1. Dusty

On any other night, Silver Bend would be dead as a doornail.

But I could see the glow all the way from the homeplace. I’ve been itching to get to town all day. Swede Days is the biggest, rowdiest party Silver Bend has to offer.

But I needed to finish planting first.

Most guys were done last week. It felt like high school again, like being the last kid to turn in his homework. I watched farmer after farmer finish up ahead of me—all I could do was keep plugging away.

But I’m a man down. Now that Gus is gone, it’s all up to me.

I could have asked for help, I guess. But if I can’t do this by myself now, I’ll never be able to. As much as I love a good party, having a livelihood and a place to live ranks higher.

By some miracle or grace of God, I finished up just after sunset.

Climbing out of my beat up old pickup truck, I can already hear the street dance going full swing. Glancing down at my gray t-shirt and jeans, I realize maybe I ought to have changed first. Reaching into the back of the truck, I grab the roll of blue paper towels I keep in the back and scrub the skim of dust from my forearms.

“Dusty!”

I glance over my shoulder and see my dad’s old lawyer coming my way. “Hey, Carl. How you been, bud?”

Carl Steiner got Runner, my old man, out of more than a few DUIs over the years. Runner always said he don’t play fair, but we don’t pay him to make friends.

Carl stops in front of me. He’s wearing a stiff dress shirt that strains across his round belly, firmly tucked into even stiffer jeans. His belt buckle is only outshone by the championship ring on his finger. I got one of those myself, but I keep it buried somewhere in a shoebox under my bed. A ring like that is liable to take a man’s finger off when he works around heavy machinery.

“No offense, Carl, but you look like shit. What’s wrong with you?”

“What’s wrong with you is more like it.”

Carl grimaces. “I got some good news and some bad news.” He pauses, sucking his teeth as he looks towards the street dance. “Aw, hell, son. I think it might be all bad news, if I’m being honest.”

“Well, be honest then. This to do with Gus?”

Gus, my boss.

Gus, who gave me a chance when nobody else would have.

Gus, who dropped dead from a heart attack just shy of a month ago.

Carl spits to the side. “I finally heard back from that niece of his. The baker in Lincoln? Well, turns out there was some sort of fire or explosion, and her bakery went up in flames.”

“Shit.”

“You see where I’m going with this.”

He shakes his head. “Best thing for her would be to hold on to her uncle’s land. Rent it out.”

“But you think she’s going to want the cash?”

He winces. “It sounds like it. But maybe you can sweet talk her into keeping the land.”

He gives me a sly grin. “I know you know your way around the ladies.”

My reputation proceeds me.

By a long mile.

I think of the woman who baked the cakes for my buddy’s wedding. Edna Korra. Sweet lady with big, soft arms. The sort of lady you would trust to make you a cake. But at almost three times my age, if I tried sweet talking her, she’d probably knock me flat.

And yet, Carl seems to think that is my best strategy with Gus’s niece.

The burned-out baker.

“How am I supposed to talk her into keeping the ground if she wants to liquidate?”

Carl shrugs. “Not sure, bud. But you’ll get your chance. She wants to meet the farm manager. That’d be you.”

One of Gus’s parting gifts was to give me a promotion. From farm hand to farm manager. Fat lot of good it will do if this lady sells the land off. I’ll be the farm manager of nothing. “She say when?”

Carl nods. “Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

That’s sooner than I expected. A heavy feeling settles on my shoulders. “Think she’d at least be open to renting the homeplace?”

Carl winces. “Hard telling, but I’d guess she’d sell it all together.”

“That means I better start looking for a new place to live.”

“I’m sorry, Dusty. Just seems like you kids can’t get a break.”

I look up, distracted. “It’s fine, Carl. We’ll figure it out. We always do.”

Carl pats me on the shoulder. Hoisting his jeans up higher, he nods a goodbye and saunters off towards the dance.

I hesitate by my truck, considering going back home. But I’m damn near out of weed and beer. Might as well stick around. Tossing the towels back into the truck, I turn towards the party.

I see my friends before they see me. My step falters. They call us the golden boys. Seemed like nothing could touch us.

Except it did. It came for me. Always did.

I just never let it show.

I wasn’t born with the silver spoon. Hell, I didn’t even get a plastic spork. I’m not sure what strange twist of fate put me alongside those guys, but if not for them, God only knows where I’d be.

Probably glued to the floor of a bar, just like Runner.

Sometimes fighting genetics is just plain exhausting. But that’s what I do. I fight.

I do it for me.

I do it for my sister.

And it takes everything I got.

Rolling my shoulders, I force them down from my ears. Throwing on a smile that only goes skin deep, I stroll forward, holding out my arms when my buddies see me. “The party has arrived.”