Hope. Thin. Fragile.
But it’s there.
I tighten my grip on the wheel and keep driving.
CHAPTER 1
THATCHER
“Kelly?! Where the hell is that invoice?”
My voice barely clears the roar of the mill, so I shout it again, leaning out of my office doorway.
The scent of fresh-cut pine and oil hangs thick in the air, sawdust drifting like fine snow through shafts of light cutting in from the high windows.
They say never work with family.
Those people never had my sister.
She’s a goddamn miracle on days I don’t want to throttle her.
I’m kidding. Mostly.
I wouldn’t actually kill Kelly—but I’ve thought about it ever since I was six and she was nine, and she lied about eating the last bag of strawberry fruit snacks after school.
Mom believed her. I got sent to bed without dessert.
I’ve never forgiven her.
“What did you say?” Kelly hollers back.
“The invoice for that prick, Lawrence!” I shout. “The one who thinks he owns half the county!”
The reason for the yelling is simple.
Our offices sit right inside the mill. On a slow day, it’s loud as hell.
Today is not a slow day.
The main saw screams as a massive white pine log gets fed through, teeth biting deep. I know bark and chips are flying about haphazardly without looking.
Forklifts beep as they haul stacked boards toward the drying racks.
The whole place hums with controlled violence—steel, muscle, and timber working together.
Dad built this mill from the ground up. When he retired a few years back, Kelly and I took it over.
He packed Mom up and moved her south to North Carolina where winters don’t bite and people think forty degrees is cold.
Me? I stayed.
Kelly stayed with her husband, Mike, and their son, Evan.
Said she wouldn’t want to raise her boy anywhere else. I get that.
The staying here part.
Not the having a kid part.
