Story Country Bug In

Chapter Nine

The next morning, Don asked Paul if he wanted the heating and cooling ductwork torn out of the walls now that radiant heating was planned. Paul told him to leave it in place. “I’m going with a Provençal well system for cooling—underground pipes that circulate air naturally. The same tubes will help temper the house air year-round.”

At ten o’clock, Paul and Eduardo drove to Russellville to buy a tractor. Paul explained his needs to the salesman and insisted on something ready to roll off the lot. After a short search, he chose a 6120E with an HVAC cab, added a backhoe, a front end loader, a 6x4 diesel Gator for Eduardo, and a 6x12 utility trailer. The total came to just over a hundred thousand dollars. Paul hitched the trailer to his truck and towed it home that afternoon. The dealer promised to deliver the rest in two days.

When they returned, the bank-house slab had been poured. Adam’s crew was already trenching for conduit to the house, barn, and garage. Don reported that the steel building company would start the equipment shed foundation as soon as the trees were cleared. A wood harvester was scheduled for the following day.

Paul pointed out a spot near the future woodshed for stacking logs. “You want us to build you a woodshed?” Don asked. “No, I’ll do that myself. Give me something to stay busy with.”

Later that afternoon, a tilt-bed recovery truck arrived and began hauling away the junk vehicles and scrap Paul had marked for removal.

Once the first load was gone, Paul grabbed a tape measure and a can of marking paint. He laid out the footprint for the new porch steps and the area near the exterior basement door. “I’m going to need hand tools,” he told Eduardo. “Let’s go to Meador’s. Might as well buy everything at once.”

They hooked up the trailer and drove to the big-box store off Exit 57. A helpful employee in a gray apron guided them to the design kiosk, where Paul selected a sturdy covered wood-rack design, entered his dimensions, and received a complete materials list. While the order was pulled, they filled two carts with saws, levels, hammers, drills, nail guns, and every other tool a serious amateur might need.

When the total rang up, Eduardo’s eyes widened. “Boss, that was a bundle.”

Paul shrugged. “Better all at once than running back every other day.”

They added extra screws, common nails, and collated strips for the nailers, then headed home. The lumber would be delivered before evening.

At Shaner’s, Angel had posted a “Closed for Renovations” sign. Choir members arrived ready to help move inventory into the warehouse in exchange for their new robes. Even Reverend Bowman and his wife pitched in. The heavy dollies made quick work of the coolers and freezers, and the new circuits the electrician had installed let them reload everything in short order.

Adam’s crew showed up that same day to set the pole-mounted solar trackers. In a few more days, Angel would be completely off the grid.

After everyone left, Angel sat down with Sheila to finalize paint colors.



Paul and Eduardo never started the woodshed that day. Instead, they unboxed the new tools and organized them on the pegboard in the garage shop bay. Paul was unusually quiet.

“You have a problem, Boss?” Eduardo asked.

“I just feel like I’m not moving fast enough.”

“You can only do so much. Everything is coming together. Stay the course—you’ve already done a lot.”

Paul nodded. “After the woodshed, I want to get a garden in. It’s still early enough.”

“Mi madre and Cecilia will be thrilled,” Eduardo said with a grin. “They’ve been missing their garden.”

That evening, Paul hummed while hanging tools. “…Small and white, clean and bright…”

Angel walked in. “I love that movie!”

Paul turned, surprised. “Well, welcome to my humble farmstead. How are things at the store?”

“Installers are laying floring, oil company is setting new pumps, and Adam’s crew is mounting the solar trackers. How about here?”

“Busy. We’re building the woodshed tomorrow—hopefully.”

Angel stepped over to help unpack the last of the tools. When everything was hung and the trash bagged, Paul asked, “Want to grab lunch at Fat Dawgz?”

“Sounds perfect. Where can I wash up?”

Paul grinned. “At the well pump.”

He pumped while she scrubbed with Lava soap, then she pumped for him. At the restaurant, Angel ordered the Fat Dawgz BLT with mac and cheese; Paul chose the rib platter with coleslaw and fries. Both asked for half-sweet, half-unsweet tea.

Paul was quiet as they ate. “What are you thinking about?” Angel asked.

“Everything I probably shouldn’t be,” he said with a sheepish grin.

“You need to slow down and enjoy what you’re building.”

“I’m trying. I just keep fighting my own timeline.” He paused. “Dessert?”

They split two slices of pecan cheesecake.



The John Deere equipment arrived early the next morning. Paul checked fluids, mounted the auger, and he and Eduardo spent the day digging and setting posts for the woodshed. They framed it with the back to the prevailing winds, used board-and-batten on the three weather sides, and left the southeast face open. The shed roof allowed full-height stacking. At the last minute they decided to add doors on the front to protect against sideways rain from Gulf storms. The doors could wait until morning.

That night Brad called: Paul’s stored boxes would arrive the next day. “No problem,” Paul said. “I’ll put them in the garage for now.”

The following morning, while Eduardo finished bracing the doors, Paul ran to town for hinges. When he returned, the delivery truck was already there. He helped stack the boxes, then they hung the doors and added swivel barn latches.

“Let’s hook up the disc and plow the garden,” Paul said.

Eduardo grinned, fired up the tractor, and they spent the rest of the morning turning soil, harrowing, and forming raised beds. Cecilia and Carmelita came up to watch, chattering excitedly about what they would plant.

Paul turned to the two women. “If you’d like, come with me tomorrow to pick out seeds and starts. I’ll set up the irrigation after that.”

They agreed with delight. As they rode back down in the Gator, Eduardo leaned over to Paul. “You just lost control of your garden, Boss.”

Paul laughed. “I was going to hand it over anyway.”





 
Chapter Ten


Adam designed and installed a solar-powered jack pump that drew water from the creek and filled two 275-gallon tanks elevated on stands. The system easily met their irrigation needs. Meanwhile, Paul and the women returned from the plant nursery with enough heirloom seedlings and seeds to plant half the large garden. It would have to suffice for the first year. Paul also bought mulch by the yard but vowed to produce his own the following season. With all the natural resources on the property, there was no reason to keep paying for it. His next major purchase was a mulcher attachment from the local John Deere dealer.

Paul lived in his tent for only a couple of weeks. Don pushed the crew hard to finish the upstairs primary bedroom and bath first, then the kitchen, so Paul could move inside under a proper roof. Don deferred to Sheila on all color schemes and finishes. Left to his own devices, the house would have resembled a bunker, but even he had to admit Sheila’s choices brought the place to life.

Angel’s convenience store and café were shaping up beautifully. The café reminded Paul of a miniature Cracker Barrel, with antiques displayed across the walls. She already served light breakfasts, kept fresh coffee and tea available at all times, and offered her cook’s legendary Southern pies. Customers frequently bought whole pies to take home. The crusts were so flaky they melted in the mouth. Angel planned to expand the menu soon to include lunches.

She also diversified her inventory with shelf-stable items. Freeze-dried beef cubes from a Texas supplier stored for years and cost less than fresh beef at Harps or Walmart. The supplier guaranteed the cattle had never received the gene-altering vaccines the FDA was pressuring ranchers to use. Angel stocked quick, wholesome staples that busy farm wives could turn into meals, and she listened carefully to customers’ suggestions, adding popular items on a trial basis. Paul offered several ideas of his own, and she tested them.

When the battery house was finished, two heavily loaded trucks arrived. The batteries were too heavy for a single vehicle. The crew carefully moved them inside and completed the full installation in a couple of days. Adam ran a test for Paul, proving the system maintained steady voltage even when the electric dryer ran alongside other major appliances. Still, Paul strung up a clothesline beside the house. He loved the fresh scent of air-dried sheets.

Paul hired Carmelita as his housekeeper and cook, with the understanding that she could bring in help whenever she needed it.

Once the equipment building site was cleared, more than forty good-sized logs lay stacked to one side. The limbs were ground into mulch and added to the growing pile near the garden. The building itself went up quickly and was painted in subdued earth tones that blended with the landscape. Paul and Eduardo went over every piece of farm equipment, sandblasting rust, applying fresh John Deere-green paint, and replacing hydraulic hoses. As each implement was finished, it was stored in the new building. Paul kept a set of permanently stained coveralls there.

Using the backhoe, they buried the geothermal cooling tube in a five-foot-deep, fifty-foot-long trench. The intake pipe emerged near the grapevines opposite the barn corner. In the basement, Paul switched on the ventilator fan and checked the thermometer—fifty-six degrees. He opened the foundation vents to prevent radon buildup, the second-leading cause of lung cancer in the United States. Outside, he felt cool air being pushed from the vents.

Sheila took charge of furnishing the house. Paul would have been content with Goodwill pieces, but Sheila recruited Angel and Carmelita, and together they selected sturdy, attractive items. Paul’s only request was for as much oak as possible; it would last for generations.

Don and Sheila scheduled the big reveal for a Saturday. It turned into a lively housewarming party. Paul headed straight for the kitchen through the back door. Carmelita stood waiting.

“Does this suit you?” he asked.

“Oh yes, Señor Paul. It is wonderful!” she beamed.

The kitchen was enormous—larger than many restaurant kitchens. Paul could cook over a campfire if needed, but this space was a dream. Cast-iron pots and pans hung from custom iron racks on either side of the gas range. The walk-in pantry could hold months of staples. The rest of the house felt equally inviting. Paul preferred comfort over style, and his eclectic tastes had been honored throughout.

They had replaced his old full-size bed with a California King. The bedroom included a small sitting area, and the shower boasted more nozzles than a car wash. Pickled vertical pine shiplap brightened the walls, making the large windows almost too effective on sunny days. Sheila had added softer, more opaque curtains to temper the light. Wide pine floors gleamed throughout, with only throw rugs and area rugs—no wall-to-wall carpet.

In the basement, newly built shelves held all the food shipped from Utah, neatly organized by category. Paul still needed to stock more spices and canned goods.

The party lasted a couple of hours before Don and Sheila had to leave for another commitment. Paul surveyed the yard and realized it needed attention.

“Eduardo, do any of your contacts do landscaping?” he asked. “I’d like the shrubs trimmed and the yard mowed.”

“Yes, and they also split firewood,” Eduardo replied. “They could cut up some of those logs for your woodshed.”

“Perfect. Do they have their own mowers?”

“They do.”

“Good. Contact them and get them started.”

Paul turned to Carmelita. “Do you have a driver’s license?”

“Yes, but it’s been a while since I’ve driven.”

“I’ll get you a household vehicle. You can practice on the road between here and the main highway until you’re comfortable again.”

Paul felt he had reached a milestone. He reviewed his preparations list, determined to build three to five years of food reserves for everyone. He also wanted deep stocks of everyday items in case travel to town became impossible. Once the others had left, he began hauling boxes from Virginia into the house using a hand truck. Some went to the attic; others needed unpacking.

He washed all the washable clothes, set aside suits and dress shirts for the cleaners, then arranged books on the office/library shelves. He moved his computer and printer there as well. Sheila had found a beautiful old oak desk with a wing perfect for the printer.

On Monday, Paul and Eduardo drove to Whitson-Morgan Motor Company in Clarksville and bought a 2021 Chevrolet City Express cargo van for Carmelita. After registering and plating it, they returned to the farm. Carmelita climbed in gleefully and practiced up and down the driveway. When Paul saw she was managing fine, he went inside while Eduardo kept watch.

Wednesday brought a major supply run. Carmelita and Cecilia took the new van; Paul and Eduardo followed in the truck. Paul also planned to buy an enclosed cargo trailer from a dealer along the route to Sam’s Club in North Little Rock. He gave Carmelita cash for a membership and told the women to start shopping while he and Eduardo picked up the trailer—a 6x12 model.

The women had already filled one flat cart by the time the men returned. Paul checked Carmelita’s list, and the group split up: Paul and Eduardo handled heavy canned goods while the women gathered spices. They packed the van with lighter items and the trailer with heavier cases. Back at the trailer, Paul realized they had no way to keep frozen foods cold on the return trip, so they bought fresh vegetables instead. An employee directed them to a nearby dry-ice supplier. They purchased two coolers (125-quart and 75-quart), blocks of dry ice, and returned to let the women buy meats: a dozen chickens, beef and pork tenderloins, roasts, twenty pounds of ground beef, bacon, sausage, cheeses, and butter. They even filled the remaining cooler space with smoked Gouda and cheddar.

At COSTCO, two miles away, they loaded toilet paper, storage containers, Ziploc bags, foodservice foil and wrap, hand soap, detergents, laundry supplies, and batteries of every size. The trailer was stuffed to capacity, its leaf springs fully extended under the 7,000-pound limit.

Paul drove slowly on the way home, especially over rough patches. Everyone was exhausted by the time they finished unloading, so they grilled burgers for a simple supper.



Far away, Jeremy watched two 40-foot containers being loaded onto the freighter, then climbed into the truck bound for Hewanorra International Airport and the waiting Gulfstream. He could finally rest on the long flight home.



Paul stood, pushing the solid oak chair back from the desk with a soft screech. He stepped onto the porch, leaned on the railing, and gazed across the yard, lost in thought. When this year’s harvest came in, he planned to buy grain straight from the mill silos. He had already ordered enough food-grade barrels and buckets to store a year’s supply for ten people, plus extra for rolled oats. He would need more storage space. The Quonset hut had worked well; a larger 40-foot model from the steel building supplier in Clarksville might be the answer.

Paul was busy, productive, and well on his way to self-sufficiency. Yet he wasn’t truly happy. Despite everything he had built, loneliness gnawed at him. All his hard work and preparation had brought security but little joy. One afternoon Carmelita noticed it.

“There isn’t the joy in your eyes that should be there, Señor Paul,” she said gently.

“You get that way when you sacrifice companionship for independence,” he admitted.

“Is that the future you want?” she asked. “You should take that nice woman Angelina out to dinner. She looks at you with interest.”

Carmelita smiled as she set a fresh mug of coffee on the island in front of him. “This will help you decide where to take the nice lady.”

Paul grunted his thanks, took a sip, and watched as she pulled out another pan, the rich aroma of breakfast already filling the kitchen.
 
Chapter Eleven

Paul was tying up grape runners when an eighteen-wheeler rumbled up the long driveway. He straightened as the truck slowed, but before he could reach the driver, the distant whine of jet engines cut through the air. A plane touched down at the private airfield beyond the tree line. The thick stand of pines blocked any view of the runway, so Paul couldn’t identify the aircraft.

“Eduardo!” he shouted. “Check who just landed, will you?”

He continued toward the truck. The driver rolled down his window, looking mildly annoyed. “I got two twenty-foot containers for this address. Driver didn’t tell me what’s inside—just drop ’em off. Where do you want them?”

A few minutes later, Eduardo’s truck rolled up with Jeremy riding shotgun. Jeremy hopped out, grinning at the containers. “Looks like I got here just in time.”

“What the hell is all this?” Paul asked.

Jeremy handed him a printed inventory sheet. “A few things that might be useful.”

Paul unfolded the paper and scanned the list:

  • 75 sets BDU, assorted sizes
  • 2,000 MREs, full meals, assorted (including vegetarian and kosher)
  • 10 complete First Aid Kits
  • 10 sets NBC gear
  • 100 US military-spec gas masks
  • 5,000 NBC filters
  • 10 sets portable radiation detection gear with calibration equipment
  • 100 sets of batteries for RD gear
  • 50 sets LBE (ALICE) gear
  • 50 MR556A1 5.56 rifles
  • 350 twenty-round magazines
  • 100,000 rounds SS-109 ammo
  • 50 Colt 1911 pistols with holsters and pistol belts
  • 200 seven-round magazines for 1911s
  • 10,000 rounds .45 ACP FMJ
  • 25 AA-12 12-gauge shotguns
  • 100 eight-round AA-12 magazines
  • 50 AA-12 drum magazines
  • 10,000 rounds 12ga 00 Buck
  • 10,000 rounds 12ga slugs
  • 10,000 rounds 12ga FRAG-12
  • 100 small ALICE packs
  • 500 pairs boots, assorted sizes
  • 100 ninety-day E&E kits (pre-packed in ALICE packs)
Paul looked up, stunned. “What am I supposed to do with all this?”

