demeanor, and it’s definitely odd to be putting in a new fence this time of year.
The ground isn’t completely frozen, but it’s also not easy to break.
While strange, our brief interaction is harmless, I suppose.
Still, my internal alarm is screaming, my nervous system on high alert.
My arm hair rises, brushing uncomfortably against the inside of my jacket.
A shudder rolls through me, but I shake the feeling off before readjusting my grip on the steering wheel.
Once Elias disappears beyond the trees, I rest my head on my hands, trying to clear my mind of the onslaught of intrusive thoughts.
Unprepared for memories of Cyrus to bombard me before I even get home, I try to push them away, but tension builds in my chest until it’s practically radiating off me.
The mind may forget, but the body remembers.
A sickening crunch rings out across the silent winter air, making my stomach somersault back into place.
It’s the push I need to snap out of my doom spiral and get going again.
I throw the truck into gear and hit the gas, making it lurch forward over the fresh snow.
I exhale with relief, more than ready to leave whatever just happened far behind me.
After a few minutes, the driveway up to my parents’ place appears down the road.
It’s been plowed and graveled recently, for which I’m grateful–one less thing to add to my list. My insides are still churning from the strange run-in with Elias and the mixed emotions from returning home.
I hope like hell my mama has a fresh pot of coffee waiting.
A bit of comfort and caffeine would do wonders to settle my nerves.
As my faded red truck pulls up the gravel path, an Anatolian Shepherd barrels towards me.
Powdered snow flies off his fur in bursts as he barks enthusiastically.
Once he’s close enough, he falls into a trot beside the truck.
His curled tail wags like it’s motorized, his tongue lolling out the side of his mouth as he pants.
I smile down at him, and his bright eyes greet me, full of recognition.
My heart warms with his presence; there’s no problem in the world Brig can’t fix.
He’ll be on duty soon, patrolling the perimeter and warding off all that goes bump in the night.
Brig has been guarding this property for almost six years and has fended off some of my demons too.
He didn’t leave my side for those long months I spent on the farm, remembering how to be myself again.
No bout of grief or hours of sobbing could scare him away, but the detour in his duties led to a few livestock losses.
I don’t think Pop will ever forget that—or forgive it.
I pull up next to the old, farm-style house just as my mama steps onto the front porch, still drying her hands on a kitchen towel.
Her graying hair is swept up, held in the back with a clip.
A few strands hang loose around her face, framing her stoic expression.
My mama, Kate, is a quiet woman, but she’s loving in her own way.
Each of her mannerisms feels calculated, keeping her feelings flatlined until my pop or I react first. It’s like she hasn’t figured out what threshold of emotion will keep us from pulling away.
Taking a deep breath, I step out of the truck, my boots crunching against the slush covering the gravel. The air is crisp here, pure compared to the city I just left, and fills my lungs with a stinging cold. I force my mouth into a tight-lipped smile. “Hey, Mama.”
She gives me a gentle wave before turning to go back inside. “Jace, you’re just in time for supper,” she says quietly, tossing the words over her shoulder.
Her brevity nettles me, but I crack a genuine smile as Brig catches up and places his cold, wet nose on the back of my hand.
“Hey, boy!” I squeal, a noise reserved solely for him.
I kneel, letting him jump into my arms and cover my face in sloppy kisses and hot, doggy breath.
“I missed you too,” I laugh, wiping my face with the arm of my jacket.
With one last pat on his head, I go up the porch steps and follow my mama inside.