Story Hunter Ridge

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ncsfsgm

Veteran Member
Chapter One

Twenty-eight-year-old Don Billings stepped out of the Hyatt into the chilly pre-dawn air, carry-on bag slung over his shoulder. The jacket kept the bite off well enough; he didn’t want anything heavier for the short flight to St. Louis. At Albany International he cleared TSA, then claimed a table at Dunkin’ Donuts. The coffee was bitterly harsh, the donut dry as chalk. He dunked one into the other until they mostly canceled each other out.

Don was headed to Missouri to look at a property that had caught his eye. After a brutal divorce and his father’s death, nothing tied him to New York anymore. Besides, ever since Kathy Hochul took the governor’s mansion, the state had been sliding downhill fast.

The flight routed through Chicago, putting him on the ground in St. Louis a little over five hours later. A shuttle carried him to the Union Station Hotel. He checked in, ate a quiet dinner at one of the hotel restaurants, and turned in early.

The next morning Brenda Hampton, the local realtor he’d been emailing with, met him for breakfast in the hotel dining room. Don had first spotted the listing on Zillow, then had a local real estate attorney dig through ownership records all the way back to the days when log rafts still ferried goods across the Mississippi. The history gave him useful leverage for sizing up the realtor.

He was pleasantly surprised when she arrived. Slacks, neat blouse, tailored jacket, and her dark hair twisted into a sleek knot at the back of her head. Professional, but not stuffy.

Don stood and pulled out her chair. “Thanks for meeting me, Ms. Hampton. I figured a face-to-face would help you understand exactly what I’m after.”

“Of course, Mr. Billings.” She settled in with a polite smile. “How did you even hear about this place all the way from New York?”

“Zillow. I like to browse and dream.”

Brenda’s smile stayed in place. “The property’s only been on the market a short while. Interest from developers is picking up quickly.”

Don met her eyes steadily. “Ms. Hampton, I didn’t fly down here to get the sales pitch. It’s been on the MLS for over eight months. If developers haven’t snapped up seven hundred and twenty-seven acres by now, there’s a reason—permitting issues, title problems, something. I’ve spent enough years wrestling interest rates. I’m ready to pay cash, same day closing, once the paperwork is clean. I won’t need permits right away. I’m looking for an agrarian setup that fits where my state of mind is right now. You’ve probably already run a credit check. My score’s high enough that financing wouldn’t be an issue even if I wanted it.”

Brenda kept her expression neutral, but he could see the wheels turning behind her eyes. She hadn’t expected him to be this prepared.

“The MLS photos are dated,” she said carefully. “The main house needs significant work.”

“I’ve factored that in. What I need from you is recommendations for the best restoration crew and a solid general contractor in the area. I’m not trying to restore it to museum standards—just make it functional and comfortable for me.”

“And your wife?” Brenda asked, noticing the faint indentation on his ring finger.

“Already gone. That chapter’s closed.”

They finished breakfast with lighter small talk. Afterward, Brenda drove him out in her Jeep Gladiator, thirty-plus miles beyond the city’s sprawl. The roads twisted in ways that made no sense to a New Yorker; Don made a mental note to get a GPS as soon as possible.

The antebellum house sat on a gentle rise, two stories of faded paint and weathered white columns. Copper Sign_C_A.pnggutters had gone blue-green with age, rattling softly in the breeze. Over the decades the property had been a cattle operation, then a horse farm. It had even held off raiders from both sides during the Civil War. Roughly twelve hundred acres had been sold off over time, leaving the current seven hundred and twenty-seven—split into two connected parcels. One was mostly open pasture dotted with trees; the other was heavy hardwood timber, once harvested by a previous owner who made furniture as a hobby. Two or three ponds and several springs fed the land. A ridgeline along the southeast edge, closest to the Mississippi, protected the lower areas of the property from the river’s periodic floods. Overall it felt solid. Just tired.