Jeremy shrugged. “Secure your place and help watch your neighbors’. Keep a little on hand for my people if they need to resupply.”

“This is a lot of gear,” Paul said. “It looks like you’re gearing up for war.”

“Paul, we’ve been in one for years. A war for the future of this country. There are people inside our own borders who’ve spent generations trying to tear down the America we grew up in. They use asymmetrical warfare—social, economic, ideological—to hollow out our institutions. They hide behind labels, but when you read what they actually write and say, it’s the same old communist playbook.”

Jeremy’s voice stayed calm, but his eyes were hard. “A liberal used to mean someone who stood for liberty. These people stand for censorship, cancellation, and crushing dissent. ‘Progressives’ talk about progress while delivering chaos, debt, and decline. We’ve been quietly pulling the rug out from under their funding networks. Some of the worst… well, let’s just say a few of those ‘accidental’ deaths in government and finance weren’t accidents.”

Paul said nothing for a long moment. He had heard Jeremy’s warnings for years. Most people had laughed them off. Jeremy hadn’t. He had stockpiled, fortified, and quietly gathered people who still believed in the old Republic.

“So what do you need from me?” Paul finally asked. “I’m out of that life.”

“Just keep your eyes and ears open. Be a quiet resupply point if any of my people pass through.”

They positioned the containers beside the hangar. Once Jeremy and the truck driver left, Paul unlocked the doors. He pulled out two MR556A1 rifles, two AA-12 shotguns, magazines, and ammunition. He and Eduardo test-fired the weapons at the back range, then carried them home.

That evening, Paul sat at his kitchen table with his old disaster-preparation notebooks. He had long categorized emergencies into three tiers: mild, moderate, and extreme. Mild meant discomfort for up to forty-eight hours. Moderate meant major disruption—natural or man-made—that could turn deadly if ignored. Extreme meant immediate, life-threatening catastrophe: nuclear events, societal collapse, high-fatality pandemics, or the total breakdown of order.

He believed in preparing for the worst. Everything else would fall into place. The new shipment pushed his capabilities higher, but he still needed to refine his plan. He began a fresh area assessment—vulnerabilities, strong points, cache locations, and hidden routes into the National Forest to the north and northeast.

Over the following weeks, between building the new storage hut and tending the garden, Paul studied hydrographic and geological maps. He checked flood risk (low), possible cave systems, and radon levels. Johnson County showed moderate radon readings; he added detectors to his shopping list. The area was otherwise clean—no Superfund sites, no major polluters, almost no crime. Tornadoes remained the most realistic natural threat. He decided to add a reinforced shelter off the basement.

The landscapers arrived, finished the grounds, and cut the firewood. Eduardo used the tractor to haul the split wood to the woodshed while Paul paid José to stack it neatly.

One of the woodcutters mentioned to Eduardo that it was a shame there wasn’t a sawmill nearby—the leftover logs could have produced good lumber. Eduardo passed the comment to Paul.

Two days later they drove to Harrison. On a four-acre farm plot, an older man named Simmons showed them his small milling operation under a steel-roofed shelter: a Peterson Automatic Swing Blade saw with extensions, a chop saw, a large table saw, and a compact tractor for moving logs and sawdust.

Paul watched the demonstration—log to lumber, slabber, then planer. The boards came out clean and straight.

“Why are you selling?” Paul asked.

“Needs three people to run it properly,” Simmons said. “One boy’s headed to college, the other’s got a good job. Time for me to slow down.”

Paul bought the entire outfit—saws, tractor, attachments, and spare blades.

“Mind if I leave everything here until I build a shelter for it?” he asked.

“Fine by me,” Simmons replied. “My boys can help you disassemble it and ride down to set it up right when you’re ready.”

Paul measured the concrete pad he already had poured, took reference photos, and smiled. The layout was nearly perfect. He would duplicate it.

As they drove back toward Crooked Creek, Paul felt the quiet satisfaction of another piece falling into place.
 
Chapter Twelve



Paul and Eduardo dropped the foreman at his home, then drove straight to National Steel Buildings in Clarksville. They needed a cover for the sawmill area. The company had nothing prefabricated that matched Paul’s exact dimensions, and a custom build would cost more than a double-wide barn already sitting on their lot. It was wider and a little longer than necessary, but Eduardo pointed out they could use the extra space for drying freshly cut lumber. Paul agreed, paid extra for site preparation, and bought the building on the spot. The crew would bulldoze the area, set the forms, and pour the concrete slab.

Back at the farm, Paul chose a level spot past the main barn—exactly one hundred feet wide by two hundred sixty feet long. Only eight trees stood in the way. It was perfect.

Eduardo called the Sanchez brothers. They arrived within two hours, dropped the trees, limbed the trunks, and cut them into sixteen-foot lengths. Paul used the tractor to drag the logs to a staging area near the future building site but clear of the construction zone. While the brothers finished, Paul hooked up the chipper, shredded every limb, and added the chips to the mulch pile.

By late afternoon, Paul leaned against a maple tree and watched the concrete crew float the final section of the slab and embed the anchor bolts for the trusses. He had already updated Mr. Simmons on their progress. A short distance away, Eduardo was digging the last stretch of conduit trench from the powerhouse to the new building.

Paul stood and walked over. “I’m going to run down to Cecil’s for more pipe dope.”

Eduardo nodded and kept digging. Paul grabbed a quick drink of water and headed to town.

As he passed Shaner’s, he saw two cars at the pumps and two more in the parking spaces. Angel had a good crowd. He smiled and drove on to the hardware store.

At Cecil’s he picked up two cans of PVC joint compound and a large bottle of wood glue that caught his eye. On the way back, he stopped at Shaner’s. Angel was ringing up a customer while Keira restocked a shelf.

“Hello!” Angel called, brightening when she saw him.

“Looks like you’ve been busy,” Paul said.

“Steady all morning,” she replied. “How’s the sawmill building coming?”

“Slab’s going in today. Should be quick once the steel arrives.” He leaned on the counter. “How’s the restaurant shaping up?”

“Waiting on equipment before we finish the counter. Maggie Archer is hunting vintage stools for me, and the new griddle and stove are on order. Sabrina’s making a pantry list right now.” Angel paused. “By the way, can I borrow your enclosed trailer when it’s time to stock up? Sam’s Club prices are much better than the distributor.”

“Anytime. Just say the word.” Paul hesitated, then added, “Listen… when things settle down, I’d like to take you to dinner and maybe catch a show at the Repertory Theatre in Little Rock.”

“That’s a long drive for a date,” she teased.

Paul grinned. “We can fly down and rent a car for the evening.”

Angel’s smile widened. “I’ll clear a weekend.”

“Why not this Saturday?” Keira called from the next aisle. “I can close for you.”

Angel looked at Paul, eyebrows raised. “Saturday?”

“I’ll make the arrangements,” he said.

The rest of the afternoon passed in the garden. Eduardo had picked up tomato cages earlier; the plants had exploded with growth and were covered in yellow blooms. Paul and Eduardo plucked half the flowers off the beefsteak varieties so the remaining fruit would grow larger. They planned to switch to manure compost next season instead of commercial fertilizer tabs.

Paul was walking toward the equipment shed when Angel’s truck rolled up the drive. He invited her inside and introduced her to Carmelita and Lourdes in the kitchen.

“I’ll leave you three to talk,” he said with a knowing smile. “I’ve got plenty to do outside.”

Escaped was probably the better word. He had a strong feeling Angel had come to size up the women living on his farm. He didn’t mind. At least she cared enough to check.

Outside, he busied himself near the shed while one of Eduardo’s friends worked on the old John Deere. A few minutes later Angel stepped out, a faint blush on her cheeks.

“I heard there were a couple of women here and wanted to meet them,” she explained.

Carmelita had followed her to the doorway and smiled. “And you wanted to check out the competition?”

“Oh no! It wasn’t like that!” Angel protested.

Carmelita chuckled. “By the way Señor Paul hurried out of here, I think he believes it was.”

Lourdes joined them. “You can trust him. He’s an honorable man, and he likes you very much. Tia Carmelita says he is… intensamente masculino.”

Carmelita nodded. “He moves like a panther—lazy but aware. He reads people too well. You don’t have to worry about him chasing every woman like a dog in heat. He only has eyes for you.”

Lourdes added gently, “Tia Carmelita is the cook and housekeeper. I help when she needs it. I already have a boyfriend. Go find your man and tell him you came for a recipe. We’ll look after him for you.”

Angel found Paul by the equipment shed. She sauntered over, smiling. “I came for a recipe from Carmelita—for my mother.”

“What’s the occasion?” Paul asked as they strolled toward the grapevines.

“She’s coming from Little Rock to see what I’ve done here… and to check you out. She thinks you might be after my money and my body.”

Paul stopped and turned to her. “I don’t need your money. And as for the rest… you don’t have to do anything until we’re married—if you even want to then.”

Angel stared at him. “Are you asking me to marry you?”

Paul’s heart hammered. The words tumbled out before he could stop them. “Yes. Angel, will you marry me?”

She studied his face for a long moment. “I’ll think about it,” she said quietly, then walked to her truck and drove away.

Paul stood frozen in the driveway. “What the hell did I just do?”

Inside, Carmelita peeked through the curtain and smiled. She might be gaining a señora de la casa after all.



That evening, after dinner, Paul worked in his office for a while, then poured a drink and stepped onto the patio. Around eight-thirty, headlights swept up the drive. Angel’s truck.

She walked straight to him.

“I’ve thought about it,” she said. “The answer is yes. And I don’t want to wait.” She stepped closer. “I want you to make love to me tonight.”

Paul did. And they did. And then did it again.



The next morning, Carmelita was up early, humming as she prepared a feast. The smell of coffee and fresh mantecadas pulled Paul from sleep. The warm body curled against him brought the rest of the night rushing back.

When he tried to slip out of bed, Angel caught his wrist.

“Where do you think you’re going?” she murmured.

“Bathroom. Unless you want Lourdes changing the sheets because of me.”

“She’ll probably change them anyway,” Angel said, giggling. “But hurry. I need to go too.”

They showered, dressed, and made their way downstairs.

“¡Buen día!” Carmelita sang, already setting two mugs on the island. A small plate of warm Mexican muffins sat between them.

Paul took a sip of coffee and bit into a muffin. “Wow. I need to have overnight guests more often. These are incredible.”

“Only for Señorita Angela,” Carmelita said firmly.

Angel laughed. “Thank you for the muffin and the warning, Carmelita.”

“Hey, I didn’t mean—” Paul started.

“Señor Paul, you are about to eat your foot again,” Carmelita warned.

Angel translated with a grin. “She means you’re about to put your foot in your mouth.”

“Women,” Paul grumbled good-naturedly.

Carmelita served sausage, bacon, fluffy omelets, and tall glasses of orange-pineapple juice. By the time they pushed their plates away, they were both stuffed and smiling.

“Oh! I need to call Keira,” Angel said suddenly.

“I already did,” Carmelita told her. “She’s opening the store. Said to take your time.”

Angel leaned over and kissed Carmelita’s cheek. “Thank you.”

Paul watched the two women, warmth spreading through his chest. For the first time in years, the farmhouse felt like a home.
 
Chapter Thirteen

Paul had once monitored every major news channel, cross-referencing them in an attempt to piece together something resembling the truth. Disgusted by what he saw, he had switched to a pair of smaller, lesser-known conservative outlets.

For decades the liberal media had demonized conservatives while shielding Democrats and their allies—the big-government expansionists, the abortion industry, the gun-control advocates, and the cultural revolutionaries. Now Big Tech openly censored conservative voices on their behalf. The pattern was unmistakable.

Lately it appeared the current administration was targeting small conservative businesses and family farms through aggressive EPA enforcement. Paul’s mind drifted to Stalin’s Holodomor—the man-made famine in Soviet Ukraine that killed millions. One misguided policy could wreck a nation. This, however, felt deliberate. The communist agenda in America was gaining momentum.

A nagging concern gnawed at him: Am I doing enough, and doing it fast enough? He knew he was behind the curve on preparedness, but he still wanted deep reserves of the basics. He placed another order for long-term storage food from the Utah suppliers and checked AmmoSeek for the best deals. Finding a solid price on .22LR, he bought two cases. Seeing prices climbing across the board, he added several more purchases of 7.62×51, .22 Magnum, and 12-gauge hunting and defensive shells.

The steel building crew was scheduled to arrive that week to erect the barn. The only extra work required was running power from the powerhouse to the sawmill for the electric tools. No insulation meant one less day of labor. Paul would need to have the sawmill moved and ready.

In the background, Angel and her mother were deep into wedding planning. Paul’s only current responsibilities were to stay quiet, stay out of the way, and choose a honeymoon destination.

When the concrete pad had cured enough to support the trusses, Paul hired an independent trucker to haul the sawmill equipment from Mr. Simmons’ mill works near Harrison. Eduardo, Juan, and Paul followed in their trucks. Mr. Simmons’ sons met them and helped disassemble the mill, loading the pieces with a small tractor. It took nearly three hours to secure everything. Back at Crooked Creek, the trucker dropped the trailer so they could unload at their convenience—he had a refrigerated haul the next day.

Paul spent the rest of the afternoon gathering tools and parts so they could reassemble the sawmill the following morning. The manufacturer’s instructions were straightforward, and Mr. Simmons’ sons were only a phone call away if needed. He and Eduardo laid out the bolt pattern on the concrete with a tape measure and chalk line, then went to work with the hammer drill. By supper, under the lights they had already wired in, every hole was drilled and the dust vacuumed up. They would start bolting equipment down at first light.

Paul cleaned up and found Angel in the kitchen, visibly frustrated.

“The countertop I ordered is delayed,” she grumbled. “Still no griddle, either.”

“I’ve got an idea,” Paul said. “Why don’t we do a live-edge oak slab instead? I can cut and plane it on the sawmill. The installers will only need to sand and finish it.”

Angel’s expression brightened. “I’d love that. When can you have it ready?”

“Couple of days. We’ll cut the pieces to angle, join them, and have it ready for the carpenters.”

The next morning Paul attached the slabber to the saw. He and Eduardo loaded a straight sixteen-foot log and began cutting two-inch slabs. After each pass they planed the surface, then repeated the process until they had four good slabs. Paul cleaned the backsides with a power planer while Eduardo worked the others. Paul made a quick run to the hardware store for biscuits, then used a drawknife to peel the live edges and gave them a light sanding. They ripped the slabs to width and joined them into a ten-foot main countertop with a six-foot left-hand return—thirty inches deep, exactly what Angel wanted.

When Paul sent her photos, she was thrilled. The carpenters confirmed they could install the top and apply several coats of polyurethane without issue.

The men glued and clamped the slabs, cleaned up the shavings, and called it a day.

That evening Carmelita was frying beef liver for supper.

“Señorita Angela is going to be such a beautiful bride!” she declared, flipping a slice. “A marriage made in heaven!”

Paul gave a small sigh. “I’ve heard that said about thunder and lightning, too.”

Later he booked a six-day cruise out of Norfolk, Virginia, with stops in Bimini, Nassau, and Freeport. He checked his credit cards—Julia had kept everything paid off. Satisfied, he poured a drink in his office and browsed a few preparedness sites. He ended up ordering four Super Hogster thermal sights and four PVS-14 night-vision units with bump helmets and mounts. Fresh hog tracks near the garden had convinced him it was time.

