Chapter 1

ONE

Jackson swore as a lick of pain streaked through him, his back bent, as he planted the last of the season"s seeds in the parched ground, hoping that this year would be different. The Walker family farm had been in his bloodline for generations, and he couldn"t bear to be the one to let it go under.

The land, his land, was a tapestry of tilled earth and it whispered stories of generations that toiled upon it. His calloused hands and strained muscles, were testaments to his devotion, and harked back to his ancestors.

The farm was not just a livelihood.

It was his legacy.

Last season"s plight, however, was etched deeply into the furrows and ridges of the land. Winter had been a harsh mistress blanketing the soil with a heavy, suffocating snow that refused to melt until well into what should"ve been spring. The delayed thaw had given way to a spring that was mercilessly dry, the rainfall merely a miser"s drop.

The crops had suffered—corn stalks stunted, wheat thin and spindly. They rustled with a dry, crackling laugh in the wind, mocking Jackson"s perseverance. His bank account ached like the drought-ridden earth, the financial strain almost too palpable.

This season, as winter approached, Jackson was in no better of a place.

Yet, standing there, silhouetted against the twilight sky, Jackson"s eyes held a fire that not even the most barren winter could smother. Resolve tightened his jaw. His farm was not going to fall—his heritage would not be reduced to dust and empty stalks.

Wiping sweat from his brow, he squinted up at the ominous clouds churning in the sky above. The weatherman hadn"t predicted a storm, but the unpredictability of the weather these days made it hard to trust forecasts.

With a sigh, he straightened his aching spine and trudged back to the red barn.

As he passed the tumbledown barn, Jackson"s thoughts drifted back to his late grandfather, who"d always said, "Jackson, this farm was ours for the taking. It will never steer you wrong so long as you do right by it."

Jackson chuckled bitterly. "Yeah, right, Gramps. All I"m getting from this land is a headache."

The screen door of his farmhouse creaked and clapped shut, a defiant drum in the quiet evening. "Jackson! Supper"s ready!" Aunt Marie's voice was as warm and comforting as the quilt she"d hand-sewn him when he was a boy.

Only then did he realize he left a field unchecked. "In a minute, Aunt Marie!" he called back, a gentle twang in his voice, one honed by the land he stood upon. "Just gotta check on the north field real quick!"

Turning back on his foot, Jackson moved to check the field he'd missed during his mumbling complaints. His boots sucked at the mud as he moved to the closest field — a sign that perhaps the desperate prayers for rain had been heard—as he trudged towards the last stretch of green land that clung to life. He knew some of the brightness would have drained from his blue eyes had anyone been watching him.

"Dammit," he murmured, kneading his forehead with gritty fingers.

The north field was no better than the rest. He knelt, cradling a wilted soybean plant in his hand that no longer stood on its own out of the ground. The leaves were a sickly yellow, its edges brown and curled like old paper.

Plucking one as if it could be fine inside the withered wrapper, Jackson peeled it open and popped the miserably small bean into his mouth.

The bean was tasteless. There was no juice, no life, in it.

The pre-grown beans he cheated with and planted last week stood out like sore thumbs - they were already shriveled, their vines turning brown and brittle. He pulled one out of the ground, inspecting its wrinkled form.

"This isn't right," he muttered, feeling the texture with his rough hands.

Moving down to the next crop marking, Jackson knelt down to check on the corn that typically grew strong here.

The vibrant green stalks were long gone, replaced by brittle brown ones that crunched under his touch. They'd not sprouted in fall, and with winter coming, he wasn't looking at a random late harvest. Not from this corn. The roots seemed to cling on to life, but even they couldn"t withstand the harsh weather any longer.

It wasn"t just his bank account that was withering away.

It was hope, too.

His family"s legacy was slipping through his fingers like sand in an hourglass, each grain representing another desperate attempt to keep his head above water financially. Failure didn"t scare him - he had endured plenty of those in his thirty-one years of life - but this time, it felt different.

This time, it threatened their entire way of life.

"There's gotta be something else," he whispered, almost in prayer, to the soil that seemed to cry out for salvation just as he did.

Taking a deep breath, Jackson rose, brushing the wet dirt from his knees. Hannah, his loyal Border Collie, sidled up beside him, nuzzling his hand with a whimper. It was as if even the dog sensed the gravity of their situation.

Jackson managed a smile for his four-legged companion as if it would make a difference, and scratched her behind her ears. Her quiet pants were comforting and grounding. "We"ll figure this out, girl."

Somehow.

He had tried everything he could think of to save his crops.

Newly dug irrigation ditches.

Fancy fertilizer.

Even fancier feed, even though crops didn"t actually need it.

But nothing seemed to help. The once lush fields now resembled a wasteland; cracked earth and dry stalks swaying in the wind like ghosts of the bounty they once were.

He stood up with the weight of the world on his shoulders as he trudged towards the next marker, the last in the north field.