Brenda unlocked the front door. Inside, the old slate roof had held; no water stains on the ceilings, though House_A.pngdust lay thick across the floors. The house was a warren of small rooms—typical of the era, designed to be closed off and heated individually. Don already pictured opening it up, letting light and air flow move through the space.

The tour revealed four bedrooms, five possible baths, a grand room with high decorative ceilings, and an attached four-car garage. Plenty to work with.

Brenda dropped him back at the hotel and promised to line up contractors. Don arranged for an SUV with GPS through the concierge, then spent the afternoon driving the back roads around the property, getting a feel for the area. He wanted out of New York as quickly as possible—before any more tax surprises. The house would need weeks, maybe months, before it was livable. He’d need temporary quarters.

Back at the hotel he skipped the bar crowd and poured a couple of mini-bar JDs instead.

The next morning sunlight poured through the same windows that had shown him the city lights the night before. Don sat on the edge of the bed, finished a bottle of orange juice from the mini fridge, then showered and dressed. Breakfast was a proper spread: waffles with strawberry syrup, scrambled eggs, bacon, more orange juice, coffee, and a tall glass of milk. He was wiping his mouth when his phone buzzed—Brenda. The paperwork was ready. She and the real-estate attorney would be there at ten.

Don signed the bill, brushed his teeth, and met them in his room. They spread the documents across the coffee table and walked him through every page. Once everything was initialed and signed, Don wired the funds. Ten minutes later the confirmation came through.

The lawyer smiled. “Mr. Billings, you now own seven hundred and twenty-seven acres of beautiful Missouri countryside.”

Don shook both their hands. Brenda asked when he wanted to meet the restoration team and general contractor. He checked his calendar and suggested the following day at the farm. She agreed to set it up and text him the time.

He planned to fly back to New York the day after that meeting, arrange shipping for his belongings, then return. No car to worry about—his old life had been company trucks and his ex-wife’s sedan. He’d store his things until the house was ready and buy something local.

When he asked the concierge about short-term options, the man grinned. “Ever consider an RV? There’s a Camping World right off I-70.”

Don drove over. The lot was packed with trailers, but he had nothing to tow one with. A persistent salesman finally cornered him and listened to the situation.

“Follow me,” the man said, leading Don through a large garage door.

Inside sat a 2022 Dynamax Isata 5 Series 4x4 Class C motorhome on a RAM 5500 heavy-duty 6.7L turbo-diesel chassis. A cleaning crew was working on it.

“Just came in yesterday,” the salesman said. “Elderly couple heading to Maryland. Husband had a stroke and passed. Widow sold it quick and flew the body back to Arizona. Sad story. We already replaced the mattress.”

Don toured the interior. It had more living space than some Manhattan apartments. When the price came up, he didn’t hesitate.

“I’ll take it.”
 
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Chapter Two

Don’s father had returned from World War II after serving with the 3rd Naval Construction Battalion—the SeaBees_A.pngSeabees—in the South Pacific. He poured that experience into founding HB Construction, and the company had grown into a multimillion-dollar operation. Vacationers and second-home buyers flocked to the mountains and coasts of New York, driving demand for everything from suburban mansions outside Albany to Adirondack chalets, summer camps along Great Sacandaga Lake, and cottages and resorts in the Catskills’ Borscht Belt.

By the time Don joined the firm after college, returning with a degree in Business Management. Nepotism had already taken root. His father had been hesitant to turn any family member away, even when entire branches of the family tree clearly needed aggressive pruning.

Don refused to coast. His father started him at the bottom as a carpenter’s apprentice, hauling lumber and fifty-pound boxes of nails to keep the crews supplied. He worked his way up to foreman’s assistant, then cross-trained as an apprentice electrician and kept climbing. There were few trades in the building business Don hadn’t mastered firsthand. One of his proudest moments had been earning the right to operate the telehandler. Nights and weekends he took classes at the community college and served in the National Guard with the 204th Engineer Battalion.

