“Still attached. All toes accounted for,” Jake said, pouring a cup of lukewarm water from a pitcher. “Thanks for asking, Henry.”
“Don’t thank me. You’re the one who decided to take a stroll in an ice storm.” Henry wiped crumbs from his chin. “Though I suppose it saved me from listening to Wes pace a hole in the floor.”
Wes grabbed his jacket from the hook. “I’m going to check the lot. Jake, you stay here. Keep warm.”
“Not a chance,” Jake said. “I’m coming too.”
Wes paused, then crossed to the mudroom closet. He pulled out a pair of worn work boots. “These are Dad’s. They might fit you.”
Jake took them, something shifting in his chest at the casual intimacy of it—wearing Henry’s boots, being handed things like he belonged here.
“Thanks,” he said quietly, lacing them up. “They fit fine.”
When they stepped out onto the front porch, the scene was one of beautiful devastation. The world was glittering, coated in an inch of crystal clear ice that caught the morning sun. But the damage was undeniable. The ground was littered with green boughs, looking like a giant had given the forest a haircut. In the main sales lot, two massive white pines had snapped at the trunk, lying across the gravel drive like fallen soldiers.
Wes felt the old, familiar panic rise in his throat. It was the same feeling as in 2019. TheI-can’t-do-this-alonefeeling.
“It’s too much,” Wes murmured. “We lose the last two days of sales if we can’t clear the drive. And the fence line is down.”
Jake stepped up beside him. He didn’t offer platitudes. He scanned the yard with the same sharp, assessing look he used on spreadsheets. “OK, then. We prioritize the driveway first. Then the fence. We can drag the smaller debris later.”
“It’ll take three days just to clear the driveway with one chainsaw,” Wes said, defeat heavy in his voice.
And that was when they heard it.
A low rumble in the distance. Then another. The first a sound of a heavy diesel engine fighting for traction on the icy road.
Jake squinted against the glare. “Is it the power company?”
Wes shielded his eyes. “No. That’s a Ford.”
A procession turned into the driveway. Leading the pack was a monster of a truck—a lifted F-250 with a plow blade attached to the front. Behind it was the branded delivery van for The Divine Dough, slipping slightly in the slush. And behindthat, Miguel’s beat-up Toyota pickup, followed by Barb’s pristine SUV.
“What the hell?” Wes breathed.
The F-250 roared, the plow dropping with a metallic clang, scraping a wide, muddy path through the ice and debris on the driveway. It pushed the fallen pines aside like they were toothpicks.
The truck parked. The door flew open, and Tucker Shepherd jumped out, looking like a lumberjack in flannel and a beanie.
“Morning, sunshine!” Tucker yelled, his breath clouding the air. “Thought you boys might need a hand!”
Chuck and Brody hopped out of the van. Chuck was carrying a massive stainless-steel pot that required two hands. “I brought chili!” Chuck bellowed. “Spicy brisket. Guaranteed to clear your sinuses.”
Behind them, Miguel jumped out of his truck with Charlie, his nephew. They were already carrying chainsaws.
“Miguel,” Wes stammered as the group converged on the porch. “I can’t pay you guys for this. I can’t?—”
Tucker walked up the steps and punched Wes lightly in the shoulder. “You don’t pay family, dumbass. You just feed ‘em.” He jerked his thumb back toward the road. “Saw your fancy rental car kissing that ditch on the way in. You trying to start a new extreme sport?”
“Something like that,” Jake said, smiling.
“Well,” Brody said, looking at the fallen trees. “Let’s get to work.”
Wes looked at the crowd. His throat felt tight. For years, he’d held himself apart, thinking the farm was his burden alone, believing he had to carry the legacy on his own.
Jake nudged him. “Tell them where to start, Wes.”
But Wes looked at Jake. “You’re better at logistics. You run the show.”