Over the following days Paul and Eduardo practiced with the swing-blade saw, turning yellow pine logs into lumber. They cut wide 8×8 timbers and thick planks to reinforce two shipping containers Paul planned to bury for storage. The containers arrived, and once the lumber was ready, they applied multiple coats of waterproof sealant. Eduardo used the tractor to tip the containers so they could coat the undersides with ArmorRoof. Then they positioned them between the post lines, set the 8×8 support posts, and screwed on the plank walls. They roofed the structures with more treated timbers, covered everything with three layers of 6-mil plastic, and began backfilling with dirt. Paul hydroseeded the mounds and installed roof ventilators and screened vents to manage moisture and pests.

Molly had become a fine dog. She alerted whenever anyone came down the driveway and stayed close to Paul during the day. If he went inside, she waited on the porch. She especially loved trips to Shaner’s, where Keira always gave her a small cup of ice cream. Molly would carry it carefully in her teeth to the porch and savor every lick before drinking the water that followed.

Two days later Paul received word that the two tornado shelters were en route. He scheduled the excavator and ordered gravel. By the time the trucks arrived, the holes were dug and leveled. While Eduardo spread gravel, Paul worked in the basement with a rented jackhammer, cutting an entrance through the foundation wall for the shelter that would connect to the house.
 
Chapter Fourteen

The big news dominating conservative TV channels that night was the growing scandal: Big Pharma and the government stood accused of massive fraud against the public. Another so-called “conspiracy theory” was proving true. Independent scientific studies were revealing that the Covid shots contained significant amounts of foreign DNA from multiple sources—DNA capable of permanently altering human genetics. Once changed, it could not be reversed. The potential consequences ranged from lifelong chronic illness to death. Paul had been suspicious from the start when the government pushed an untested vaccine so aggressively. It seemed his mistrust had been justified.

Amid the headlines, Paul was finally being read in on the wedding plans. He needed to get fitted for his tuxedo, and the ceremony would take place at Hagarville Baptist Church, officiated by Reverend Bowman. Angel was Lutheran and Paul hadn’t set foot inside an organized religious service—except for funerals—in fifteen years. None of that mattered to him. As long as they walked out with a marriage certificate, he was happy.

The Beaver was coming up on its 100-hour inspection, so Paul called the FBO at Little Rock International and scheduled it for the day they departed on their honeymoon. That would give the mechanics plenty of time to complete the work before he and Angel returned.

The Geneverse power units arrived, and Paul and Eduardo installed them in the storm shelters. With reliable power, a toilet, six cases of MREs, the emergency packs, and 110 gallons of water in barrels with a hand pump, the shelters could now sustain them for days if necessary.

While Jorge and his crew continued cutting floorboard slabs, Eduardo and Paul trained the men to operate the saw independently. This freed Paul and Eduardo for other tasks. The last two hours of each training day were spent turning bark slabs into firewood. The shed was full, so they built an outdoor wood rack and began stacking there. Paul also purchased a separate Grizzly industrial 15-inch planer with a helical head and tongue-and-groove attachment. It handled almost any job faster and cleaner than the sawmill’s planer blade. They were nearly finished milling the accumulated logs; the lumber now dried in the barn’s side wings. The men had replaced the original roofing on those wings with clear polycarbonate panels, letting sunlight pour in. Temperatures inside often climbed above 100 degrees, dramatically speeding up the drying process.

Paul had decided to build a bunkhouse capable of sleeping up to eight temporary workers. An architect provided plans and a detailed materials list, and Paul began cutting the required lumber in advance.

In the small orchard, the figs and plums were ripening. Each day, José and Rosa gathered the fruit. The women washed it, removed the plum pits, and dried it in electric dehydrators Paul had bought—far less labor-intensive than the sun-drying method Carmelita had used for years. The finished fruit was stored in glass jars with oxygen absorbers and desiccant packs, then placed in a dark corner of the basement.

Paul hired a local home-improvement crew to construct the bunkhouse. Either he or Eduardo supervised them at all times—mostly Eduardo—while Paul handled supply runs. The building would include a kitchenette, washer and dryer, shower room, lavatories, bunk area, and two private bedrooms. In his spare moments, Paul helped Angel and her mother with whatever wedding tasks the women would allow him to touch.

Eduardo reluctantly agreed to serve as best man, and Keira became Angel’s maid of honor. The local florist arranged the church flowers on the morning of the wedding.

That afternoon the church was packed. Though only a few formal invitations had gone out, every church member had an open one, and nearly all had come. Paul and Angel stayed at the reception for two hours, then slipped away to change clothes and head to the airport. They took off on schedule, landed at the Little Rock FBO, and handed the Beaver over to the mechanic. Their commercial flight to Norfolk departed at 7:30 p.m. Upon landing that night, they went straight to the Marriott near the cruise terminal. The hotel would shuttle them to the dock in the morning.

They grabbed dinner at Mission BBQ and turned in early. The next day they boarded smoothly, found their upper-deck cabin with balcony, and settled in. The porter opened a bottle of champagne for them. They sat on the balcony sipping it, watching passengers board and crew prepare the ship. At 3:00 p.m. the vessel got underway, gliding up the Elizabeth River toward Hampton Roads and the open Atlantic.

Back at the ranch, Eduardo signed for incoming deliveries and used the tractor with forks to place the pallets inside a shipping container. The shipment included four fully stocked Tasmanian Tiger First Responder bags, three cases of six-day candles, six Aladdin lamps with spare mantles, and two 55-gallon drums of Pri-G and Pri-D fuel preservatives. Paul could sort it later. Meanwhile, the garden kept producing, and the women spent two full days a week canning.

On the ship, the champagne and later mimosas meant they skipped formal dinner and simply ate sandwiches brought by the porter. Breakfast the next morning was a different story. Angel piled her plate high and nearly embarrassed herself with how much she ate. Paul watched with amusement, sticking to three eggs, bacon, hash brown casserole, tomato slices, a large glass of milk, two waffles, and multiple cups of coffee.

“I’m hungry!” Angel said defensively when she noticed him grinning.

Paul raised his hands in mock surrender. “I’m just saying—if you eat like that at every meal, you’ll have to hit the treadmill.”

Angel glanced down at her thighs. “I’m not getting fat!”

“I’m not saying you are. Cruise ships can sneak up on you, that’s all. We’ll make an exercise plan.”

Angel’s grin turned mischievous. “I already have one in mind.”

Paul laughed. “I bet you do. Come on—let’s walk the promenade and work some of this off. We’ll grab water bottles at the gift shop. Staying hydrated keeps your metabolism running high.”

Angel huffed playfully but led the way. They circled the deck, filled their new insulated bottles, changed into swimwear, and claimed lounge chairs by the pool. Paul took his time rubbing sunscreen on her—stopping at the edges of decency. Next time, he thought, I’ll handle the good parts before we leave the cabin.

The honeymoon was everything they hoped for. They enjoyed every port, and Paul took hundreds of photos—many candid shots of Angel looking like a Sports Illustrated model, tanned and radiant. At their assigned dinner table they met John and Diane Maples, a couple from Clayton, Missouri, a suburb of St. Louis. John was a general practitioner; Diane taught at the prestigious Whitfield School. The two couples shared similar interests and political views. John was especially intrigued by Paul’s preparedness philosophy. Before the cruise ended, they exchanged contact information and promised future visits.

Paul had arranged their return flights so they could spend one night in Norfolk after disembarking and fly home the following day. They were eager to begin their married life at Crooked Creek, but he wanted to land the Beaver in daylight.

They reached Little Rock at 3:30 p.m., took a taxi to the Marriott, enjoyed a seafood dinner with wine, and turned in early. The next morning Paul settled the inspection bill at the FBO, tipped the mechanic, performed his pre-flight walk-around, and took off. He stayed at 5,000 feet AGL and called Eduardo on the FlightCell to say they’d land in thirty minutes.

He approached from the northeast with plenty of light and a manageable ten-knot crosswind. Eduardo met them with the truck, helped unload, and towed the plane into the hangar.

“You got some shipments in,” Eduardo said. “I’ll brief you in the morning.”

“Thanks. It’s been a long day.”

Carmelita had salads and hot roast-beef sandwiches waiting. After they ate, Angel showered while Paul helped clear the table. When he returned in athletic shorts and a T-shirt, she was finishing the dishes.

“Did you call your mother?” he asked.

“Yes. She wants to talk about selling her place and moving closer.” Angel paused. “Probably so I’ll have somewhere to run when I get tired of you.”

“Be nice,” Paul teased, thumbing through a magazine. “And you’ll never get tired of me. Your mom thinks I hung the moon and stars.”

Angel smiled. “She’s getting nervous about the crime in Little Rock. There’ve been more home invasions lately.”

“We could build her a cabin here if she wants,” Paul offered.

“I don’t think I want her that close,” Angel replied.

Paul chuckled. “The offer stands. I can show you a couple of good sites far enough away. You’re the last of her family.”

“You’re sweet,” Angel said, softening. “I’ll think about it.”
 
Chapter Fifteen


Saturday morning, Paul took Angel out to his improvised range to shoot pistols. He brought a light 9mm, a .45 caliber, and his Taurus Judge with the 3-inch barrel. She handled the 9mm well, with only a couple of flyers. The .45 suited her even better—she stayed tight on target. But the Judge quickly became her favorite. Her strong wrists absorbed the recoil without issue, and she loved the versatility of loading it with .410 shells. Being naturally ambidextrous only sealed the deal. Paul fitted her with a holster, and she decided she would carry it with her to the store every day.

While waiting for the custom Kifaru packs he had ordered from Wyoming, Paul continued building out their Level 1 emergency kits. He spared no expense. His own pack included a dedicated gun carrier for the Remington 700 Short Action fitted with a Magpul Pro 700 folding stock. Angel’s pack would carry a stainless Judge and plenty of ammunition.

He reviewed the finalized contents of a Level 1 kit:

  • Millennium food bars
  • Level 1 IFAK
  • Klean Kanteen 27 oz single-wall bottle
  • Cnoc Vecto 2L soft water bag with Sawyer Mini filter
  • Potable Aqua tablets
  • BIC Maxi lighter, Lightning Strike fire starter, Lifeboat matches, and SOL Tinder-Quik tabs
  • Black Diamond Spot 350 headlamp with spare batteries
  • Fallkniven F1 field knife and Leatherman Wave+
  • 50 feet of 550 Type 3 paracord
  • Aqua Quest Safari 10'x10' tarp
  • Rite in the Rain notebook and pen
  • Physical and digital copies of important documents
  • $500 in mixed bills plus assorted gold coins
  • Campsuds soap, compressed toilet paper tablets, travel nail clippers
  • Tilley hat, Darn Tough socks, travel underwear, convertible pants, base layer, jacket, and shemagh
  • Two-way radio with antenna and battery, plus Yaesu FT-65 with spares
  • USB cables, wall plug, and rechargeable power pack
  • 3M P100 respirator, Ziplocs, contractor trash bags, and spare ammo
It was heavier than his plane bag, but it would get them home from almost anywhere. Both kits would stay in their vehicles, ready.



Paul and Angel received a call from John and Diane Maples. Their new travel trailer had finally arrived, and they planned to hit the road. Paul and Angel invited them to stop by in Arkansas. Diane promised they would call ahead.

That same weekend, Paul flew Angel up to Hermann, Missouri, on Friday evening for a Wine Experience event at Stone Hill Winery. Since he was piloting, he reserved a room at the Hermann Hill Bed and Breakfast so they could both enjoy the tastings. They bought two cases of wine, then spent Sunday afternoon at Hermannhof Winery, where Angel selected several more bottles. The short flight back to Crooked Creek had them home well before dark.



Angel’s café grand opening drew a crowd waiting on the porch. The waitresses kept them happy with free coffee, tea, and juice. The day’s special—country fried steak with mashed potatoes, green beans, and cornbread—flew out of the kitchen. By closing time they had served four hundred steaks, twenty-five gallons of tea, and 125 strawberry shortcakes piled high with fresh whipped cream. Sabrina and her nieces were exhausted. Angel and Paul helped clean up so the staff could rest. Tomorrow would be their first full regular day. The opening also boosted business at the store; Angel made a note to call the beverage and fuel distributors on Monday.

The following morning the café had a steadier, more relaxed pace—locals enjoying breakfast, coffee, and porch gossip.


Two weeks later, John and Diane rolled in pulling a sleek custom travel trailer behind a modified Dodge Ram. Hugs and handshakes were exchanged.

“What do you call this setup?” Paul asked.

“They call it a Living Vehicle,” John said with a grin. “The truck’s been completely re-engineered just for towing this thing.”

“Follow me. I’ve got a pad ready for you.”

Paul led the way on the ATV while John followed in the big rig to a concrete pad with full hookups.

Once settled, John retrieved a bottle of wine from the trailer fridge, and they all headed back to the house. Angel’s mother, Cynthia, was visiting for the weekend. She and Angel gave Diane a tour while the men stepped onto the patio. Paul made two Irish whiskies and handed one to John.

“This is a long way from the city,” John observed, looking out over the land.

“Exactly how I like it,” Paul replied. “If we need bright lights and noise, I can have us there in an hour by air.”

“What made you pick way out here?” John asked.

Paul took a sip. “I got tired of the bullshit. Politicians lie so much you can’t tell when they’re telling the truth. The media’s just yellow journalism with an agenda. Everything’s about power and money. Right now the national budget is the highest I history and once the publicly held debt exceeds the Gross Domestic Product the shit will hit the fan. Adding another tax to pay for the debt will probably cause a civil war because even the dumbest voter know that once the government puts a tax on something, that tax never goes away. They just keep sending. I decided to step back, spend what I have while it’s still worth something, and let the idiots eat each other. Neutron bombs would solve a lot of problems.”

John chuckled darkly. “It’s a mess, alright. Maybe you’ve got the right idea—let them fight it out and thin the herd.”

“Problem is, they’re hurting a lot of innocent people in the process,” Paul said. “So many targets, so few bullets.”

“Selective elimination,” John suggested. “Start with the worst and work your way down. Conserve ammo.”

Paul smiled. “You’re not wrong.”

When the women returned, Angel rested a hand on Paul’s shoulder. “Honey, could you make us a pitcher of strawberry daiquiris?”

“Sure thing.”

“I’ll help,” John offered.

In the kitchen, Paul pulled out the big Coca-Cola 40-ounce frozen beverage station. John raised an eyebrow. “Frozen Cokes?”

Paul grinned. “It makes world-class daiquiris.” He filled the bowl with ice, shaved it to snow, then added frozen strawberries, lime juice, lemon juice, and rum. While it blended, he rimmed three hurricane glasses with sugar.

They carried the drinks outside. Angel took a sip and sighed happily. “Perfect.”

Diane closed her eyes. “The breeze, the company, and this daiquiri… you two have paradise here. The air is so fresh.”

“You can definitely tell the difference when you leave Little Rock,” Cynthia said.

“It’s the lingering stench of the Clintons,” Paul quipped.

“Paul,” Cynthia warned, “no politics today.”

John laughed. “It really is beautiful. How’d you find this place?”

“An old friend tipped me off. I flew down from Alaska, took one look, and bought it on the spot.”

“If you hear of anything else like this for sale, call me,” John said. “I’d move out here in a heartbeat. Beats St. Louis any day.”

“Yes!” Diane added. “You could open a practice in Warrensburg or Clarksville, and I could finally be a proper country lady—sipping mint juleps on the veranda.”

“In your dreams,” John teased.

“It would be wonderful, though,” Diane said wistfully.

They all walked over to the travel trailer. John showed off its features: solar-panel awnings that slid out automatically, hydraulic jacks that leveled the unit and lifted the tires clear of the ground. Inside, it was modern, spacious, and clearly expensive. Paul was impressed by the engineering but privately thought $700,000 was steep even for that level of luxury.

