Chapter 1. Barn To Run #2
Tuesday morning, I donned my coveralls and work boots, kissed Sawdust on top of his head, and gave the other two cats a quick goodbye scratch under their chins.
I strode out to my red SUV and aimed for Leipers Fork.
With rush hour over, the roads were relatively clear and I arrived in just two minutes shy of an hour.
I’d been to the small community of Leipers Fork before, to hear one of my favorite local country artists perform an acoustic set at a casual, intimate venue.
Though the village was relatively unpopulated now, Leipers Fork had been the hub for commerce in Williamson County back in the day.
It was situated on both the Natchez Trace, a vital trade and travel route for Native Americans and early American settlers, and the Leipers Fork branch of the Harpeth River.
The community was just a hop, skip, and jump from the bustling town of Franklin, the site of a monumental Civil War battle and the current commercial center for the county.
As I made my way down Old Hillsboro Road past the outskirts of Franklin, I came upon large swaths of cleared farmland dotted with grazing horses or cattle, enormous country estates owned by popular country artists or record studio executives, and signs offering large undeveloped parcels for sale.
Utility poles lined the road, bringing electricity, cable, and phone service to the rural area.
I slowed down, rolling past a newly constructed open-air shopping center.
Though the look of the place was rustic to fit in with the rural landscape, its tenants were decidedly upscale.
The center featured a day spa, a fancy coffee shop, a French bakery, a women’s workout studio called Gym Femme, and a combination bookstore / gift shop called Stories & Such.
Several of the spaces were vacant, with signs in the windows advertising them for lease.
A Dodge Charger Hellcat was backed into a parking spot near the road.
With its bright red paint, the dual heat extractors on the hood, and vicious cat logo, the modern-day muscle car demanded attention.
Like many police departments, the Metro Nashville PD had bought several Chargers for use as patrol vehicles.
Collin had been assigned a Charger when he’d still been a beat cop, and he’d loved its power, performance, and style.
The plain sedan he’d been provided for use in his detective work was good for stakeouts, when he needed to be inconspicuous, but the car was not particularly appealing.
A large blond man sat at the wheel of the Hellcat, sunglasses on and windows cracked to let in fresh air. He was probably waiting for his wife or girlfriend to finish shopping, or maybe he’d grabbed an espresso at the coffee place and decided to enjoy it in his car before getting back on the road.
As the voice coming from my phone directed me to turn, I came upon a tall grain silo.
Painted on it was a World War I–style poster featuring Uncle Sam holding a hoe.
A man and woman tended rows of vegetables in the background.
Alongside the silo was a restaurant. The two-story wooden structure resembled an old farmhouse with its wide, covered porch, metal roof, and narrow red-brick chimney, but it was clearly of recent construction.
A sign mounted on the porch identified the place as the VICTORY GARDEN FARM-TO-TABLE RESTAURANT.
I turned between the restaurant and the shopping center onto a dirt road so overgrown as to be barely discernible among the dried grass and weeds.
A sign that read PRIVATE PROPERTY—NO TRESPASSING was posted next to the road.
Just beyond it stood a wooden utility pole, thick wires connecting it to another farther up.
I rolled along slowly and cautiously, my SUV bouncing in the ruts and exacerbating my morning sickness.
When my mother had called earlier, she’d been glad to hear I was feeling nauseated.
“That mean things are going well!” Easy for her to say.
She wasn’t the one fighting to keep the contents of her tummy down.
To my left behind the Victory Garden restaurant stood two enormous tunnel-shaped greenhouses, each one nearly as big as an airplane hangar.
Past the greenhouses was a large pasture planted with cool-weather ryegrass.
A scarecrow family of three grinned at me from their wooden posts.
The female had long cornhusk hair, and wore a burlap hat and denim overalls in a shade of blue similar to my coveralls.
Her left arm was raised in greeting. Her straw-stuffed husband stood beside her, his hand on the shoulder of the child standing before them.
