Chapter 1

ONE

Rain hammered down on Malcolm Trent, icy nails, relentless and cold, penetrating through his coat down to his bones. Water filled his boots. Evening had passed to early night, the light transitioning from gray to black without so much as a flicker of sunset. His headlamp did little for his eyesight in these conditions. The hours spent battling the rising floodwater from the stream left him exhausted, sweat adding its brine to the mix. An early spring thaw, coupled with torrential rain, threatened to erode his land, making planting season a more arduous task than it already was.

Every sandbag he set was quickly overcome by the waterline. It was a man versus mother nature battle royale, and she was setting him up for the knockout. He set the last of his sandbags on the stack lining the bend. His legs trembled and his back ached. There was a time when he could’ve kept pace for another couple of hours. Those days had long since passed. He let out a low groan as he stretched before turning his back to the rushing water.

Smoke seeped from the chimney of his ranch. He was glad to see the fire was still burning. He began his trek up the muddy landscape, his boots sinking to the heel with each step. Malcom passed by his well. Over the rattling of its tin roof, he heard the roar of engines.

Two black SUVs rolled up the gravel driveway, their tires slipping against the slick, loose stones. The polished vehicles gleamed under the wet assault. He continued to his house and climbed the steps leading to his door. He didn’t get many visitors. Definitely not on a night like this. He took a step towards his shotgun, leaning against the porch railing.

The sight of those sleek cars and the man in the front passenger seat of the second vehicle churned his stomach.

He reached for the shotgun, lifted it off the railing, and fired into the air. The sharp report cut through the storm. He was beyond pleasantries.

The well-dressed man leading the group emerged with an umbrella held over his head, his features impassive, as if the gunshot warning barely registered. His associates flanked him, silent, their movements precise.

"Mr. Trent," the man called, his voice a smooth blade slicing through the rain. "I’m afraid we still have some unfinished business."

The umbrella man’s cohort adjusted his coat, revealing the holstered pistol at his side, an understated but clear message. Compliance wasn’t optional.

"I already told you. I’m not selling.” Malcolm lowered the shotgun slightly but kept his grip firm on the stock. “There’s nothing left to talk about, Mr. Covington. Best you and your friends be goin’ now. Before I decide to be less hospitable with my point of aim."

“You sure are a stubborn old coot.” No humor in the man’s voice, the coldness with which he spoke matched the rain’s relentless assault. "Unfortunately, the terms are non-negotiable." He gestured toward the house. "Shall we?"

The two men behind him took a step forward, outnumbering Malcom, outgunning him. He wanted to resist, to take a stand for the land that had been in his family for generations. But what could he do against this kind of power?

Malcolm cursed and turned toward the house, his hands tightening on the shotgun as he led the way. The conversation that was about to take place would change everything.

“Mr. Trent, be a dear and leave that shotgun out here.”

Malcom hesitated, keeping his grip tight on the gun, before doing as he was told. Once inside, the warmth of his living room felt like a betrayal. Beauregard Covington set his umbrella alongside the shotgun and sauntered in. He directed Malcom to sit.

Covington took a handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped off a spot on the threadbare couch, placing a briefcase between them like an executioner laying down his tools. His eyes locked with Malcolm’s. "The future of this property isn’t something you can afford to decide on sentiment alone, Mr. Trent. This is business. And I am a businessman."

“You’re nothing of the sort. You’ve been chasing people off their property.” Malcolm’s teeth clenched, sending a ripple along his jaw. “You’re nothing but a two-bit thug. And I got the right mind to?—”

Covington held up a finger, bringing silence to the room. Any hint of the false charm was gone. “This back and forth has become tiresome. It seems to me we are at an impasse. Would you agree?”

Malcom stalled. His eyes darted around to the other men in the room. The walls were closing in. A tremor vibrated his gaunt frame. It wasn’t the soaking clothes clinging to him. It was the coldness in the man across from him that unsettled Malcom to his core.

“Then I guess you leave me no choice.” Covington signaled to a man standing behind him.

Before Malcom could turn to face this unseen threat, he was struck at the base of his skull. Pain radiated in his head and spread throughout his body. The warm light cast by his fireplace was immediately doused. The last thing he saw was the bright white of Covington’s suit before it was exchanged for darkness.

The icy water continued its slow, relentless crawl up Malcolm Trent’s legs, a creeping reminder of the end that was fast approaching. Suspended by ropes tied to his wrists, Malcolm's body hung limp, exhaustion and cold rendering him numb to the biting pain. The world had narrowed to the sound of water rushing through the stone walls of the well and the quiet creak of the ropes as they strained to hold his weight. Each passing second drained more of the fight from him.

His mind, once sharp, was now fogged by the cold, drifting between flashes of regret and memories that felt too far away. Even the throbbing ache in his wrists had dulled. Only the rising water remained as the one thing he could still feel, its presence inescapable as it slowly claimed him. The melted snow and spring rains had conspired to make the well a death trap.

This was not the way he'd expected to die, alone in the dark, hanging above the very water that had once sustained his family’s land. Malcolm had fought his entire life for that land. He’d worked this land since his childhood, following in his father’s footsteps. Down the line it had gone for nearly two hundred years. And now, as the floodwaters slowly rose, he was to be buried with it.

He tried to picture his daughter, Maggie. The guilt gnawed at him; they hadn’t spoken in years. Stubbornness had cost him so much more than he was willing to admit. Now, all he wanted was forgiveness for the harsh words he'd spoken at her mother’s funeral. Words that had driven his daughter away when he’d needed her most.

As the water touched his chest, Malcolm gasped for breath, his lungs burning with the cold. The darkness was closing in, his vision tunneling. A warmth, strange in this cold place, settled over him. Was this how it felt to die? He thought of Glenda, his late wife. He had failed her. To his daughter, his firefly. He had failed them both.

Against his will, his head dropped, chin resting against his collarbone. His eyes closed as he surrendered to the inevitable. The Trent family legacy was ending here, in the cold, unfeeling ground.

Then, his thoughts stilled, and all that was left was the sound of the gurgling water.