Back at the house, Paul mixed another pitcher of daiquiris while the steaks came to room temperature and potatoes went into the oven. A light breeze moved through the sycamores. Beer and daiquiris flowed as Paul and John tended the grill. Carmelita had already prepared a large Chef’s salad and had dinner rolls baking.

“What’s land running per acre around here?” John asked.

“It varies wildly—anywhere from the low two-thousands to twenty thousand or more, depending on location and access,” Paul said. “Angel mentioned Chet Morris is thinking of selling his hundred acres across the creek. His wife’s health isn’t good, and they need the money.”

“Get the details next time you see him,” John said. “I’d spend a couple million to have a place like this.”

Paul seared the steaks while the women helped bring everything inside. Angel sautéed mushrooms in garlic, butter, and red wine. Soon the table was filled with sizzling steaks, baked potatoes, mushrooms, salad, and good wine. Everyone ate well and lingered over the meal, the easy conversation drifting long into the evening.
 
Chapter Sixteen


They had a wonderful weekend with the Maples, who packed up and headed back to St. Louis on Sunday afternoon.

“I’ll talk to Chet and see what he wants for that property,” Angel said. “It would be nice to have Diane and John living nearby.”

“Yeah, it would,” Paul agreed. “Want to take a ride over there and look at the land?”

“Yes! But can we cross the creek?”

“Sure. The Polaris can ford it in a couple of places.”

They gathered their packs, loaded them into the Ranger, and Paul, Angel, and Cynthia headed toward the garden area. Paul crossed a shallow stretch of the creek, climbed onto a small island, then forded the rest and climbed the west bank. They emerged into an open field and followed the tree line around its perimeter. The parcel looked to be thirty-five, maybe forty acres.

“Cynthia, would you like a little house over here by the creek?” Paul asked.

“I would love it!” Cynthia replied, then added with a sigh, “But there’d be the creek between us.”

“I’d put in a bridge,” Paul said. “We need to talk to Chet. If he’ll sell to John, I’ll buy an acre or two from John—or direct from Chet.”

Back at the house, Paul found Chet’s number and called him. Chet confirmed he planned to sell and suggested they meet at the café in the morning for a proper tour. Paul agreed to eight o’clock. He then dialed John.

“Yeah, Paul?”

“John, Angel and I rode over to Chet’s land. It looks really good. He’s meeting me tomorrow morning to show me around.”

“Damn. We should have stayed another day,” John groaned. “Look, call me when you talk prices, okay?”

“Sure. One thing, though—I’d like to buy an acre or two myself so I can build Cynthia a small house, and I want to put in a bridge across the creek.”

“Fine with me,” John said without hesitation. “We’ll plan on coming back down next weekend, if that works.”

“That’d be great. I’ll get some ribs.”

“Sounds perfect. See you Friday evening.”

​
Paul followed Angel to the store the next morning, then joined her for breakfast at the café while he waited for Chet. After they finished, Paul refreshed his coffee and settled in. Chet arrived at 7:55, grabbed a cup, and sat down.

“So you’re interested in that parcel?” Chet asked.

“I only need an acre or two. A friend of mine is looking for country property. I can buy from him if he buys the whole thing.”

“No need to complicate it. The lawyer can handle both sets of paperwork.”

“I guess so. How many acres are we talking, and what are you asking per acre?”

“There’s 113 acres. At today’s prices I could get ten thousand an acre, but I’m only asking eight-five because it’s not easy to reach. It’s a two-and-three-quarter-mile drive back in, and the road needs work. You’ll see.”

They finished their coffee, climbed into Chet’s truck, and headed east on AR-164. At the sign for Annie’s Chapel they turned left onto Red Oak Road. Chet stopped, shifted into four-wheel drive, and continued.

“This is Red Oak Road—state calls it AR-3791, but they don’t maintain it. You can petition if enough homes pop up, but right now it’s just us. Roads aren’t terrible, but a couple of low spots could use culverts.”

They drove through dense forest until a trail appeared on the right.

“Right up that trail is where I cleared a spot for a house for Alice and me,” Chet said quietly. “Figured we’d spend our later years there. I’ll be satisfied if she just lives.” He paused, then added, “We’ll swing around to the big field at the north end.”

Another half-mile brought them to an intersection with another unimproved road.

“This is AR-3780. Left takes you across the creek and out to AR-123 if you ever need a back way.”

“Never hurts to have options,” Paul said.

The field on their left narrowed but stayed open until it opened into the large meadow Paul had ridden around the day before.

“These trees haven’t been cut in a hundred years, except the ones I cleared for the house site,” Chet said.

“It’s beautiful property,” Paul told him.

“Quiet, too. Plenty of wildlife—bears, whitetail, bobcats, skunks, turkey, and a few coveys of quail. I even spotted an elk once, though most stay up in the Ozark National Forest. You could pull more birds in if you planted food plots.”

“I’m going to call my friend real quick,” Paul said.

“Go ahead. I’ll pull into the shade.”



“Hey, John. I’m out here with Chet on the land.”

“How’s it look?”

“If you don’t buy it, I might. It’s beautiful, remote, loaded with hardwoods and game. Homesites everywhere.”

“Great! How many acres and what’s he asking?”

“113 acres at $8,500 because of the access.”

John whistled. “That’s better than I expected. If he needs earnest money, let me know. I’ll take your word for it—buy the property. I’ll cover the surveyors if you can get them started.”

“Will do. I’ll get things rolling and give you a timeline.”

Paul walked back to the truck.

“Chet, do you need earnest money?”

“I could use something by the end of the month. Got some big bills coming due.”

“Would $160,000 help?”

“That’d be good.”

“I just need to line up surveyors, then,” Paul said.

“I know the perfect guy. Used him when I bought this place. I’ll have him call you, and I’ll get my lawyer started on the paperwork. We’ll need a meeting to nail down the details.”

“Can you set it for Friday or next Monday?”

“Monday’s probably better. He’s usually free.”

“Perfect. I’ll tell John to take Monday off.”



On the way back, Chet took a shorter route, fording the creek and coming out on AR-123. He promised to have the surveyor contact Paul, then shook his hand. Paul grabbed an iced tea to go and walked over to see Angel.

That evening he called John and filled him in.

“I’ll bring a cashier’s check for the earnest money,” John said. “I’m liquidating several stocks anyway—might as well sell the whole portfolio and buy gold. I’m losing money on paper. Where can I get a side-by-side like yours?”

“Clarksville. We can pick one up Saturday.”

“Good. Diane is excited and wants everything done right now. Patience isn’t her strong suit.”

Paul chuckled. “Yeah, I was the same way when I bought this place.”



The idea of leaving St. Louis and living near her daughter had Cynthia glowing. She packed with new energy, already planning to meet builders and review house plans. Angel showed her examples they had found online, and Cynthia’s excitement grew as she compiled a list of websites and ideas to take home. Paul watched the whirlwind with a mix of amusement and mild worry—he suspected he had opened a very large can of worms—but both women were happy, and that was enough.

Paul met with George Faulkner, the surveyor, and arranged a walkthrough. He and Eduardo would help clear brush. They stopped at the hardware store and bought two good machetes and bush axes. George figured the survey would take a little over a week.

Chet’s real estate attorney was efficient; the paperwork was nearly ready and only awaited the completed survey.

In St. Louis, John transferred his patients to other doctors while Diane sorted through the house—deciding what to keep, what to store, and what to sell at yard sales.

Paul called Julia for an update on his portfolio. The news wasn’t great. Though diversified, the account had stalled near breakeven. She recommended selling and moving the proceeds into gold. With inflation climbing, gold had risen over seven percent in the last six months—outpacing most of his holdings. Paul checked Kitco, confirmed the trend, and told Julia to liquidate everything, pay the taxes, and buy physical gold and silver coins. She agreed and handed the phone to Brad. Paul gave him a quick summary of the land deal. Their short conversation left Brad thinking.
 
Chapter Seventeen


John and Diane pulled in a little after one o’clock on Friday afternoon. They made quick work of leveling the travel trailer on its pad, then joined the others for a tour of Chet’s land.

When they crossed the creek, Paul pointed out the parcel he wanted to buy so Cynthia could build her house. They rode the perimeter of the northern meadow, then dropped down the old road so Paul could show them the ford that would give fast access to AR-123.

“I don’t think my Lexus would make it across there,” John said.

“Don’t they make a Lexus SUV?” Diane asked.

“That’s not an SUV, it’s a glorified grocery-getter,” John answered. “I’ll need something with real ground clearance.”

Paul continued along the trail and turned onto the path leading to the cleared house site.

“This is where Chet planned to build Alice’s house,” he told them, stopping the side-by-side.

They climbed out and walked the gentle rise. John stopped beside a capped well pipe.

“He already had a well drilled,” he noted.

“Sure looks like it,” Paul agreed.

“John, this would be a beautiful spot for a house!” Diane exclaimed. “Look at that view!”

“Yeah, it is nice,” John admitted. “We wouldn’t have to clear much either. Will your design work here?”

“It will fit perfectly, dear. We can orient the house to capture this view and put the pool over there.”

“A pool?” John echoed.

“Of course. We’re a long way from any natural swimming water.”

John chuckled. “All right. Pool it is.”

Back at the house, Paul lit the grill. John admired the heavy stainless-steel setup.

“This is an interesting design. Custom?”

“Sort of,” Paul said. “There’s a guy outside Clarksville who builds pig cookers. I brought him Argentinian gaucho grill plans and we hybridized them with an insulated smoker. Double-walled, so I can run it in cold weather. It’s heavy as hell—that’s why it sits on a stone base. Eventually I want a pavilion over the whole thing and a real outdoor kitchen.”

“It’s already nice the way it is,” John said.

“You still want to pick up a side-by-side tomorrow?”

“Yeah. I want to give Diane plenty of time to practice.” Paul grinned. “You’d better mount a handheld GPS in hers until she learns the trails.”

“Good idea.”

Paul rubbed the ribs and slid them into the smoker, then checked the temperature. Right at 200 degrees. He added a few more coals and wood, then handed John a fresh beer.

“I’m going to need a couple more side-by-sides,” Paul said. “With Cynthia moving in and you two coming soon, the ladies will be exploring constantly.”

John laughed. “I can picture it.” He took a sip. “I was looking at the map. When you put that bridge in, I’ll go halves with you. Nice to have more than one way out.”

“I’ll take you up on that. Fair warning—it’ll run around two hundred thousand.”

John nodded. “No problem.”

“If you want your driveway dressed with gravel, I can give you the contractor’s number. He did a good job here.”

“Thanks. I’ll take it.”

Paul checked the smoker again. “You planning a basement?”

“I don’t know. Should we?”

“Given the tornado risk around here, I would. And put in an escape tunnel just in case the house collapses on top of you.”

“Tornadoes don’t come through that often, do they?”

“Not often, but we get plenty of watches. When that warm Gulf air pushes north, anything can happen.”

“Yeah, we had two touch down near the suburbs last year,” John said.

Paul added a couple of wet oak chips, then closed the smoker.

Diane and Angel came out carrying hurricane glasses full of daiquiris.

“Oh my! Angel finally learned how to make daiquiris!” Paul teased.

“I looked up a recipe. We were a little short on strawberries, though,” Angel said with a smile.

While the ribs finished, the women went inside to help Carmelita with the sides. Carmelita had everything ready except dessert—a big, beautiful tart layered with angel food cake, ladyfingers, cream cheese, Cool Whip, and fresh strawberries.

With an hour left on the ribs, Paul wrapped them in foil, drizzled honey, and misted them with apple juice. He pulled a few coals to drop the temperature back to 200 degrees and closed the lid.

“Be careful eating these,” he warned later. “The meat will fall off the bone before you get them to your mouth.”



The next morning, after breakfast, Angel and Diane headed to Russellville for a day of sightseeing and window-shopping. Paul and John rode back over to the new property, walked the boundaries again, and talked through plans. Around ten they returned, hooked up the trailer, and drove to the ATV dealer in Clarksville.

After listening to the sales pitches, John chose a Polaris Ranger Crew SP 570 NorthStar Edition—sport roof, four helmets with intercoms, and a GPS mount.

The survey crew’s line stayed easy. The heavy forest kept underbrush thin, so they only had to trim the occasional holly bush. Clearing was heavier only near the tree line by the open fields. If the rest of the line held, they would finish well ahead of schedule.

They needed the survey verified before signing final paperwork, so John and Diane returned to St. Louis. Paul would fly up and bring them back once it was ready—less than a two-hour trip.

Five days later the survey was complete. Swinging a bush axe had left Paul sore every night, but the job was done. He returned and set larger stakes around Cynthia’s two-acre parcel to make the boundaries obvious.

Cynthia already had a builder lined up for her 1,777-square-foot house. She told Angel she was donating her condo furniture to charity and buying everything new. She planned to drive up soon to shop locally. Angel reminded her to include a basement or some kind of storm shelter.



The following morning Angel opened the store and noticed several locals relaxing on the café porch—some in rocking chairs, others in straight-backed caned seats—sipping coffee and talking. After checking shelves and coolers, she heard faint guitar music drifting from outside.

Jess Parker sat in a straight-backed chair, picking softly. Liz Carpenter stepped out and began to sing:

“It came from the east just as bright as a torch The neighbors had a party on their porch Daddy rocked the baby, mother said amen When Halley came to visit in nineteen-ten…”

Angel listened until the song ended, then walked over.

“What’s the name of that one?” she asked.

“‘Halley Came to Jackson,’” Jess replied.


View: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Om3j8VP1oCI



“I really liked it. I wouldn’t mind hearing more, but I have to get back to work. Do you ever play shows?”

“Me and some friends play dances and parties now and then.”

Angel returned to the store, an idea already taking shape in her mind.
 
Chapter Eighteen


Angela returned to the store and called Donald Edwards to tell him she had a project she wanted to discuss. Then she pitched in with Keira, rearranging products on the shelves. At noon, she phoned Paul and asked him to come down. He arrived twenty minutes later. Angela met him outside and led him around to the far side of the café.

“I want to build a pavilion here,” she said, “something that can hold fifty or seventy-five people. On Saturday nights we could let local musicians play. Charge a five-dollar cover and let them perform as long as they want. The cover charge goes straight to the musicians.”

“Why only fifty to seventy-five?” Paul asked.

“I’m not sure about the fire codes.”

“You thinking of a wooden building?”

“Yes. I want to keep the same feel as the café.”

“You could do a steel building and side it with barn wood,” Paul suggested. “That would match the motif without the maintenance headaches.”

“I’ll ask Don.” Angela nodded. “He’ll know what works.”

“Also, think about putting in a water tank for a sprinkler system. And talk to Jim Johnson at the fire department before you get too far.”

Angela groaned. “I might have bitten off more than I can chew.”

“Hey, it’s a good idea. Just get all the facts first.”

“Yeah. You’re right. Thanks.”

Paul headed home. He and Eduardo spent the afternoon harvesting corn and picking green beans while Carmelita, Cecilia, and Lourdes gathered the supplies they’d need for canning. Back at the house, Cecilia set her children—José and Rosa—to shucking corn and brushing off the silk. Eduardo slipped away while Paul fetched the Seal-A-Meal from the pantry. They planned to blanch and freeze half the corn on the cob; Carmelita would cut the rest off the ears and can it.

Carmelita already had the corn peeler washed and ready. Once the corn was shucked, she put the kids to work snapping beans. Cecilia blanched the ears while Paul dried them and set them on cooling racks. When they had cooled enough, he packed four ears per bag, vacuum-sealed them, and laid them flat in the freezer so they would freeze quickly.

They were just finishing when Angela arrived home. Carmelita had prepared meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and fresh corn on the cob. After supper, Paul settled into his recliner to check the weather. No surprises there. He switched to the news and caught the headline: the stock market had dropped a thousand points after new policies from Washington.

He had been watching for about five minutes when his phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Paul, it’s Julia. I’ve completed the liquidation.”

“So I’m taking a bath everywhere else?” Paul asked.