He loved the work and the pride of becoming a truly well-rounded builder—until the company moved him to desk duty and endless paperwork. Long hours with customers and vendors blurred together until one day something in the books caught his eye. Actions by his cousin William in the comptroller’s office set off alarms. William wasn’t a blood cousin—he was Uncle Harry’s stepson—and he had always worn that cloying, too-sweet smile that made Don’s skin crawl.

Don quietly investigated, then convinced his father to hire an outside firm. The probe confirmed William had embezzled more than $250,000. The investigations and court battles dragged on for months, grinding away at his father’s health. One of his father’s old VFW buddies stayed close the entire time, acting as a quiet guardian eagle—never standing idle when he saw trouble, always digging until he uncovered who, what, when, where, and why.

That watchdog’s digging revealed a second, uglier layer: Don’s wife, Miranda, and William had been working together, siphoning assets in anticipation of her divorce. They planned to grab what they could and disappear into the life they believed they were owed and deserved.

Don’s team of attorneys and investigators moved swiftly. They restructured the company’s finances, erecting an invisible labyrinth of protections. Shell companies, trusts, and layered signatures ensured that no money moved without Don’s or his father’s approval—and after his father’s death, only Don’s. Anyone trying to trace the new structure would hit false walls and blind alleys.

Don let Miranda and William continue their scheme just long enough. When they were ready to flip the switch, both were arrested for fraud and embezzlement. The documentation was ironclad; they had no chance of walking away clean. In the middle of Miranda’s proceedings, Don served her with divorce papers backed by court evidence of her infidelity. She received $50 a month in alimony for five years—hardly necessary during her ten-year stay at Taconic Women’s Correctional Facility in Bedford, New York. William (Chet to his friends) earned twenty years upstate in Gouverneur.

Most of the stolen money was recovered, though some had already purchased a hideaway in Costa Rica. The stress proved too much for Don’s father. He lasted less than a year after the ordeal, carrying his final disappointments to the grave—none of them involving his son.

Don took the reins and kept HB Construction steady. His father’s full trust became even clearer after the funeral, when a room full of lawyers revealed the depth of the protective restructuring. Don stayed on for another year before a financier offered $70 million—pocket change to the buyer, a life-changing sum to Don. He accepted, but only after securing five years of protection for every employee.

Now here he was in eastern Missouri, standing in a Camping World lot with a newly purchased motorhome, feeling lighter than he had in years.

While the detailing crew finished the coach, Don wandered next door to a powersports dealer. A Honda Pioneer side-by-side caught his eye. He was still circling it when a salesman appeared and launched into the features. Don pictured the UTV crawling across the raw acreage he had just bought. It would be perfect for inspection and light hauling.

He killed time with the salesman, then returned to Camping World and told them he needed a way to haul the new machine. They had cargo trailers with ramps in stock and could install an adjustable ball mount on the motorhome’s hitch. Problem solved. The salesmen handled the install, hitched the trailer, and fetched the Pioneer. Don’s bank account took another hit, but he didn’t mind.

Back at the hotel he slipped the concierge two twenties and explained the situation. A hotel van delivered him to pick everything up. He parked the motorhome and trailer in the parking deck, extended his stay by a day, and turned in the rental car. The next morning he checked out, stopped at a small grocery for lunchmeat, bread, drinks, and drove out to the farm.

His mind raced with immediate needs. The UTV had a full tank, but he would require fuel storage. Spotting an auto-parts store on Route 79, he bought three five-gallon cans, a case of 10W-40, and ratchet straps, then filled the cans at the next convenience store.

He parked the rig about a hundred meters from the house, well clear of the construction zone, and surveyed the property. One rusty metal outbuilding looked promising—former garage shop, judging by the grease spots on the concrete. Nothing terrible. Don backed the trailer inside, unloaded the UTV, fuel, and oil, then closed the big double doors.

Water came next. He checked the pump house. Submersible well pump, no power. A heavy coil of electrical cable gave him an idea. He repositioned the motorhome beside the small building, hooked the cable to the Onan generator, and threw the power on. The pump hummed to life. He flushed the lines at the outside faucet, then connected a hose from the motorhome and filled the fresh-water tank. Solar panels on the roof would keep the batteries topped up while he stayed here. Black and gray water could go into the cassette tanks for now—he’d simply dig a hole when they filled.

