3. Ethan

I can't tellwhich pisses me off more: finding out the farm is in debt, finding out that Lia knew about it and didn't tell us, or having to sit with my arm around my Gran's prized sheep as I drive through town to pick up catalogs for seed we apparently can't afford.

Baabara follows behind me like a dog as I stalk through the Feed 'n Seed. Nobody bats an eye at her being in here, and I silently will her not to shit on the floor while I pick out the catalogs I need. I avoid eye contact with Chen at the counter and stomp back to my truck, shoving the catalogs in the glove box so Baabara doesn't eat them on the way home.

I drive faster than I ought to on the dirt lane, kicking up a cloud of dust that hangs in the dry February air. I pull off my hat and rake a hand through my hair. This is always the time of year Grandad worked on the books while I handled the machinery repairs and hauled beans to the granary over in Climax. I smack the hat against the steering wheel. If I'd gotten more involved in the books sooner, we wouldn't be in this situation.

I've always hated math, though. Never could stand it and happily paid my younger brothers to help me with my homework…which meant they did it for me while I took on their chores. Moving my body, working with soil, and fixing machines always made sense to me. I feel at home with a wrench in my hand. Sit me in front of a computer and I'm like a box turtle trying to cross a highway.

I climb out of the truck, whistle at Baabara, and open the gate to her palace. She doesn't move, so I growl and haul her into her damn home before stomping off to the barn. I have to lose myself in practical work or I'll destroy something.

Actually, that's an idea. Gran could always use more firewood. I switch directions, striding toward the stump where Bedd men have been splitting logs for generations. Grandad's axe leans against the trunk of an oak I dragged out of the ground a few weeks ago.

I quickly lose myself to the rhythm of the work. I split the wood into neat logs that won't be too heavy for Gran to pick up from the rack, not that she should have to do that with Jackson staying at the house. I snort because there's no way my rockstar brother is going to risk splinters moving wood. He'd have to switch to air guitar.

The light shifts and I'm sure hours have gone by before I stop to wipe the sweat from my brow. It's cold, even for February, but I lost my jacket and flannel a long time ago, working in just a thermal shirt as I try not to think about Lia Thorne.

We were just kids when we were together, and it's useless to pine after her all these years later. It's just that I always thought we were it.

She used to be what I daydreamed about while chopping wood, not the thought I try to escape. Lia was always college-bound but dreamt of coming back to Fork Lick afterward. We talked about making a life together—me working the land, her using her analytical mind for something big.

And babies.

Fire roars through the muscles in my back as I heave the axe, trying to drown out the future she and I aren't making a reality. That was a child's dream and I'm a man now, with man-sized problems. Like how to keep hold of this land, and everyone on it.

Once I've split nearly the entire tree, I realize I haven't had a drop of water in hours. I make my way up to Gran's house for a drink. It's quiet for a change, with everyone out at work or running errands. Sweat pours down my spine and chills my skin as I stand at the counter chugging glass after glass of water from the massive sink in Gran's kitchen. This is where she soaked beans for us, washed our cuts and, according to her, bathed us all as babies, and our dad before that.

Gran and Grandad gave everything they had to us kids when our parents died. They pushed through their own grief and took in five kids. Now Grandad's gone, too. There's no way in hell I'll let anyone take this home from Gran.

I already did my part to drive away Samuel and Alexander. Gran would never say so, but I see it in her eyes, the hurt I caused ignoring their ideas and bearing down on Alex just for being younger. Saving this place is going to require a lot more than creative accounting. Sweaty and sore, I have the clarity of mind now to see that I'm going to need all my siblings' help to keep this dream alive. And that's going to require me to mend a lot of fences.

I set down my glass gently and reach for the flour sack towel to dry my hands and mouth where I slobbered a bit in my haste to hydrate. I spot a tidy stack of papers on the kitchen counter and lean closer to get a better look.

It's a stack of information from the bank, although I recognize Lia's handwriting in the margins. I trace a filthy fingertip along the fine print, noting my cracked and damaged nails in contrast to the white paper and tidy notes she made for my family. There's no getting around the massive red debt number in block font, but I do see that Lia has outlined a few options to start paying it down.

Chopping wood isn't going to solve this problem, and Lia's firm wouldn't have sent her if they didn't think they could get something out of us to put toward what we owe. I turn and tuck the towel neatly over the oven door handle where I found it and walk to the table, pulling out the captain's chair at the head..

I force myself to read Lia's notes from top to bottom, even if I don't understand much of it beyond the word "diversify." I take a deep breath and let it out slowly through my nose. I glance at the calendar Gran has hanging on the side of the fridge where it's always been. She made a note for tomorrow and circled it in pink marker:

10AM. Lia visit.

Next to the calendar is a photo of Grandad and me, leaning against the pole barn, filthy from loading beans into the grain truck last year. He must have known then about the trouble we were in, but you wouldn't know it from the expression on his face. He's smiling with his whole being, an arm around my shoulder, one hand pointing at the photographer. The whole thing is blurry, like the photographer didn't have enough time to wait for the lens to focus. That must have been early in Gran's smartphone phase. Now she's constantly taking videos of us to send to her knitting friends.

I feel a series of uncomfortable emotions—grief at the loss of the man who raised me, but also remorse at letting myself cling stubbornly to the principles of a man who, frankly, got us all into a heap of trouble and hid it from us rather than pulling us together like a team. Eugene Bedd clung to his beliefs in the best way to do things, and I took his word as gospel rather than listen to anyone else. Rigidity landed us in a hot mess.

There has to be a way to honor Grandad's legacy while making some changes that can reunite the Bedd family. Maybe it'll take Lia—an insider with years of outsider perspective—to show us the way.

I neaten the pile of papers, careful not to get them dirty, and leave them on the table. I can listen politely to what Lia Thorne has to say if it means saving Bedd Fellows Farm.