“Au contraire, monsieur. J’ai même liquidé les actions françaises et britanniques également.”

“What’s the mood like up there?” he asked.

“A lot of pissed-off people—Democrats and Republicans alike. Most of them never bothered to read the bills the President rammed through with his cronies in Congress.” Julia paused. “Paul, Brad and I have decided to head for less hostile territory.”

“Want me to start looking for a place for you down here?”

“Let me put Brad on.”

“Paul, things are circling the drain up here,” Brad said without preamble.

“Was only a matter of time,” Paul replied. “Give politicians an inch…”

“We’re ready to pull up stakes. Can you keep an eye out for property?”

“I’ll start first thing tomorrow,” Paul promised. “Come on down and stay with us in the meantime.”

“We’ll bring your gold with us,” Brad said. “I bought a new Tahoe and an enclosed trailer.”

“Good. Stay armed.”

“Count on it. Julia’s permitted too.”

“Be careful.”

When Paul hung up, Angela looked over. “Who was that?”

“Brad and Julia Collins. Looks like they’re making the move south. Keep your ears open for anyone selling land. I’ll check with Susan Wilson tomorrow.”

Over the next several days, Paul visited construction companies George Carpenter had recommended, searching for someone who could build the bridge. He finally found a capable firm in Little Rock. They agreed to come out, survey the site, and give him a quote.

On the way home he stopped at a farmer’s market and picked up four bushels of peaches at Carmelita’s request. The next two days were spent canning and freeze-drying them. Pfeiffer’s Nursery arrived and planted three peach trees and four cherry trees in the new orchard. In exchange, Paul let them dig up twenty young dogwood trees from along his wood line. The nursery was short on dogwoods for a development near Dardanelle, and both sides left happy.

With the survey work complete, Paul flew to St. Louis, picked up John and Diane Maples, and handled the final paperwork for the land sale. Checks changed hands, and they celebrated with Carmelita’s enchiladas. Angela rode along when Paul flew the Maples back home.

Two days later, bridge builder Jim Stanek arrived with his survey crew. Paul left them to their work and busied himself mulching the new peach trees. When Jim called him down to the site, Paul drove over in the Polaris.

“I wanted to show you what we’re up against,” Jim said. He explained the bedrock, the flash-flood risk, and the need for two major center piles in the creek bed plus concrete abutments on each bank. Six connected girders would span the gap, with a one-lane roadbed of 4x8 beams laid crosswise.

The quote came to $245,000. Paul accepted it on the spot.

Work began. A pile driver pounded the center supports into the creek bed while the end piles went into bored holes filled with steel and concrete.

Paul also found a place for Brad and Julia—thirty-one acres just south of the Maples’ property, on the other side of the ford. The farmhouse needed renovation, but Julia loved the bones of it. Diane approved plans for her basement and storm-shelter tunnel, and the concrete was curing while carpenters began finish work on both new houses. John and Brad started ordering long-term storage food and shipping containers. They hired Eduardo’s friends to gather deadwood and girdling a few trees for future firewood.

Brad and Julia stayed with Paul and Angela while Carmelita gave the newcomers crash courses in country living. They helped plant cool-weather vegetables and pack cabbage into crocks for sauerkraut when a load arrived at the farmer’s market.

Angela continued buying smoked meats from Big Springs Trading Co. and Coursey’s Smoked Meats across the Buffalo River. She ordered so much that the two companies combined the shipment and sent it by box truck: venison and beef summer sausage, apple- and hickory-smoked bacon, whole and half smoked turkeys and hams, and linked smoked sausage that paired perfectly with sauerkraut. The Collins and Maples families taste-tested everything and placed their own, smaller orders.

Don Edwards agreed to build the event center at Shaner’s. The steel building would be sided with barn wood to blend with the café’s look. Inside, Don constructed a stage and left room for a dance floor. Angela began hunting for used theater seats. Word spread quickly through the community. Most locals were excited; a few grumbled about the no-alcohol policy, but Paul figured they’d still show up—with flasks in their trucks if necessary.

By September the bridge pilings were in place, so the fall rains didn’t slow construction. Cynthia’s and the Maples’ houses were dried in, and finish carpentry was underway. Cynthia bought a Polaris side-by-side so she could visit her building site daily once the bridge was finished. She mostly stayed out of the carpenters’ way and spent her time at the nursery, planning flower beds and shrubbery for her new home. The storm shelters had been lowered into place, and the connecting tunnels were complete.
 
Chapter Nineteen


John and Paul had just finished installing the solar railing lights on the bridge when Angel drove up in the truck, towing a trailer loaded with furniture she and Cynthia had picked up from stores in town. Paul turned the Polaris around, and they headed back to help unload.

John and Diane would be moving into their new house the following week. Diane insisted on waiting until the pool was finished and the sod laid. As soon as the trailer was emptied, Angel and her mother left for another load. John and Paul assembled the beds while Lourdes made them up and washed the new kitchenware. She held off on putting anything away until Cynthia returned; Cynthia would know exactly where she wanted everything.

Once all of Cynthia’s furniture was moved in, she and Angel drove to Little Rock to retrieve her boxed personal items and oversee the charity pickup of the leftover furniture. She had listed the condo at a bargain price, and the realtor assured her it would sell quickly. After the cleaners finished at the condominium, the two women returned to Crooked Creek.

Cynthia traded her Lexus for a Chevrolet Traverse, giving her the cargo space she needed for plants from the nursery.

The steel building crew, plumbers, and electricians completed the rough-ins and poured the floor for the music hall. While the concrete cured, Don collected weathered barn wood for the siding and interior accents. Everyone kept an eye out for country-themed décor—items reminiscent of Cracker Barrel restaurants—for the café and music hall. Customers at the store, café patrons, and Hagarville residents donated many pieces. Angel set a target opening date of November 1st and had already chosen the name: the Hagarville Music Hall.

Brad and Julia’s house restoration was nearly complete. Carpenter-ant-damaged sills had been replaced, the old structure gutted, and a new PV-shingled roof installed. New plumbing, double-paned windows, and a generous wrap-around porch finished the transformation. The restored home was larger than their place in Herndon, and the Virginia sale had covered the entire project. Brad added geothermal heating and cooling, though they planned to rely mostly on a wood stove during winter. The final addition was an above-ground concrete storm shelter, its entrance just beyond the back door.

On Sundays, the three families gathered at Paul and Angel’s. The women compared their latest treasures and nick-knacks while the men discussed ways to strengthen their self-reliance.

“You know, these solar systems are working just fine,” John said. “Why can’t the government get it right?”

“Because the government thinks one size fits all,” Paul replied. “If they subsidized installations instead of trying to ban fossil fuels overnight, more people would adopt alternatives. Forcing blackouts and brownouts while people scramble for power won’t work. Everyone uses electricity differently. If you’re responsible with it, you won’t have problems. That’s why I overbuilt my system. I’d rather pay extra for the peace of mind than watch every watt.”

“Why didn’t you go grid-tie and sell power back?” Brad asked.

“They helped create this mess,” John said. “Let them fix it.”

“Exactly,” Paul agreed. “They’ve made millions in profits but haven’t maintained the grids. Politicians share the blame—too many stock holdings and campaign contributions from utilities to push real solutions.”

When the conversation lulled, Paul led the men down to the conex boxes near the airfield in their side-by-sides. He issued each of them a Heckler & Koch MR556A1 rifle with eight magazines, 1,000 rounds of SS109 ammunition, a fully loaded LBE rig with ammo pouches, an IFAK, and canteens. He added a Colt 1911 pistol, holster, and 500 rounds of .45 ACP.

“What’s this for?” Brad asked.

“Just in case,” Paul said.

Brad nodded and stowed the gear in the bed of his side-by-side.

“We’ll set up a range day soon so you can get familiar with the weapons,” Paul added. “After that, I want to establish solid comms—fixed and mobile. I’ll do some research and get back to you.”

“Personally, I don’t think things have gotten that bad,” John said, “but it’s better to have it and not need it than need it and not have it.”

John and Brad agreed Wednesday at 09:00 would work for range training, weather permitting. They would also bring their hunting rifles so Paul could check the zeros. Both men were experienced “celebrity hunters”—guided trips where someone else handled field dressing and processing. Paul intended to teach them to do it properly themselves.

Paul had spent the summer placing mineral blocks, scent attractants, and game cameras. He knew exactly where the deer moved and where a sounder of feral hogs roamed. The families would not lack wild game. They also had two steers and two hogs scheduled for processing; each family would receive a side of beef and a third of each hog. Paul offered to smoke the hams and shoulders.

He had built a stilted smokehouse eight feet off the ground—modeled after Alaskan meat caches—and equipped it with a double-barrel stove kit firebox. A wireless thermometer let him monitor and adjust temperature and smoke precisely.

For curing, Paul sliced the haunches and shoulders down to the bone at the joints and packed them with a mix of curing salt, red pepper, black pepper, and brown sugar. The meat rested in pans layered with cure inside an old chest freezer for eighteen days. Once firm, it was ready for the smoker.

The finished hams and shoulders turned out well, though anyone sensitive to salt needed to simmer the slices in water and discard the water before frying. Paul had everything sliced at a butcher shop equipped for bone-in cuts and vacuum-sealed for storage. The scraps would later flavor pots of green beans and pintos.

The culture war in America continued to escalate. Christians were increasingly marginalized, and attacks on churches, Christian facilities, and pro-life centers were rising nationwide. The violence had begun reaching Little Rock. More congregations were posting guards. When Reverend Bowman put out a call for volunteers, the Crooked Creek families answered.

Paul took the men to the range. They zeroed their MR556A1 rifles on paper targets, then ran a few magazines through B-27 silhouettes. They finished with the .45 pistols. Paul offered minor corrections, but both John and Brad shot well.

“How bad do you think this is going to get?” Brad asked Paul.

“I don’t know,” Paul replied, “but you can bet it’ll get worse before it gets better.”

Paul called Jeremy and requested body armor plus recommendations on radio gear. Jeremy had vests ready but his planes were all out on deliveries. Paul offered to fly down. The next morning, he and John landed at the lodge in the Ouachita National Forest. Jeremy waited with twenty-five vests in a pickup bed and several cases. They loaded the vests quickly while Jeremy added ammo cans, four heavy cardboard boxes, and four large Pelican cases.

“What is all this?” Paul asked.

“Twelve IMI Tavor TAR-21s in 5.56,” Jeremy said. “Same mags as your H&Ks, with red dots, lasers, and night vision. Suppressors included. Plus three base stations and twelve mobile radios compatible with the ones I use.”

“Thanks,” Paul said. “These might come in handy.”

They took off and headed home.

“Paul, when we get back let’s take these to the range,” John said. “The church attacks seem to happen at night. Night vision will give us the edge. Once we read the manuals and get squared away, we can teach the others. We’ll bring them on our shifts.”

“I heard that!” John added with a grin.

Back at Crooked Creek, they loaded the new gear into Paul’s truck and drove to the range. They filled magazines, then sat on the tailgate reading the Tavor manuals.

“This is pretty simple,” John said.

“Yeah,” Paul agreed. “Once we battle-sight them, the NV scopes mount straight to the red dots. We just need to align the lasers.”

Paul set up zero targets and fired three rounds. The red dots were dead-on. They adjusted the lasers to match, then installed the daylight covers on the NV scopes and fired three more. The night vision held perfect alignment with the red dot.

“I wonder how many knocks it’ll take to knock the NV off zero,” John said.

“Let’s burn a magazine through it and find out,” Paul replied.

They emptied a thirty-round magazine at a B-27 target at 100 meters. The impacts stayed consistent.

“We need to get Brad zeroed,” Paul said. “And we should keep one of these on the night shift for upgraded security. I also want to outfit you two with radios and an AA-12.”

“What’s that?” John asked.

“An automatic shotgun,” Paul said.

“I’ve got a Browning A5,” John replied.

Paul chuckled. “Not even close. The AA-12 spits out 250 rounds a minute from a 20-round drum or 8-round stick. Holy crap doesn’t cover it.”

“Is it legal?” John asked.

“Not for civilians, but I’m getting legal lowers. Until then, we can carry our civilian shotguns in the trucks and swap them out if the law shows up.”
 
Chapter Twenty


“Well, it does change a person’s attitude hearing a shotgun racked in the dark,” John said.

That afternoon, the volunteer guards met with Reverend Bowman at the church.

“Thank you, gentlemen, for coming,” Reverend Bowman began. “I just received word that someone tried to firebomb Our Shepherd Lutheran Church up in Searcy last night.”

“The animals are filtering out of the dystopia,” John muttered.

“Do we know who they are?” Eric Himmel asked.

“It doesn’t matter,” Paul replied. “They’re enemies of the people, using weapons of mass destruction against innocent civilians and organizations.”

“Paul, will you set up the guard roster?” Reverend Bowman asked.

“Of course, Reverend.” Paul pulled out a clipboard. “I’ve created a weekly matrix—three eight-hour shifts per day. Fill in the hours you can cover. We’ll resolve any conflicts. I also have portable radios for everyone so we can stay in communication.”

He turned to the pastor. “Reverend, if you could act as our intel gatherer and let me know about any attacks, attempts, or suspicious activity, that would be a big help.”

“I can do that, Paul.”

“Either John, Brad, or I will be on every night shift,” Paul continued. “We have night-vision equipment that’ll give us an edge.”

“Shouldn’t the FBI or ATF be down here investigating this?” Don Baker asked. “Where are they?”

“Don, no problem is so dire that government involvement can’t make it worse,” Paul said. “We’ll take care of our own community.”

That evening, the first shift agreed to meet back at the church at 5:30 p.m. Paul, John, and Brad returned to Paul’s place. He laid out four sets of load-bearing equipment complete with ammo pouches, IFAKs, two canteens each, and military-style LED right-angle flashlights. They assembled the kits and filled the canteens.

Since Paul would stand the first night shift, he retrieved a ballistic helmet, mounted a PVS-14 on it, and tested the setup. He also handed out four IR monoculars for the others. The LBE, body armor, and radios would rotate with every shift; the night-vision devices would stay with the night crews.

Paul arrived at the church at 5:20 and walked the grounds, studying the terrain. When the rest of the shift arrived, he directed them to reposition their vehicles so they offered no cover to intruders unless the attackers crossed at least fifty meters of open ground. He issued the equipment and gave a quick class on the IR monoculars—how to use them, when to use them, and what to watch for.

Houses stood close to the front and both sides of the church, so Paul walked out and hung a blue chemlight and an IR chemlight on the property lines between the church and the nearest homes. “Do not shoot toward those lights,” he warned.

He didn’t expect attackers to cross the seventy-meter open field behind the building. From every report they’d heard, the hostiles struck fast and left faster. The half-circle drive in front seemed the most likely approach, so he stationed two men with shotguns on that corner. Paul positioned himself near the northeast corner—close enough to support the front but with a clear field of fire. With the TAR-21, the laser, and the PVS-14, it would be simple: swing the laser onto target and press the trigger.

The night passed quietly, much to everyone’s relief. When the next shift arrived, Paul briefed the new shift leader on likely avenues of approach.

Nothing happened all week, though reports of church burnings and attempted arsons continued to roll in. Most attacks clustered in the latter half of the workweek. The Sheriff’s Department had received a Homeland Security bulletin urging extra vigilance Wednesday through Saturday nights.

On Friday, Paul stood guard again. Just after dark, three cars pulled up in front of the church. The right-side doors of the middle car flew open. Two men jumped out, lit what were clearly Molotov cocktails, and cocked their arms to throw.

Ed Turner’s shotgun roared first. The blast shattered the lead bottle in mid-air, spraying flaming glass and accelerant back onto the throwers. The second man dropped his bottle in panic; it exploded at their feet. Ben Johnson raked the passenger door with buckshot. While the two men screamed and slapped at the flames on their clothes, Paul methodically shot out tires on all three vehicles with the TAR-21.