Once everything was running, he coiled the cable and stored it. The pump house itself was a multi-purpose gem: roughly twelve by twenty feet, with a hot-water tank, a coal-fired stove whose heating coil ran inside the tank, and a showerhead mounted on the ceiling. Shelves lined the walls—perfect for future canned goods. It felt like an old-fashioned outdoor bathing station, probably built at the insistence of a fastidious farm wife who refused to let her family track dirt across her clean floors. For a moment Don could almost see her laying out fresh clothes on the porch, waiting for the children to wash before they crossed her threshold.

He smiled faintly. The place already felt like home.
 
Chapter Three

The next morning, Don woke up amazingly refreshed—probably because he’d run the motorhome’s air conditioning most of the night. Outside, the air was already hot and muggy, the kind of thick Missouri summer haze that promised a long day.

Using the utensils left in the RV, he made bacon and eggs, toast, and a pot of coffee. He decided to take the UTV out and explore the property before packing up to leave the next day. After cleaning the dishes and putting them away, he pulled on jeans, his running shoes, and a T-shirt. The Pioneer started on the first try. He rolled out of the shed and followed the farm road that ran down the center of the property, wanting to confirm it reached all the way to the back of the two parcels.

He’d left the more open frontage area and was entering the darker, densely wooded back section when he Sophia_3a.pngjammed on the brakes. There, standing in the middle of the fading trail, was a young woman with a horse. Don shut off the engine and stepped out.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I hope I didn’t scare your horse.”

“There’s very little that startles him. Occasionally a timber rattler will make him dance a little.”

“Again, I apologize. I must have run off my land without realizing it.”

“No, you’re on your land. It’s me who’s trespassing.”

“So you live around here?” Don asked.

“Yes, next door. My name is Sophia Andersson.”

“Pleased to meet you, Sophia. I’m Don Billings. Sorry—I haven’t had a chance to get around and meet the neighbors yet.”

“You building a new house?” she asked.

“No, I’m having the old place renovated and restored. For the next few months I’m stuck living in a motorhome until the house is done.”

“That’s quite an undertaking. Nothing’s been touched on that place in years.”

“Yeah, but it’s something I’m willing to wait for. I’ve got nothing better to do.”

“Well, we’ll have to continue this another time,” Sophia said. “I’ve got a doctor’s appointment this morning, and I still need to rub King down.” She patted the horse’s neck.

“Then I won’t keep you. Looking forward to our conversation.”

He watched as she mounted smoothly and guided the horse along a faint trail through the woods. Don drove the Pioneer back to the shed, locked it away, then walked around to inspect four more outbuildings. He made mental notes on what each had been used for—and what it could become.

Don went back and talked with the restoration company architect and his General Contractor.

The upstairs held the bedrooms but had no built-in closets nor bathrooms. Don sat with the architect and had them design the upstairs with a master bedroom and three other bedrooms with bathrooms and built in closets. To do this, they needed to widen the house, both upstairs and downstairs. Don wanted the downstairs with a more open design, a large library/office, a laundry room, large walk-in pantry, professional-grade kitchen, and a total of three and a half baths. The wrap around porch would be divided in screened and unscreened areas for entertainment.

He wanted the Gingerbread trim to be vintage and matching the style of the house.

Don made a light lunch with the last of his sandwich supplies and took a nap. When he woke, he checked Uber and found a driver willing to come out the next morning and take him to the airport. She said she had plenty of time before her 10:00 class.

She arrived a few minutes before 8:00 the following day and got him to Lambert Field before the worst of the traffic hit. Don gave her a fifty-percent tip, cleared TSA, and grabbed breakfast at the Midtown Café near gate 16.

The flight to Chicago for his New York connection passed mostly in a doze.