The potato crop wasn"t faring any better. Twisted vines snaked through the dirt with barely any spuds left to harvest. He kicked a rock on his way, wishing he could release some of the frustration that threatened to boil over. He tried not to dwell on how empty their pantry would be after this season ended or how much debt they"d accumulated trying to stay afloat during these recent hard winters and dry springs, but it was hard when there was were failing crops as far as the eye could see.

Ambling back towards the farmhouse, the colors of sunset seemed to paint a new promise on the canvas of the sky. Jackson"s heart clung to one thing, his determination not to let those who came before him down. He would find a solution. He would save his farm.

Out of the corner of his eye he noticed the red flag up on the tiny mailbox at the end of the walk to the main house. The mailman had come and gone within just the last hour, which meant Dan snuck bad news into the mailbox because he was a chatterbox.

It opened and spilled out more mail than he ever wanted to deal with. Reaching in, he grabbed the stack, his eyes going to the piece of mail on top.

He recognized the crisp embossed text on the envelope: it was a bill from the bank. A heavy feeling settled in his stomach as he pulled out the envelope, his hands shaking as he opened it up. It took only a glance to know that this was not good news; there were numbers here, many of them, and none of them were kind. His farm was sinking deeper into debt with each passing day, and it seemed like there was no end in sight. But he wouldn"t give up. He couldn"t give up.

Now his slow amble was more a pathetic trudge back to the house with the weight of the world on his shoulders once again, he couldn"t help but taste the bitterness of failure in his mouth. Everything around him seemed to mirror that bitter taste - the parched earth beneath his boots, the dying crops that wilted under his gaze, even the cool breeze that blew against his sweaty skin had an edge to it now. The sun was setting, casting long shadows across the fields, painting them with hues of red and orange and purple that served as a stark contrast to Jackson"s mood.

The door opened without a creak. Nothing was dying inside just because the farm failed to thrive. Without looking outside, one could almost believe the Walker Farm held strong in the harsh, fucked up climate humans seemed to create with their pollution.

"You can"t keep stayin" out there," his aunt tsked, her blue eyes soft with concern.

"What good am I doing in here?"

She scoffed and set her hands on her hips. "The same good you"re doing out there."

There was no fighting with his aunt, not because she was right but because, like any good Midwesterner, she could argue until she was blue in the face while knowing she was wrong.

"Yes, Ma"am."

She smiled, obviously happy with her victory. "Come on then, it"s time for supper. Tomorrow is a new day and those clouds look right as rain. Besides, maybe then you can look at taking care of yourself and not just this land."

Jackson dropped down in the wooden chairs that had been the kitchen table in this house since before he was born.

"Do you miss them?" The question came out of the blue as he thought about taking care of himself.

His aunt nodded, knowing he referred to her husband and his parents. All three had been killed over a decade ago in the fire that scorched the land and started the beginning of his problems.

Problems that left him with no time to do fill the halls of this house with life.

The quiet didn"t bother him, he enjoyed it after the beating sun all day, but he knew his aunt wanted these halls filled with family.

And while Jackson couldn"t give her a family without some help, he"d always imagined adopting a kid or two with his husband and living on the land just as his family had always done.

Something that will never happen if you don"t fix the fucking land.

Supper was a quiet affair. Marie"s home-cooked meals were usually a time for laughter and recounting the day"s labor, but tonight, forks scraped against plates, and glances were traded over the dwindling steam of mashed potatoes and roast chicken. The tension could be cut with a knife, but no one dared address it.

Jackson"s gaze lifted to the photo on the wall. His parents, forever smiling, forever youthful, seemed to watch over them. They would thankfully never know the danger their legacy was in. It fueled his resolve to keep the farm that had been his family"s pride for centuries.

Marie"s voice broke through his thoughts. "You thought any more about the Miller"s offer for the back forty acres?"

Jackson shook his head, chasing a pea with his fork. "No, I can"t do it. That"s the heart of the farm, Marie."

"But the money, Jack?—"

He looked up, a small, wry smile on his face. "We"ll find another way. I didn"t haul hay before I could walk just to sell off the best of what we got."

Marie reached over, placing her hand on his. "I know you"ll figure it out. You always do."

The night crept fully in as dinner ended. Jackson offering to clean up as Marie retreated to her knitting. Alone in the kitchen, he watched the steam rise from the sink, ghost-like in appearance, and allowed himself a moment to close his eyes, to find that quiet center of grit within him.

Outside, the crickets began their nightly serenade, the stars blinked into existence, and somewhere in the distance, a coyote cried—a wild, lonely sound that resonated with the ache he felt. The serenity of nature stood in stark contrast to the storm within.

But tomorrow was a new day. And Jackson would rise with the sun, just as he always did. Resilient. Unyielding. Because it wasn"t just a farm he was fighting for—it was a legacy.

And legacies don"t die easy.