He grabbed a fire extinguisher from his truck and doused the growing blaze just as the spare Molotovs in the rear floorboard began cooking off. Once the fire was out, Paul swapped the TAR-21 for a Mini-14 and helped secure the scene.

Fifteen minutes later, a Sheriff’s deputy arrived to find four armed men guarding eight prisoners seated on the church lawn, backs against the fence around the children’s play area.

The deputy called for backup and an ambulance. Two hours later the scene was cleared. The next shift took over while everyone helped pick up broken glass. Wreckers hauled the disabled cars away. The attackers would face charges of arson and use of a weapon of mass destruction. Score: Bad guys—0, Guards—8.

At noon the next day, Paul assembled the full guard roster and debriefed them on the contact.

They maintained the shifts for two more weeks. No further incidents occurred in Johnson County or the surrounding area, so the watch stood down. The Sheriff later told Reverend Bowman that the eight perpetrators had come from Little Rock, St. Louis, Chicago, and Portland—two from each city. Homeland Security had promised increased surveillance on anarchist groups, but that promise proved empty.

When the Reverend relayed the news, Paul shook his head. “This has been going on for more than two years, and now they want to step up surveillance? Trust the government.”

Paul selected five reliable men who lived within a two-mile radius of Hagarville and offered to equip and train them. They accepted. He issued each an H&K MR556A1 with battle rigs and two thousand rounds of ammunition. Training sessions were scheduled around their work hours, with Eduardo assisting.

Jeremy soon arrived with two more shipping containers. He, Paul, John, Brad, and Eduardo sat down for a long discussion about the road ahead.

“Paul, here’s the manifest for the new containers,” Jeremy said. “We’ve modeled the resupply bundles after the old MARGE kits but upgraded the gear. More night vision, better surveillance equipment, and four RQ-11 Raven drones. Pick a primary operator and I’ll send a trainer down.”

“Jeremy, do you really think it’s going to get worse?” Brad asked.

Jeremy sighed and took a long drink of water. “As long as Marxists control large parts of government and academia, yes. They’re indoctrinating another generation of useful idiots in our schools. A lot of the ‘woke’ leadership is in it for the money and power. We’re chipping away at their funding and exposing them. The hard-core militants… well, sinkholes have become our friends. With the weak politicians and judges we have, it’ll take time. But when they hit us, we hit them twice as hard. Plans are already in motion to address the networks those eight men came from.”

“Is that really necessary?” John asked quietly.

“John, these people don’t respect the average citizen. If they won’t respect your rights, they need to fear the consequences.”

Paul nodded. “Jeremy, you mentioned a new Bell 412. Feel free to set up a five-hundred-gallon Jet-A tank here for extended range and QRF capability.”

“Appreciate it,” Jeremy said. “I’ll put it where it makes sense.”

Paul drew a five-mile radius around Hagarville and personally visited every home inside it. He recruited twenty-five men over eighteen into an on-call community security team. They half-jokingly called themselves the “Security Regulators,” but they took the responsibility seriously. As a result, fifty-eight square miles of Johnson County saw almost no overt crime—only the occasional teenager burning rubber outside Shaner’s.

The Sheriff investigated the group, found trusted neighbors running an armed neighborhood watch, and quietly approved. Criminals soon learned to avoid the Hagarville area entirely, pushing their trouble elsewhere in the county.

Jeremy continued pushing gear and ammunition forward. The wives of the security men took an interest in home defense, becoming proficient with the Beretta A300 Ultima Patrol 20-gauge shotguns Paul supplied. Saturday training sessions often ended with big family cookouts.

Almost unnoticed at first, ANTIFA activists began disappearing from public view—at least the loudest leaders did.

One afternoon while driving into Clarksville, Paul spotted the strangest dog he had ever seen standing beside a man at a mailbox. He pulled over.

“What kind of dog is that?” he asked.

“Catahoula Leopard Dog,” the man replied.

“Used to hunt leopards?”

The man chuckled. “Nah. Bred in Louisiana for herding cattle. Got the name from the spots.”

“Looks like she might have had pups,” Paul said.

“Yeah, eight. Sold six. Got two eight-month-olds left if you’re interested.”

Paul introduced himself and followed Emmet Simpson up the driveway. In a pen behind the garage sat two young Catahoulas—one male, one female. The female had striking light sky-blue eyes; the male had one blue Dog_eyes.pngand one brown.

“Those eyes are normal for the breed,” Emmet explained. “I’ve been training them on cattle and hogs. Female’s spayed; male isn’t.”

He turned the dogs out, put them through their paces—sit, search, heel—and they performed flawlessly. Smart, eager, and well-mannered.

“Two hundred each if you take both,” Emmet said. “Three hundred for one.”

“I’ll take them both,” Paul decided.

He paid cash from the gun safe in his truck, collected the vaccination records, and loaded the dogs into the back seat. They rode quietly while he stopped at the auto parts store and the farm store for supplies. Inside the pet aisle he let them “choose” their food and treats, then fitted them with collars and leashes. Tails wagging nonstop, they stayed right at his side.

As he pulled out of the parking lot, Paul smiled and gave each dog a treat. “Wonder what Angel’s going to say when she sees you two.”
 
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Chapter Twenty-One


Paul set up the dogs’ bowls and bedding on the west-side porch. The two Leopard Dogs roamed the yard, sniffing everything in sight. When he called them, they trotted up eagerly. He fed each a treat, then sat on the steps. Both dogs settled beside him as he rubbed and scratched their ears.

The sound of an approaching side-by-side made them tense and bristle. Paul stood and walked out to greet Eduardo.

“What in the hell are those?” Eduardo asked, eyeing the dogs.

“Leopard Dogs,” Paul replied. “Come!”

Both dogs approached cautiously. Paul patted Eduardo on the shoulder. “Friend.”

Eduardo offered the back of his hand. The dogs sniffed, then relaxed. Paul rewarded them with chicken jerky.

“You shouldn’t have any problems with them now,” Paul said.

“I should hope not!” Eduardo replied. “Have you named them yet?”

“I was thinking Cujo for the male and Molly for the female.”

“Huh. They’ve got weird eyes.”

“It’s common in the breed,” Paul said with a shrug.

Carmelita stepped out the door and immediately jumped back as if she’d nearly stepped on a snake. Molly spun around, stared, then wagged her tail.

“¡¿Señor Paul?! ¡¿Qué es esto?!” Carmelita exclaimed.

“New members of the family,” Paul said. “Carmelita, meet Cujo and Molly.”

The dogs turned their full attention to her. At Paul’s suggestion, she offered the back of her hand. While they sniffed, he scratched their ears and gave them another scrap of jerky. Carmelita took over the ear-scratching.

“They are beautiful!” she cooed. Both dogs moved closer and nuzzled her.

Eventually the dogs left her side and took up position at the top of the porch steps, alert and watchful.

Paul went inside, poured three fingers of Irish whiskey, and returned to sit with the dogs. Angel should be back soon. They sat together for about fifteen minutes—Paul sipping his drink while the dogs leaned in for more ear scratches—until Angel’s SUV pulled in.

She sat in the vehicle for a few seconds, staring at the dogs, then got out.

“What are those?” she asked.

Paul chuckled. “Our new guard dogs. Come on up and meet them.”

The dogs stood as Angel approached. “Let them sniff the back of your hand,” Paul said.

Angel extended her hand, palm down. Both dogs sniffed excitedly while Paul broke a piece of jerky in half and handed the pieces to her. “Give them each one and scratch their ears.”

The dogs gobbled the treats and began nuzzling her.

“What are their names?” Angel asked.

“Female’s Molly, male’s Cujo,” Paul said, smiling.

“Oh my God! You would name him that!” She laughed. “They’re both beautiful… and those eyes!”

“Strange, aren’t they?”

Angel straightened up. “Well, I need a quick shower.”

Paul followed her inside, took the warm lasagna out of the oven, and set the table. As he uncorked a bottle of wine, she reappeared in a sleeping T-shirt and lined bedroom shoes.

“Happy to see me?” Paul asked, nodding toward the obvious protrusions in her shirt.

“Oh, quit it! It’s getting chilly in here!” Angel said, blushing.

Paul set the wine bottle down, walked to the woodstove, and added two more pieces of split oak. By the time he returned, she was pouring the wine. He cut large squares of lasagna and served them.

A sharp “WOOF” and the click of toenails on the porch made Paul rise. He heard Cynthia’s side-by-side coming down the drive. He waited with the dogs, talking softly to them until she pulled up.

“Cynthia, meet Cujo and Molly,” Paul said. “Let them sniff the back of your hand, and I’ll give you treats for them.”

While the dogs inspected her, Paul tore a strip of chicken jerky in half and handed the pieces over. After the dogs devoured the treats and accepted ear scratches, Cynthia was now officially part of the approved circle.



Paul and Eduardo stood watching as the CN-235 descended below treetop level and lined up for its run at the airstrip. Jeremy wanted to test LAPES drops—Low Altitude Parachute Extraction System—since the strip was too short for the big bird to land. The plane needed to preposition supplies in the newly delivered shipping containers.

The landing gear lowered. The aircraft leveled off roughly a meter above the ground. Halfway down the strip, a drogue parachute deployed from the rear, and the pilot lifted the nose to clear the trees beyond the end. A pallet slid out, riding its own chute, and came to rest about a hundred meters from the runway’s end.

The pilot circled and made a second pass. This time the drogue came out earlier and the nose pitched up sooner. The second pallet stopped about fifty meters from the first. The ramp closed, and the aircraft made a low-level pass over the strip, waggling its wings before disappearing into the distance.

Eduardo climbed onto the tractor. Paul rode the hitch bar out to the pallets. They removed the LAPES harnesses, then Eduardo used the tractor to slide each pallet into the container along its roller system. The harnesses were stored inside as well. Jeremy’s crew would retrieve them later.

“That worked well enough,” Eduardo said.

“We’re limited by pallet weight,” Paul replied. “Anything over what the tractor can handle, we’ll have to unload by hand.”

“Better remind them to keep everything under two thousand pounds, then.”

They secured the container and put the tractor away.

“We still going out in the morning?” Eduardo asked.

“For sure. I want to fill all my tags this year.”

“Both hogs and deer have been hitting that area near Tom’s Branch hard—acorns and the attractant we put out,” Eduardo said.

“Sounds good. I’ll meet you at the barn at four-thirty.”

“See you then.”

Cujo and Molly met Paul in the yard, tails wagging. He was pleased at how quickly they had taken to guarding the house. Molly in particular had bonded hard with Angel and obeyed her commands as readily as his.



The next morning, Paul and Eduardo met up, took the side-by-side to the range shed, and walked the rest of the way to their hides. They were settled before the sky began to lighten.

Paul dropped a fine 12-point buck with a clean shot. The report flushed a large feral boar, and Eduardo dropped it cleanly. Paul slit the buck’s throat, then trotted back for the utility vehicle. They moved the carcasses away from the hunting area, field-dressed them, and hauled everything back to the house to skin and process.

Carmelita was making breakfast when they arrived. She took one look at the haul and called Lourdes and Cecilia to help. While the meat cooled, the men ate. Afterward, Carmelita organized canning, freezing, and smoking. Paul, Eduardo, and the women cut and portioned the meat. Paul prepared hams and shoulders for salt-curing and smoking, then ground the scraps for sausage.

The dogs lay nearby, contentedly gnawing on deer leg bones while standing guard.

By noon the canning was finished and the kitchen cleaned. Sausages hung in the smoker while Paul and Eduardo relaxed nearby with cold beers. Eduardo tended a cast-iron pot of rendering lard over the fire pit.

“Man, this turned into a busy day,” Paul said.

“Yeah, amigo, but we got a lot of meat,” Eduardo replied.

“I want to fill my doe tag next time and turn it into jerky and pemmican.”

“Make some with raisins too. My kids love that. Better than junk food.”

“I will. Half with raisins, half with blueberries.”

Paul checked the sausages with a probe. “These will be ready in about thirty minutes.”

“I’ll grab a pan,” Eduardo said.

Paul strung lines of #550 cord to hang the cooled sausage links.

If they didn’t get any beef for the next few months, they’d still have plenty of protein. Paul was currently buying beef, bison, and elk from Fox Slaughtering and Processing down in Scranton. Those elk rib eyes practically melted in your mouth. As of today, though, the freezers were reaching capacity—which was exactly why he planned to turn the next deer into jerky and pemmican.
 
Chapter Twenty-Two


Excitement filled the air on Saturday night as the Hagarville Music Hall celebrated its grand opening. Parking was at a premium, so Angel hired four high school boys to direct cars and help guests find spots. People began arriving at 6:30, and Angel opened the doors early, letting the musicians warm up with an informal jam session before the scheduled performances at seven.

Sabrina had spent the day brewing large dispensers of sweet and unsweetened iced tea. Angel was already considering buying a dedicated ice machine for the hall.

Reverend Bowman, ever the pragmatist, had claimed a table near the exit to the smoking area. He planned to help keep an eye on anyone who had too much to drink. Everyone knew it would happen; the men would mostly police one another.

The crowd enjoyed the jam session—pure instrumental work as guitarists, banjo players, and fiddlers limbered up their fingers. The standout was Horace Marley on his lap steel guitar, drawing appreciative murmurs with every soaring note.

At seven o’clock the formal show began. Jess Parker on flat-top guitar and Albert Jackson on five-string banjo backed Liz Carpenter as she sang “Halley Came to Jackson,” at Angel’s special request. The Mary Chapin Carpenter song drew from Eudora Welty’s memories of growing up in Mississippi. Angel listened to it at least once a week; her favorite version was Reina del Cid’s on YouTube. Liz and her accompanists performed three songs before the restless crowd called for others. They rotated through the evening, and Liz closed the night at 11:30 with the Carter Family classic “Wildwood Flower.”

The Music Hall opening was a resounding success. Before the night ended, several people asked Angel if she would consider opening on Friday nights as well. She decided to wait a few weeks before making any commitments.



Miles away, Mike Alderberg finished installing the last of five new 2.4 GHz, 100 TB servers, shrugged on his coat, and stepped outside the entrance building. Snow had begun to pile up on the old gamma-ray detector beside the gate. He brushed off the inch-thick layer and scanned the horizon. No headlights moved along West 51 in either direction; the plains stretched empty for miles. He’d better check the forecast.

“I’m glad I made that trip to Sioux City last week,” he muttered. “I’d hate to get caught out in this mess.” He talked to himself often out here.

The ice storm the day before had been bad enough. Ice and snow together were worse. He headed back inside, descended the stairs to the living quarters, and hung up his coat.

Mike lived in a decommissioned AT&T underground bunker a few miles outside Lyons, Nebraska—an old hardened facility built to survive nuclear blasts. It was a lonely spot, but it suited him perfectly.

His grandfather had bought the AUTOVON site when AT&T put it up for sale. It filled out the family’s original land section—the same land the government had taken decades earlier in the name of national defense. The bunker had once housed a major Electronic Switching System connecting Offutt Air Force Base to northern missile silos and long-haul communications lines.

The two-story reinforced-concrete structure featured high ceilings for equipment racks, mezzanine levels, blast doors that sealed automatically, a decontamination shower, a gas-turbine emergency generator, and a positive-pressure ventilation system. AT&T had removed only non-obsolete gear and cut the cables when they left. Everything else still worked. Mike had added HEPA and carbon filters for extra protection.

As a kid on leave from the Air Force, where he specialized in computers and networks, Mike had seen the potential immediately: secure, climate-controlled underground space perfect for off-site data storage. Over the years he cleared out old wiring and equipment, sold scrap copper for good money, and saved circuit boards for their gold content. He converted the lower floor into a server farm.