A few sheep and a couple of pigs moved about in large pens in front of a red barn, while a variety of chickens strutted and pecked outside the fences. Their feathers ranged from white to black, with reds, golds, and grays in between. One colorful bird sat atop a post, as if keeping a lookout.
Four black and white Holstein cows lazily chewed their cuds nearby.
A fifth cow with a bright pink collar and a cowbell around her neck rubbed her hindquarters back and forth against the trunk of an oak tree near the back corner, using the rough bark to give herself a nice scratch.
Her cowbell gave off a soft clang-clang-clang with each twist of her hips.
A collie mix with a coat of cream and reddish-brown ran in circles around the cow, yapping up a storm, trying to herd her back with the others. Like the cow, the collie wore a pink collar. The maverick continued to rub her butt on the tree, paying the furry, fervent dog no mind.
The collie must have decided she’d have better luck herding my SUV.
She sprinted across the pasture to the wooden fence, barking up a storm as she ran along the perimeter, trying to get me in line.
I unrolled my window and called out, “Good morning, doggie!” She wagged her tail and issued an arf-arf in response.
Eventually, the dog reached the end of the pasture and had to give up her pursuit.
A gravel road extended off to the left of the dirt road and ran along the outer perimeter of the pasture’s back fence.
The road appeared to be an easement of some sort, probably for the utility companies.
To the right side of the road was another wooden utility pole.
My eyes followed the wires through a stand of tulip poplar and dogwood trees to the livery stable from the photo Gail Pittman had texted.
I continued on, passing a crumbling dry-stack stone wall that stood about four feet high.
The walls were built without mortar, hence the word dry in their name.
Rather than relying on mortar to hold them together, the stones were shaped and carefully placed so that their weight and surface friction would hold them together.
Fairly common around Nashville and used to delineate roads and divide pastures, many of the walls had been built by Irish or Scottish immigrants, who had brought the techniques with them from their homelands.
They hadn’t built the walls alone, though, hence the reason the walls were often referred to as “slave walls.”
I drove through a wide opening in the wall and pulled up to the dilapidated livery stable to find two cars parked side by side.
On the left was a small gray Nissan Versa, one of the least expensive cars on the market and an older model at that.
The other car was its polar opposite, a shiny blue Genesis luxury sedan.
The drivers of the vehicles were nowhere to be seen.
I parked next to the Nissan, noting a placard hanging from the rearview mirror that identified the driver as a member of the press. Why would a journalist be here?
I cut my engine and glanced around. One of the barn doors was slid fully to the side, while the other hung cockeyed from the track, its hardware having come loose.
From the hayloft door above, a pair of mourning doves kept watchful eyes on the activity below, probably trying to decide whether the loft would make a good nesting site or if they should seek a more hospitable spot to raise their young.
One issued the sorrowful coo-ooh-ooh sound that had earned the birds their name.
As I climbed out of my car, a white van with the Whitaker Woodworking logo on the side turned onto the dirt road and headed my way.
Buck, right on time. The dog repeated her process, running along the fence and barking at Buck.
Like me, he unrolled his window and called out a greeting to the dog.
Humans and animals might not speak the same language, but we could still communicate pretty darn well.
Sawdust had taught me that. Buck pulled his van up next to my SUV, and climbed out.
He greeted me with a lift of his chin and a “hey.”
We donned our scuffed yellow hard hats. I’d decorated mine with daisy decals, partly to make it cuter, but also to make it easily distinguishable on job sites, where tools and gear could easily get mixed up.
Voices drew our attention to the barn doors as two people emerged.
The first was a tall woman in her mid-fifties with brown skin, dramatic eyebrows, and soft pewter-colored curls.
The second was a fortyish Asian man with just a hint of white creeping in around his temples.
The woman motioned us over then extended a hand, her demeanor businesslike but not unfriendly. “You must be Whitney Flynn. I’m Gail Pittman.”
“Nice to meet you,” I said, taking her hand. Buck shook her hand, too. “Buck Whitaker, Whitney’s business partner.”
She held out her hand to indicate the man beside her. “This is Tyler Yee.”