Chapter Ten
By the time the sun slid low, the soybeans had turned to paper—leaves dry and hanging, pods rattling like loose change in a worn-out pocket. Heat shimmered off the flats. Dust floated in the light like ghosts that wouldn’t settle.
Amara wiped her hands on her jeans and leaned on the hitch. The farm was quiet the way only harvest made it quiet—no chaos, just work. Just waiting.
Cord McCoy and Sadler Barnes came up on the four-wheeler, dust trailing behind them like smoke. Cord was driving like he always did—fast and loose—and Sadler rode stiff like he thought death might come from a bump in the wrong place. Eighteen, both of them, and pretending they weren’t.
“We pulled from the ridge and south flats,” Cord said, hopping off, mesh bag in hand. “Ridge is readin’ fourteen-two. Flats closer to fifteen-five. If the wind stays, we might hit thirteen by tomorrow.”
Sadler nodded, proud like he’d summoned the wind himself. “Pods are snappin’ clean,” he added, like that meant something bigger than it did. He shook the bag, and the dry clatter ran up her arm like a nerve.
Amara pulled one glove off with her teeth and cracked a pod between her fingers. Beads jumped into her palm, round and tight. She dumped a handful into the tester, watched the numbers climb, settle.
“Tomorrow after lunch,” she said. “Storm might clip us Sunday.”
She handed them each a mason jar from the cooler—sweet tea, not too cold, not too sweet. They drank like they were trying to impress her with how fast they could suffer.
Sadler snuck a glance at the line of her ribs where the tank stuck. Cord caught it, smirked, looked away. Boys trying to play men, not realizing she’d seen it all before.
“Here’s the plan,” she said, and their spines straightened like she’d snapped a chalk line.
“Cord, mow the east headland to the creek. Flag the seep. Sadler, sweep out Wagon Two—floor to sides, no fines left. Then plug the bin fans in, test the belts. Ten minutes only. Don’t cook the motor.
Nobody goes in the bin alone, nobody touches the sump without me there. Got it?”
“Got it,” they said, voices half a shade deeper.
She turned toward the header under the lean-to, already walking.
The air smelled like cut stems and algae and something faintly spoiled, like water that hadn’t moved in too long. The barn used to smell like life—sun, hay, machine oil. Now it smelled like staying stuck. Like a second life she hadn’t asked for growing moss on her skin.
“Reel fingers need swapping,” she called over her shoulder, testing a knife with her thumb. A bead of blood rose. She wiped it on her jeans. “Grease zerks at first light. Then calibrate the monitor. If there’s time after the mow, mark rocks on the south edge. Anything that’ll bite the sickle.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Cord said. “You runnin’ the combine?”
“Yeah,” she said. “If Brock shows, I’ll throw him on the cart.”
She didn’t see the way they both straightened at that. Like hearing her in that cab meant something. Like it said she was more than a boss—she was the thing the work orbited around.
Sadler smiled. “Mr. James used to say if it rattled like a thief’s pocket, it’s time.”
Her jaw ticked. “He wasn’t wrong.” She handed the tester back to him, firm. “You’re good today. Keep it tight.”
It landed like it always did—with weight. Like she was handing them something worth carrying.
They lit up. Tried to hide it. Failed. Cord swung back onto the four-wheeler. Sadler jogged toward the wagon, doubled back for the broom because she’d said sweep it out, and Sadler Barnes never half-did anything she told him straight.
Cord paused at the barn door. “Need anything else?”
“I’m set,” she said. “Watch your hands. Don’t be heroes.”
They peeled off. She watched them go—two good boys who didn’t know the road from here to broken was barely a step.
She bent to check the chain on the auger. Gave it one sharp tug. It held. She said, “That’ll do,” and meant it.
But when she straightened, the ache in her chest came with her. Not sharp. Not loud. Just tired.
She didn’t want to be the one holding it all together. She wanted a house with walls and light switches and a man who came home at five and kissed her on the porch. She wanted a baby in a carrier and a roast in the oven and a life that didn’t feel like a second draft she hadn’t agreed to.
She wanted out.
But she kept building like she was staying.
Because what else was there?
Her mama needed her. The farm ran through her blood like bad weather. And now Ethan Kane—like a goddamn storm with a jawline—was back, stirring up everything she’d buried.
Amara grabbed the grease gun and muttered, “Just for now.”
She didn’t believe it.
But the machine didn’t care.
It just needed running.
* * * *
Amara took the porch steps two at a time, thighs burning, dust streaked like warpaint down her arms. The wood groaned under her boots, same way it always had. Before she could reach the screen door, it creaked open like it knew who was coming.