The only things visible from the state road were the entrance building and a 100-meter steel tower. Later, he and his grandfather planted dense windbreaks of trees, shrubs, bristly greenbrier, buckthorn, and hawthorn to shield the site from wind, prying eyes, and provide cover for wildlife. A company eventually bought the old horn-reflector microwave antennas and dismantled the tower with surprising care. Grandpa used the salvaged steel to repair neighbors’ farm equipment.

A few years earlier, a grass fire had swept through from the southwest, destroying Grandpa’s century-old farmhouse and outbuildings. He simply moved into the bunker’s upper level, which he had already been using for storage. When Mike returned on leave, his grandfather had already begun turning the space into a proper home.

By the time Mike came home on terminal leave, Grandpa had finished walling off a comfortable 4,000-square-foot residence—three bedrooms, full baths, a large country kitchen, living area, library, and recreation room. Mike had spent his last assignment at Whiteman Air Force Base in Missouri and had hauled back three trailer loads of tools, test equipment, racks, shelving, and auction finds from the Defense Logistics Agency. All of it would support his new civilian data-storage business.

He upgraded the power system next, installing enough solar panels and wind generators to run both the house and the growing server farm. He kept the original 750 kW generator’s motor and alternator—just in case.

Mike still missed his grandfather, who had died the previous summer at ninety-six while welding in his shop. He was buried in the old family cemetery beside his wife. Mike spent a day each month cleaning the graves, the same way he and Grandpa used to.

Business was solid. He had been running forty terabytes until Jeremy Cassidy requested secure backup space. Mike added another twenty terabytes and charged a premium. Whatever Cassidy did with the encrypted data came in irregular bursts, but Mike stayed ahead of it with spare drives and monitoring software. Every new hard drive added more dollar signs to Cassidy’s next bill.

Mike checked his shopping list and pulled up the weather forecast. His monthly trip to Sioux City was coming up. He walked through the pantry, adding items, then glanced at his wine selection and noted several bottles of Hanna’s favorites. He paused, smiling.

Hanna Edwinson lived on a farm four miles away. A Swedish-American farm girl who could drive any piece of equipment as well as—or better than—most men, she turned heads among the seasonal workers. She and Mike had grown up together, from first grade through high school. She still dropped by a couple of times a week and loved pheasant hunting the strips Mike kept planted around the property. He added a note to take the coolers and pick up dry ice at Hy-Vee. He wanted plenty of beef for the freezer.
 
Chapter Twenty-Three


The music hall was a big success. The waitresses were especially thrilled with the tips they’d earned. Because no alcohol was served, Angel had been able to hire girls under twenty-one. There was already a clamor to open on Friday nights, but she held firm. She wanted a few more weeks of data on food and drink usage before making any changes. She also suspected they might need to expand the outside pavilion where the smokers gathered; the current space was already pushing fire-code limits on busy nights. Stats first, decisions later.

Meanwhile, Paul, John, and Brad spent their days harvesting firewood from the dead and dying trees on their own land. The work served a dual purpose: stocking their woodpiles and clearing debris to reduce wildfire risk. Once their private forests were cleaned up, the forest service had already hinted they would welcome the same help on national and state land. Budget cuts had left the agencies unable to maintain the forests, and in many places the accumulated biomass made controlled burns too dangerous.

The three men set a goal of six cords per family and three cords for Cynthia. Paul figured four cords would be plenty for his own household, but the extra margin felt prudent.

John bought a diesel-powered firewood processor capable of cutting and splitting three to five cords an hour. He jokingly registered the machine under the name “Crooked Creek Firewood Company.” Cutting the trees and hauling them to the processor took far longer than the actual processing.

Paul added another tractor and a dump trailer to the fleet, making it easier to move logs and finished firewood where it was needed. They kept at it right up until the week before Thanksgiving.

The men also hunted turkeys on their own property, hoping to bag three or four birds. Everyone loved Thanksgiving dinner, but the leftovers were almost better. The women planned generous sides so every household could take home plenty of extras.

Paul knew of two reliable flocks: one near the creek north of the garden, and another on the southwest side near the harrow meadows by John’s place. Once the birds were dressed, the women had originally planned to roast all of them. At the last minute they changed course: they would roast the two biggest toms and let Paul smoke the other two.



Up at the facility, Mike had finished building a couple of storage rooms and a well-equipped gym on the top floor. He was assembling a new squat rack when the intercom buzzed. Hanna had arrived. Mike went to the console, let her in, and listened to her heavy boots clang down the metal stairs.

“I’m back here!” he called.

Hanna poked her head through the doorway. “Småningom bygger fågeln sitt bo,” she said in a husky voice that could have narrated an adult film.

“We’re in America now, Hanna. Speak American,” Mike replied, tightening a bolt.

“Daddy likes me to practice my Swedish,” she said.

Mike glanced around the empty room. “Check around. Your daddy isn’t here.”

“Aw, is my sweetie pie grumpy today?”

“One of these days your teasing is going to go too far,” he warned.

“I doubt I’ll complain,” she shot back, then smiled. “Seriously, though—Mamma said not to make any plans for Thanksgiving. You’re eating with us.”

“Oh? Since when do I take orders from your mother?” Mike asked.

“Vad kvinna vill, vill Gud,” Hanna replied with a lopsided grin and twinkling eyes.

“Can I bring anything?” he asked.

“Wine. Do you still have any of that Lotima Murella? Mamma loves it.”

“Yeah, I’ll bring a couple of bottles over the day before so she has something to sip while she cooks. Oh—and I have six pounds of commercially frozen salmon fillets for you to take back. She wanted to make gravlax. Remind her she owes me two jars of pickled herring. I’m getting tired of Bar Harbor kippers. I bought a whole case and still can’t make them taste like hers.”

“She doesn’t make them,” Hanna said. “A cousin in Wisconsin does. He ships them down.”

“Whatever. She’s still the keeper of the stash.”

“Have you tried drizzling them with dill-infused olive oil and vinegar?” Hanna asked.

“I’ll try that,” Mike said. “I’ve got fresh dill in the hothouse.”

Hanna wandered into the kitchen and started opening cabinets. Mike took a break and joined her.

“What are you looking for?”

“Food. I’m starving.”

“I made kalops last night. There are canned beets and boiled potatoes in the pantry.”

“Do you mind if I heat some up?”

“Not at all. Heat everything and we’ll split it. I’ll do the bread.”

Mike checked the freezer for dough, then remembered Hanna wouldn’t want to wait for it to rise. He took a loaf he’d baked two days earlier, cut a thick chunk, sprinkled it with water, wrapped it in foil, and slid it into the oven.

When the stew, beets, and potatoes were hot, he pulled out the fragrant bread. They tore off warm pieces, buttered them generously, and dug in. Hanna ate like she’d been fasting for days. Mike chuckled, fetched a bottle of mead from the fridge, and poured two glasses.

“I’m not trying to get you drunk so I can take advantage of you,” he said, “but mead really goes with kalops.”

Hanna’s forehead creased, then she smiled. “Mamma wouldn’t mind that at all.”

Mike’s mouth snapped shut. He’d walked right into that one. Annika Edwinson had been matchmaking the two of them for months.

“I’m heading up to Sioux City Saturday to pick up supplies,” he said between bites. “Tell your mother I’m stopping at Seaboard Triumph for bacon and pork loins. Let me know what she needs.”

“Then I’d better go with you. Otherwise you’ll disappear into Barnes & Noble until dark.”

“I won’t. I’ve got too many stops. But I wouldn’t mind the company.”

“I’ll get a list from Mamma. Are you planning to make schnitzel soon?”

“It’s on the list. I like to pound the pork ahead of time and pull out what I need.”

“Are you getting any Maid-Rites? Pappa would love a case.”

“No, I’d rather make my own. I just got a shipment from San Francisco Salt Company—different smoked sea salts I want to try. I’ll pick up plenty of ground beef for those and for stuffed beef sandwiches too.”



Business at the store and café had grown even stronger since the music hall opened. Angel hired two more waitresses and a sous-chef to help Sabrina. The food distributor now came twice a week. More locals were doing their shopping at Crooked Creek instead of driving all the way to Clarksville. Concerned about the growing cash in the registers, Angel ordered two drop safes. Paul or Eduardo dropped the bank bag at the Clarksville branch each morning.

Otherwise, the men continued clearing dead trees and deadfall from the northern section of the farm whenever weather allowed. They had already stacked ten cords, with half the area still left to work. Some of the wood was quietly delivered to elderly neighbors who could no longer harvest their own. Paul hated the thought of seniors on fixed incomes having to buy firewood.

Planning for the church Christmas party had been underway since before Thanksgiving. Angel placed toy collection boxes in both the store and café. The Crooked Creek families filled any gaps with shopping trips. Reverend Bowman’s wife, Irene, kept a detailed list of children and their clothing sizes. A three-woman committee matched gifts to kids.



Saturday morning Mike was up early cooking breakfast when Hanna buzzed at the door. He let her in, plated her eggs and hash browns, set out toast, and poured juice and coffee.

“You are a darling,” Hanna said, sitting down and reaching for the jam.

Mike chuckled. “Hungry?”

“Starving. Mamma was just getting up when I left. This is so good.”

She finished before he did, then cleared the table, rinsing plates and loading the dishwasher. When Mike was done, she took his dishes too. He kept his coffee mug to finish the last sip, then rinsed it and placed it in the rack.

“I’ll go hook up the trailer,” he said.

“I’ll start the dishwasher,” Hanna replied.
 
Chapter Twenty-Four

NEWS FLASH

“Today in St. Louis, the Soros-backed DA Joshua Abrams was killed when explosives detonated and weakened the guardrail on the Eads Bridge. A simultaneous explosion at the right front wheel area of the car he was traveling in caused the vehicle to veer through the guardrail and plunge into the Mississippi River. Divers are currently attempting to recover the wreckage. Initial comments from unnamed law enforcement sources describe this as a professional assassination. As of yet, no bodies have been recovered.

“DA Abrams was well known for his no-bail, revolving-door policies on criminals in the bi-state metropolitan area.”



Hanna had worn her heavy parka that morning.

“Is it really that cold?” Mike asked, walking over to the weather station panel.

“The actual temperature isn’t bad, but the wind is howling,” Hanna replied.

“Minus fifteen wind chill,” Mike called out.

The forty-five-minute drive to Sioux City wasn’t too rough. The trailer got buffeted a few times, but traffic was light. Hanna dialed KSCJ on the radio and caught the news. They were already talking about an incoming storm that would drop several inches of snow.

“I’m glad we’re doing this today,” Hanna said. “I might as well pick up Pappa two cases of Maid-Rites.”

“I might grab an extra case of pork loins,” Mike replied. “I’ll have plenty of time to slice them up.”

Hanna changed the station. Dougie MacLean’s “Caledonia” drifted through the cab.

“Are you stopping at The Butcher Shop?” she asked.

“Yep. I’ve got an order waiting, and I want some Bavarian sausages for kraut,” Mike said.

“I’m eating at your house!” Hanna announced, grinning.

Mike stopped first at Seaboard Triumph, where he picked up a case of pork chops and three cases of loins. Hanna bought a case of chops and one of loins. Next they hit The Butcher Shop downtown, collected Mike’s order and the sausages, then continued down Dakota Avenue to Maid-Rite. They grabbed two cases for Didrik before heading to Sam’s Club.

At Sam’s, Mike loaded up on a two-jar pack of peanut butter, several jugs of maple syrup, four jars of honey, four pounds each of salted and unsalted butter, three big packs each of toilet paper, paper towels, and napkins. He added a case of Mexican beer, a large jar of Reese’s Miniature Peanut Butter Cups, and a big bag of peppermint candy. In clothing he picked up socks and two pairs of canvas jeans. Hanna focused mostly on the spice aisle. They each bought fifteen gallons of oil, two twenty-five-pound bags of sugar, iodized salt, and Mike added three containers of sea salt, chili powder, granulated garlic, onion powder, and peppercorns. They grabbed Hill’s Brothers coffee and boxes of tea bags. In produce, Mike took bananas and a bag of apples; they decided to split a large container of grapes later. On the way to checkout they added milk, orange juice, and hygiene items.

After packing the trailer, they still had room, so they swung by Super Walmart. Mike trailed Hanna with the cart while she tossed in odds and ends. He bought every box of .22 Magnum cartridges he was allowed, plus some .22 shorts and .17 HMR. Hanna quickly steered him out of the sporting goods section. In produce he grabbed two boxes of vanilla wafers, four bags of Krusteaz Buttermilk Pancake Mix, and cans of frozen juice.

“This shopping makes me hungry,” Mike said. “Tenderloin sandwich?”

“Sounds perfect,” Hanna replied.

They ate at Steinbeck’s Pub—tenderloin sandwiches with fries and salad, washed down with iced tea.

The heavy meal left them sluggish, so Hanna relented and they stopped at Barnes & Noble. Both picked up several magazines. They stayed only about thirty minutes. The biting wind outside woke them right up. They headed home as the gusts grew stronger, making the drive difficult, but made one last stop for a case of mead. Just as Mike turned off NE-77 onto NE-51, the snow began to fall.



Eduardo and Paul made the rounds preparing for the storm. Paul checked the chickens, making sure they had plenty of food and water. Shaner’s was busy with people stocking up on milk, bread, and snacks. Angel hoped the next delivery wouldn’t be delayed; the way things were flying off the shelves, they wouldn’t last long if it was.

Once again the weather gurus were a bottle short of a six-pack. A tropospheric polar vortex dropped south at the same time another front pulled moisture-laden air from the Gulf—a dangerous combination that had happened before. The worst of the snow reached from Sioux City, Iowa, south to Little Rock, Arkansas. Southern stretches of the jet stream saw lighter but still unusual accumulations for the time of year. Sioux City itself was already under blizzard conditions.

Mike and Hanna quickly unloaded his purchases at his place, then Mike towed the trailer down to the Edinsons’ with Hanna following. Annika fussed at them the moment they arrived.

“You should have stayed up at Mike’s. It’s going to get bad.”

“Well, I’ll just go back with him!” Hanna said.

“You do that. A body shouldn’t be alone in weather like this. Anything could happen,” Annika replied with a knowing smirk.

Mike caught the look Annika gave him.

“We’d better head back,” he said. “It’s blowing harder.”

“Let me grab some things,” Hanna told him.

She returned quickly with a bag. Mike drove slowly back to his property in near-whiteout conditions. He pulled straight into the garage and shut the door. Inside, he adjusted the thermostat. The wind generators would easily handle the in-floor heating. A quick check of the power monitor showed the solar panels producing almost nothing, but the vortex generators were nearly maxed out, more than making up the difference.

They finished putting away the rest of the supplies, most of which went straight into the pantry.

“You fell right into your mother’s trap,” Mike said with a grin.

“What? She already thinks we’re married—except for the part about standing in front of the preacher,” Hanna replied.

“Is that what you want?” Mike asked.

“It’s all I’ve wanted since I was eighteen,” Hanna said softly. “Moving in with you would be a step in that direction. What do you think?” Her eyes darted toward the refrigerator, then back to him.

“I can’t say I haven’t thought about it. I miss you when you’re not around. When we were kids I saw you almost like a sister, but… I’ve got feelings for you I can’t ignore anymore.”

“Do you have naughty thoughts about me?” Hanna asked, a playful glint in her eye.

“Let’s just say they’re thoughts a brother shouldn’t have about his sister,” Mike replied.

Hanna slinked over to him. “Does a sister kiss her brother like this?” She pulled him into a long, decidedly unsisterly kiss.

“Maybe over in Kentucky,” Mike said, face flushed, “but the brother would need more practice.”

“That, my man, I plan on giving you plenty of,” Hanna promised.



Paul stood on the porch watching sleet bounce off the ground. He’d come out to put chains on the UTV and one of the tractors and had stopped to check the dogs’ heated enclosures. No wonder they hadn’t followed him to the barn—they were both curled up snug inside. They gave him forlorn looks when he opened the doors, stretching as if they’d rather stay asleep.