Upon landing in New York, Don headed straight to his condo and called the moving company to come the next day to pack up the rest of his things. He had already secured the most sensitive items himself. The furniture was going to the Salvation Army—he wasn’t keeping anything Miranda had chosen. Well, maybe some of the kitchen tools. He had packed his desktop computer so he unpacked his laptop on the coffee table, cracked open a beer, and started researching trucks. A gentleman farmer needed a proper truck.

After comparing brands and models, he decided on a 2023 RAM 3500 Laramie Crew Cab. He found a Dodge dealer in St. Louis and called them. They said they’d search their network and call back. A couple of hours later the dealership called. There wasn’t a 2023 model in the area with the options he wanted, but they did have a 2022 model in the almost the right configuration—everything except the exact tire package he wanted. They could swap in a solid set of all-terrain tires at no charge. Don accepted and confirmed they could have it ready in three days. Don gave them his AMEX number. He would finish the paperwork when he returned.

The movers arrived, packed the rest, and hauled everything out. The Salvation Army took the furniture and agreed to dispose of the mattresses. Don gathered his suitcase, carry-on, and computer case and checked into the Crown Plaza near Albany International. Two days later he was on his way back to St. Louis via Atlanta.

Before boarding, he called the Dodge dealer with his flight details. His original plan had been to use a taxi to the dealership, but the manager offered to collect him at baggage claim. Don happily agreed.

In the baggage claim area, he spotted the dealership’s driver holding a “Billings” sign. They loaded his bags, and soon Don was admiring his new truck in the lot—Granite Crystal Metallic, looking sharp and capable. He tossed his bags in the back seat, finished the paperwork inside, then spent a few minutes in the driver’s seat familiarizing himself with the controls, setting the GPS, and adjusting the mirrors. Finally, he headed for Hunter Ridge.

On the way he stopped at Straub’s and bought what should be a week’s worth of groceries and household supplies. When he turned onto the farm drive, the entrance sign already looked brighter. Cresting the rise, he saw the overgrown bushes and vines around the house had been cleared. Workers were removing the old copper gutters. Don spotted the general contractor, George Casey, and walked over.

“How’s it going, George?”

House_rest_A.png“Real good. The crew’s been clearing growth around the base of the house so we can actually see what we’re working with. I’ve got two guys in the so-called basement checking the joist timbers and pilings. We may need to jack the house up and replace some pilings to make sure it can handle the wing additions.”

“Whatever it takes,” Don said. “You won’t hear me complain about spending a little more to do it right.”

“Good. Also, the house was sided in pine some years back. I want to strip it and go with black locust instead. I’ve got my eye on a mill down south—locust borer free. That siding will outlast all of us.”

“Sounds perfect to me.”

Don headed inside to put away the groceries. It felt good having real food in the full-size refrigerator. The previous owners had spec’d this motorhome right—it even had an all-in-one washer-dryer combo. He’d start a load tonight. He also needed to rig an outdoor clothesline; it had been years since he’d smelled sun-dried laundry. And he’d need a mailbox and post. First, though, he should find the closest hardware store. He didn’t want to keep running into St. Louis for every little thing.

He decided to stop by Sophia’s place and ask her about the nearest hardware store. He hadn’t noticed any on his earlier drive, but then again, he hadn’t been looking for them.
 
Chapter Four

Don turned down the long driveway marked by the weathered mailbox reading Andersson. The gravel lane wound through a stand of trees before opening into neat rows of fruit trees. Apples on the left, he guessed, heavy with early fruit. He continued down to the house, where an ugly, barrel-chested dog launched into a frenzy of barking from the porch.

Sophia stepped outside, one hand resting high on a porch post, and grinned. “New ride?”
Sophia_Porch_A.png
“Yeah. Picked it up after I got back.” Don killed the engine.

“I figured you weren’t coming back. You’ve been gone almost a week. Thought maybe you tucked your tail and ran home.”

“Nope. Had to pack up my stuff and get it shipped out.” Don rested his arm on the open window. “Main reason I stopped by was to ask about the nearest hardware store. I need supplies for an outdoor clothesline and a new mailbox post.”