Mama stepped out in her Sunday blouse, lipstick fresh, purse tight under her arm. She smelled like rosewater and discipline.
“Off to Wilcox for my refill,” she said breezily. “Dropping a cobbler at the church, might sit a spell with Luella. Back in a few hours.”
“I’ll go,” Amara said, breath still high from the field. “Just tell me what you need.”
“I said I’m going.” Georgianna didn’t pause, didn’t blink—just hitched the purse higher and scanned the horizon like she had somewhere cleaner to be. “You’ve got Cord mowing the east headland and Sadler dragging a broom through Wagon Two. Stay and see it done. Let me handle what’s mine.”
“And what if I don’t like how you’re handling it?” Amara said, voice cutting sharper than she meant. “Or who you’re inviting to help.”
Georgianna’s smile faltered just long enough to let the temper flash through. “Plenty happens you don’t like, Amara.”
“I saw you invite Kane to stay.”
“I didn’t invite him. I didn’t ask him.” Her tone hardened. “But work’s here. He’s here. You think that’s a coincidence?”
Amara folded her arms. “I think you should’ve told him to leave.”
“What options do we have?” Georgianna’s voice went falsely light, the way it did when she was most dug in. “You got hands lined up I haven’t met?”
“Any option that doesn’t start with him.” Amara jerked her chin toward the side yard, where the old truck sat half in shadow. “He’s not family. He’s a complication.”
“He’s a man with two good hands and a conscience,” Georgianna said sharply. “And your daddy trusted him.”
“That was ten years ago, Mama. You think he’s still that man?”
“I think,” Georgianna said slowly, “he’s the one who showed up. And sometimes that’s enough.”
The porch went still. Sun beat down like judgment.
Amara’s jaw clenched. “He kissed me last night.”
Georgianna didn’t flinch. Just adjusted her purse strap.
“Didn’t ask. Didn’t wait. Just—took.” Her throat tightened. “And you set him a place?”
Georgianna looked her dead in the eye. “Because pride don’t pay for seed. And refusal don’t fix a roof.”
“That’s what you learned, huh?” Amara shot back. “Let the men do what they want, so long as the bills get paid.”
Georgianna’s lips went thin. “You think that house you’re building raised itself? Think your father didn’t make calls he hated, shake hands he couldn’t stand?”
“I’m not him.”
“No, you’re not,” Georgianna said. “But you’re here. And this land doesn’t give a damn what you feel—only what you finish.”
Amara stepped forward. “And what about me, Mama? What about what I want?”
Georgianna’s voice went quiet. “You had time to want. We all did. Then life happened.”
“Bullshit,” Amara said, low. “You want me stuck.”
“I want you safe.” Her mother’s hands trembled once—just once—then went still again. “You think I want you to rot here? No. But I want you alive. And that boy—he might be the only thing standing between you and what’s coming.”
“Or he is what’s coming,” Amara whispered.
They stared at each other. The porch light, still burning at mid-afternoon, hummed faintly between them.
Finally, Georgianna stepped down to the gravel. Hit the fob. The Chevy chirped. She pulled open the door.
“At least skip Luella,” Amara called after her. “She’s a Roulstone in pearls and snakebite prayers.”
“It’s church business,” Georgianna said. “I can be polite.”
“Polite is how they take your land and call it grace.”
Georgianna slid behind the wheel, window halfway down. She looked out at her daughter like she was measuring something final.
“I’ll be back when I’m back.”
“How long?”
“One hour.” The smile came back on—thin, bright, weaponized. “Maybe more. Don’t wait up.”
The truck rolled out, tires whispering over the gravel. At the end of the drive, Georgianna paused—looked left toward town, right toward the ridge. Then turned toward the steeple.
Amara stood in the heat, hands on her hips, fury tucked under her ribs like a second heart. Down the hill, Ethan’s truck sat quiet and waiting. The bin fan thumped. Cord whooped from the headland. Sadler swept in rhythm like it meant something. The kitchen window flared sunlight.
Ethan didn’t move.
Neither did she.
Amara shoved the screen door open so hard it slapped against the wall and bounced. She didn’t care. Didn’t flinch. Just stalked through the kitchen with her boots still on, dust trailing like a smoke signal behind her.
The air inside was thick—warm, heavy, stale with grease and silence. She yanked open the fridge, cracked open the first container she touched. She grabbed a fork from the drawer and took two bites of the chicken pasta standing up.
Her stomach turned. She tossed the fork into the sink and ran the water, hard and fast, like she could wash the taste out of her mouth and the memory off her skin.
Ethan Kane kissing her like he’d never left. Her mama smiling like it was all fine. Like it was all normal.
She braced her hands on the edge of the sink, head bowed, steam from the hot tap curling around her throat.