“You guys didn’t need to come out. I was just checking on you!”

Icicles were already forming on tree limbs. Paul pulled out his phone and called Angel. She still had two hours before the store closed.

“Hey, it’s starting to ice up. Want me to come get you?” he asked.

“No, I’ll be fine. I’ve got the radio, and I’ll keep you on OnStar the whole way,” Angel replied.

Paul went inside, made Baileys hot chocolate, and waited. Carmelita’s meatloaf dinner waited in the warming oven.

He was adding wood to the great-room stove when Angel called again.

“It’s getting nasty out here,” she said.

“Drive slowly. No hurry. Stop if you need to—I’ll come get you.”

“I’m fine. Earl Dixon put the chains on for me. It’s just distracting. I’m almost at the Hiller farm.”

“What’s for dinner?” she asked.

“Meatloaf, garlic mashed potatoes, green beans, cornbread, and fried apple pies with whipped topping for dessert.”

“Good! I’ll be extra careful now,” Angel laughed.

Paul warmed a mug of Baileys hot chocolate for her and set it on the wood stove. When the dogs started barking at approaching headlights, he stepped outside.

“Careful—the steps are slippery. I need to spread some ice melt,” he warned.

Inside, he handed her the mug.

“Mmm, just what I needed,” she sighed.



The next morning Paul lit the wood cookstove, started coffee, and stepped outside to a pale pink sky in the east and dark, forbidding clouds to the west. He moved Angel’s SUV to the barn, loaded three hundred pounds of tractor weights into the back, then returned it to her spot. Back inside, he fried bacon and half-listened to the Weather Channel as Angel and then Carmelita joined him.

“It’s going to be worse today,” Paul said. “They’re calling for several more inches across Arkansas—another polar vortex.”

“I hope it isn’t like two years ago,” Angel said. “We were snowed in and without power for five days. I’d better get to the store early. Deliveries usually come in the morning.”

“You go get ready, Señora Angela,” Carmelita said. “I will finish breakfast.”

“I’ll follow you in. I want to check the roads,” Paul told her.

He mounted the snow blade on his truck, tossed in heavy chains, a portable winch, a bucket of ice melt, and a five-gallon bucket of sand. Better safe than sorry.

The main roads were mostly clear except for spots where water had flowed across and frozen. They made it to the store without seeing any accidents. Paul spread ice melt on the parking lot and around the pumps, kissed Angel goodbye, and headed home.

By nine o’clock, huge flakes were falling fast, quickly blanketing the cold ground. Paul set up a cleaning mat on a folding table and began working on his Ruger .17 HMR, removing the oil and replacing it with graphite. The rabbits would stand out nicely against the fresh snow.
 
Chapter Twenty-Five


For the next three days, Paul’s routine revolved around getting Angel safely to the store and trading shifts with Eduardo to keep the driveways to the main road and the neighboring farms cleared with the tractor. He briefly considered adding a snow-blower attachment but decided the blade was doing the job just fine. Rabbit hunting proved miserable. The rabbits he shot from the porch were the only ones that ended up in the pot; crunching through the sleet-crusted snow warned every other rabbit in the county that trouble was coming. Breaking through the icy layers left his shins bruised and battered. Rabbit stew was officially postponed.

To kill the monotony, Paul turned on his favorite talk radio station in the background. That lasted only a couple of days. The cycle was always the same: rising crime, a failing economy, the same political arguments with different names attached. Conflicting reports on economic trends, forecasts that never panned out, and the endless recycling of failed solutions under new branding. Divisions were stoked, never resolved. Bad news spun as hopeful, hopeful news laced with uncertainty—all presented as fresh insight. The same commercials promised happiness through purchases that sponsored the same old “news.” It was enough to make a man sick. Paul finally gave up and switched to the Weather Channel.

Paul and Eduardo loaded the tractor onto the equipment trailer, drove it to Angel’s store, and cleared the parking lot and around the fuel pumps. The weather had warmed slightly during the days, but the melt froze solid each night, leaving treacherous sheets of ice. Paul made sure a five-gallon bucket of ice melt and another of sand were ready to spread wherever needed.

It took more than a week for the last of the snow and ice to disappear—just in time for Christmas.



Mike had been in a quandary over what to get Hanna for Christmas. He had already bought the ring and planned to propose on New Year’s Eve. For now, he picked up a couple of gift cards from department stores in Sioux City and a Smith & Wesson stainless Model 66 from Shooter’s Paradise. He knew she would love the pistol—she enjoyed shooting snakes and the occasional rabbit while driving tractors for her father—but he suspected the clothing-oriented gift cards might miss the mark. Should’ve gone with Tractor Supply, he thought. He also loaded two hundred rounds of .38 Special for her. Later, he’d take her back to get fitted for a shoulder holster. He would gauge her reaction to the gifts. If she seemed disappointed, he could always move the proposal up a few days to smooth things over.

After a delicious pheasant dinner Christmas Eve, they gathered around the tree and exchanged presents.

Earlier, at the start of the winter storm, Mike had dropped the camper shell onto his truck and stocked both vehicles with upgraded winter emergency kits. Getting stranded even a couple of miles from home in a whiteout was too easy out here. It was simply part of life on the prairie.

They loaded the gifts and other items they were taking to Didrik and Annika’s, then headed to Hanna’s parents’ house. The moment they walked through the door, they were enveloped by the warm, humid aromas of cooking food. Didrik was sound asleep in his recliner, feet propped on an ottoman, oblivious to the world. Annika greeted them both with hugs and kisses, then ushered them inside.

Mike carried presents to the tree, then returned for his box of goodies. He slid steel rods into the woodstove to heat, preparing to make Annika her favorite hot buttered rum once they glowed red-hot. Hanna joined her mother in the kitchen while Mike fetched an armload of firewood. On his way back through, he caught the tail end of their conversation.

“…has he asked you yet?” Annika was saying.

Grinning, Mike turned around and retreated to the den. He turned on the TV and lowered the volume.

Mike and Hanna gave Annika several pieces of antique cast iron and a bundle of dried fruits she loved for baking. Mike gave Didrik a Daniel Defense DD5 in .308 with a mounted Vortex Razor HD scope and two hundred rounds of ammunition. Didrik enjoyed taking the occasional whitetail, but he especially loved watching prairie dogs explode at long range. In return, Annika gave Mike a whole case of pickled herring and Hanna a beautiful cedar blanket chest.

Mike made hot buttered rum for everyone. They watched football, talked, and laughed until nearly dark, when Mike and Hanna headed home.

For the next couple of days, Hanna showed no signs of disappointment with her gifts, though she seemed contemplative at times. Then Mike received a request from Jeremy: he needed a high-end tower computer built for Taylor and wanted to meet in person to discuss it.

The winter wheat was already planted, so landing a plane in the fields was out. Mike suggested landing on NE-51, which saw fewer than five vehicles an hour, but Jeremy declined. He would fly into Sioux City instead. Mike agreed to find them a private place to talk.

Two days later, Jeremy and pilot Joe Norris flew into Sioux Gateway Airport. Hanna waited in a hotel room while the men met. Joe stayed at the FBO to service the plane. When Mike and Jeremy arrived at the hotel, Hanna excused herself to browse Singing Hills Secondhand Finds & Furnishings. Mike promised to call when they were finished.

“Mike, I want the fastest, most capable desktop tower you can build,” Jeremy said. “It will connect through a secure satellite terminal with direct access to your servers—separate from the normal fiber network. My people need instantaneous data input.”

“Understood. I’ll build two identical units. That way we can minimize any latency issues on the handshake. Did you bring the SAT terminal?”

Jeremy chuckled. “Couldn’t quite fit a 2.4-meter dish in the Maule. When you’re ready, I’ll have a crew here in a couple of days to install it. Once everything’s tested, it becomes our primary system. We’ll keep the troposcatter as backup.”

“So you want them working in tandem?” Mike asked.

“There’s an automatic switch that flips to troposcatter if satellite comms drop, then switches back when they’re restored. No manual intervention needed. You can study the setup during installation.”

Jeremy was laying the groundwork for something big—something that would drop like a hammer and shatter confidence in major government agencies. A flood of digital and physical evidence would expose trails of corruption wide enough for serious investigations to follow.

Mike called Hanna. Once she returned, they drove Jeremy back to the FBO. Mike told him the computers would take a couple of weeks to source, assemble, and stress-test.

“What was that all about?” Hanna asked on the drive home.

“He wants an upgrade to his computer infrastructure,” Mike said. “I’ll probably build three units—two for him and one as a spare for us. Should take about a month total.”

“I hope you don’t mind,” Hanna said, “but I picked up tickets to the New Year’s Eve party at Dakota Dunes Country Club.”

“Perfect,” Mike replied, smiling. “Saves me the trouble of finding a good venue. If you’re happy, I’m happy.”

Hanna grinned and slid closer. “Can we get a hotel room and not rush home afterward?”

“That was my plan. I’ll book us at the Marriott.”

“Oh my gosh—you’ll have to drive back through all the drunks!” Hanna said.

“Nope. I’ll hire an Uber to take us to the club and pick us up. I’m not driving. I intend to have a good time.”

Mike placed the parts order with his usual supplier. UPS already had his place flagged as a regular stop. While the components shipped, Hanna and Annika returned to Sioux City to shop for a New Year’s Eve gown using the gift cards. Mike spent his days hunting coyotes and groundhogs, keeping an eye on the weather, and hoping nothing would interfere with his plans for New Year’s Eve.
 
Chapter Twenty-Six


New Year’s Eve morning, Hanna stood in the kitchen with her overnight bag packed and a garment bag hanging by the door. She had gone into town the day before to have her hair done. Instead of her usual tight bun, soft, fluffy waves now fell to her shoulders. Mike had always said she was the spitting image of Caroline Winberg—one of the best things to come out of Sweden, with ABBA a close second. This morning she was as perky as a young colt, humming while she flipped pancakes.

“Someone’s happy this morning,” Mike said, smiling as he entered the kitchen.

“Well, I’m going to a ball with my best man tonight!” Hanna replied.

“Best man?” Mike teased. “How many others are in your string?”

“Shut up, you!” She laughed. “You know darn well there’s no one but you. Now get the syrup.”

Mike retrieved the jug of syrup and the butter from the pantry.



“If you start feeling nauseous, try ginger or peppermint tea,” Sabrina said.

“Does Paul know?” Liz asked.

“I just got back and haven’t been home yet,” Angel replied.

“Well, why don’t you take the rest of the afternoon off?” Liz suggested. “We can handle the closings.”

“Are you sure? I don’t want to be a burden this early.”

“Of course we’re sure,” Sabrina said. “We’re going to throw the biggest baby shower this area has ever seen, and we need to start planning.”

“Don’t do anything too elaborate,” Angel warned.

“We’ll have your mother help with the planning—she’ll keep us on track,” Sabrina said.

“But who’s going to keep her under control?” Angel replied with a grin.



Paul and Eduardo were cutting logs into planks when Angel arrived home. They had found several dead trees in excellent condition and decided the wood was too good to waste. The scraps had already been cut into firewood and stacked. After sweeping up the sawdust and adding it to the compost pile, Paul brushed himself off and headed for the house.

He heard shrieks of laughter from the kitchen and smiled as he walked in. Carmelita and Angel were both beaming.

“What’s going on?” Paul asked.

“Carmelita, would you prepare Paul’s favorite meal tonight?” Angel asked.

“Of course,” Carmelita replied.

“What’s the occasion?” Paul looked between them.

Angel stepped close, rose on her toes, and kissed his cheek. “You, my dear, are going to be a father.”



Jeremy stopped by for Sunday barbecue. He, Mike, John, and Brad were enjoying glasses of good Irish whiskey when Paul’s phone rang. Paul glanced at the caller ID and frowned.

“Paul Austin… Yes… When? I’ll check the airline schedule and get back to you. Send me the contact information.” He ended the call.

“What’s up?” John asked.

“I have to go to New York. My great-uncle died, and I’ve been named executor of his estate.”

“Howard Austin?” Jeremy asked.

“Yes. Did you know him?”

“I’ve known Colonel Austin for years. He was one of our biggest supporters.”

“The lawyer wants me on Long Island ASAP to sign paperwork. I need to make reservations.”

“Don’t bother,” Jeremy said. “I can have an aircraft ready for you. It’ll be a turboprop, but you’ll be there in under three hours.”

“I’d appreciate that. I hate airport layovers,” Paul said.

Jeremy made a quick call and arranged everything.

“There’ll be a Beechcraft Starship waiting for you at Clinton National tomorrow at 0900, flying you into East Hampton Airport. Arrange a rental car on your end.”

“The Hamptons! Fancy,” John said.

“Uncle Howard had—has—an estate on Sagaponack Pond near East Hampton,” Paul explained.

“The Colonel commanded a couple of Special Forces A-Teams and a B-Team in Vietnam,” Jeremy added. “Damn fine leader and a better man.”

“If you get the chance, Paul, there’s a great churrascaria in Southampton,” John said. “Just don’t overdose on the meat. You’ll be comatose afterward.”

“Sounds good. I just hope Uncle Howard had everything in order. He always planned ahead and hired the best people.”

“I’m sure he did,” Jeremy said. “He was worth seventy or eighty million when he passed, I’d guess.”

“That’s what worries me,” Paul muttered. “With an estate that size, I’ll be drowning in tax and estate lawyers.”

“I doubt it,” Jeremy replied. “I’d be surprised if you sign more than a dozen papers. Colonel Austin always had excellent contingency plans.”



The Beechcraft was waiting when Paul arrived at the airport the next morning. He boarded quickly, took a seat, and they were airborne within minutes. After diverting around a couple of storm cells, they touched down at East Hampton Airport just before noon.

Paul picked up his reserved rental car from Enterprise, then called Mr. Wilcox, the estate attorney. Wilcox sounded surprised at how quickly he had arrived and instructed Paul to go straight to the estate. The staff was still on hand, and he could stay there tonight. Wilcox would meet him at the house at ten the following morning.

Paul turned onto Daniels Hole Road and headed for the estate.

As American troops oversaw the chaotic evacuation of remaining U.S. personnel from Afghanistan—made necessary by the sudden collapse of the Afghan military—suicide bombers struck one of the entry gates at Kabul’s main airport. The attack was horrific. Hundreds died, including thirteen American service members.

One of the fallen was a female U.S. Marine who had been photographed days earlier rescuing a young infant. Her own government later abandoned her family, forcing them to pay $60,000 to transport her body home to Arlington National Cemetery after local services in Roseville, California.

Jeremy read the news, jaw tight, and picked up his phone. “Damn those paper-pushing political pimps.”



Paul arrived at his late uncle’s estate and was met at the door by Mary. Officially the housekeeper, she had become Howard’s companion in his final years. Paul couldn’t remember a time when she hadn’t been part of the household. Tears filled her eyes as she pulled him into a tight hug.

“How are you holding up, Mary?” Paul asked gently.

“I’m getting by. He’ll be sorely missed.”

“What are your plans?”

“That depends on you,” she said. “If you decide to keep the estate, I could stay on and manage it. If not, I’ll retire to Florida. Harold and I had some wonderful times there. He left me the cottage in Port St. Lucie… at least I believe he did.”

“I’m sure he did,” Paul replied. “I plan to sell the estate. It’s too much for me—I’m happy in Arkansas. I’ll make certain you get the cottage, one way or another.”

“Harold really loved you, you know.”

“I loved and respected him too. He always encouraged me, no matter what I did.” Paul smiled faintly. “He used to quote Winston Churchill to me: ‘Success is not final, failure is not fatal: it is the courage to continue that counts.’”

Mary nodded, eyes misty. “That was Harold. Come on, let’s get you a cup of tea.”
 
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