“There’s a hardware store in Elsberry, but you’ll have better luck at Home Depot. Traffic shouldn’t be bad this time of day. I can show you the easy route if you want.”

“Well, let’s go then. We’re burning daylight.”

Sophia laughed and jogged around to the passenger side. As Don turned the truck around, she settled in. “How are you going to wash your clothes out here?”

“The motorhome has a combo washer-dryer, but I prefer line-drying when I can. Clothes smell better.”

“They really do,” Sophia agreed.

Don glanced over. “Your doctor’s appointment go okay? Everything all right?”

Sophia grinned. “I’m fine. It was just a gynecologist visit.”

Don felt heat rise in his face. “Sorry for prying.”

“Don’t worry about it.” She waved it off. “So where’d you have to go back to?”

“Albany, New York.”

“From what I’ve read, I don’t blame you for leaving. Sounds wicked up there.”

“Yeah, it was getting that way.” He paused. “I owned a construction company. Sold it recently.”

“What are you planning to do out here?”

“Whatever a gentleman farmer does, I guess. First time for me.”

“Lord love a duck,” Sophia said, shaking her head with a laugh.

“I’ll stay busy. Might plant some trees so my grandkids can rake the nuts and make me a fortune.” Don smiled. “By the way, what kind of fruit trees are in your orchard?”

“Apples and peaches. We mostly sell locally—people come pick their own if they want.”

“Have you been doing that long?”

“My grandparents immigrated here after World War II. They cleared the fields and planted the orchards. My parents kept it going. They never got rich, but they had a good, honest life.”

“So it’s just you and your parents now?”

“Just me and Momma. Dad passed two years ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Thank you.” Sophia looked out the window for a moment. “It’s hard work, but we manage. Take the beltway up ahead.”

They reached the Home Depot quickly. Inside, Sophia led him straight to the correct aisle. Don grabbed a 50-foot spool of green vinyl-coated wire but swapped it when he spotted a portable A-frame clothesline with 72 feet of drying space. He’d only need to anchor the legs. Sophia picked out a clothespin bag and two packs of natural wood pins. They added four screw-in soil anchors and headed to checkout.

Back at Hunter Ridge, they worked together assembling the dryer and driving the anchors deep. Don tested the legs—solid.

“The lines are a little close, but it’s temporary,” he said. “Once the house is done I’ll put in proper T-poles and tighteners.”

“You’re ready now,” Sophia said.

“Yeah. I’ve got bed linens in the washer. If I hang them soon, they’ll be dry enough for tonight.”

“Well, go get them!”

Don retrieved the wet sheets and pillowcases in a garbage bag. Between the two of them they untangled, hung, and pinned everything. The white fabric snapped and billowed in the warm afternoon breeze.

“These conditions keep up, they’ll be dry in no time,” Sophia said.

Don gathered the packaging while Sophia rolled up the plastic straps. “Let me have that. I’ll burn it in the incinerator.”

“You don’t send everything to the landfill?”

“We burn what we can. Only metal goes to the landfill, and they sort it for recycling there. Saves space.”

“Where can I get one of those incinerators?”

“There’s a guy near Auburn who welds them from junkyard scrap. Runs $120 to $150 depending on size. Two-chamber design with catalytic plates—burns the hydrocarbons clean. Almost no smoke once it’s hot.”

“Interesting. I should get one.”

“I need to be getting home. Momma should be waking up from her nap soon.”

Don tossed the bag in the truck bed. “I’ll run you home.”

At the Andersson place, Sophia ducked inside for a moment, then led Don around back to show him their incinerator. She loaded the paper, lit it, and once the catalytic plates glowed orange, added the Styrofoam and plastic. Clean heat rose from the stack with barely a wisp of smoke.

Don emptied the rest of his trash bag, folded it, and followed her into the house. They slipped off their boots in the hallway—Don neatly aligning his Wellingtons beside hers—then continued in stocking feet.

“Welcome to our home,” Freja said warmly from the kitchen. She poured him coffee, set out a saucer of tekakor (tea cakes) and a butter bell, then returned to the island where bowls of ingredients waited beside the ice cream maker.

Sophia retrieved the frozen bowl from the freezer and slotted it in. Freja began adding ingredients, but Sophia gently stayed her hand on the sugar scoop. Once the machine hummed to life, they sat at the table with coffee, tea, and warm tekakor.

“Momma, Don moved here from New York to be a gentleman farmer!” Sophia announced with a grin.

“Nothing gentlemanly about it,” Freja said, eyes twinkling. “Just hard work and prayer if you want to make a living.”

“Do you grow more than apples and peaches, Mrs. Andersson?” Don asked.

“Call me Freja. And yes—we keep a big garden every year. Only the strawberries are for sale. We can vegetables, fruits, and some meat to get us through winter and to help neighbors who aren’t as blessed with good land.”

“That’s commendable. I’m hoping to start my own garden, maybe some nut trees too.”

“Pecans do well here. If you try English walnuts, get the Carpathian variety—they handle our weather swings better.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll remember that. How are the winters?”

“Generally mild, but we get surprises. Usually three to five inches of snow a month. Last year we had a blizzard with eighteen inches. Late spring frosts can be tricky—we set out propane Frostguards to protect the trees and strawberries.”

“Frostguards?”

“Propane burners,” Sophia explained. “We move them into the orchard with the tractor forks. The rotating nozzles blow hot air through the canopy. Much cleaner than the old oil smudge pots.”

The ice cream machine stopped after about thirty minutes. Freja served Don first—peach ice cream bursting with fresh fruit flavor and rich cream.

“This tastes like biting into a perfect peach,” Don said. “Delicious.”

“The secret is the fresh milk and cream from the Admundsons,” Freja replied. “Can’t sell it directly, but she keeps us supplied.”

Freja reached for more, but Sophia warned, “Momma, don’t ruin your supper!”

“Just a spoonful. I still need to peel potatoes.” Freja turned to Don. “You’ll eat with us, won’t you?”

“I don’t want to impose…”

“Dumheter!” Freja said firmly. “You’re a guest. You have an obligation to accept.”

Don bowed slightly at the waist. “In that case, I’d be honored.”

Sophia laughed and tugged his elbow toward the hall bench for their boots.

“Momma can be stubborn,” she whispered. “She usually gets her way.”

“She seems like a force of nature.”

Sophia first showed him the big equipment barn: tractors, sprayers, trailers, and two dozen Frostguards lined up neatly. She explained their use in detail, then walked him through the rest of the operation—how they bought feeder hogs each summer, fattened them on fallen fruit, and butchered them in the fall for canning and freezing.

Don heard a whirring sound and asked Sophia what it was.

“It’s a wind generator that helps charge the battery bank over there. It supplies power for the building, and to keep the tractor batteries charged in the winter.

Dinner was köttbullar—Swedish meatballs—creamy mashed potatoes, pickled cucumbers, and fresh yeast bread. Afterward they sat on the porch with glasses of chilled Swedish cider, talking easily as evening settled.

Don finally stood. “Thank you both for a wonderful evening, but I’d like to get in my laundry before it gets dark. I really appreciate the welcome.”

As he drove home through the quiet countryside, Don felt a deep gratitude for neighbors like the Anderssons. It was exactly the kind of place he’d come here to find.
 
Chapter Four


Don turned down the long driveway marked by the weathered mailbox reading Andersson. The gravel lane wound through a stand of trees before opening into neat rows of fruit trees. Apples on the left, he guessed, heavy with early fruit. He continued down to the house, where an ugly, barrel-chested dog launched into a frenzy of barking from the porch.

Sophia_Porch_A.pngSophia stepped outside, one hand resting high on a porch post, and grinned. “New ride?”

“Yeah. Picked it up after I got back.” Don killed the engine.

“I figured you weren’t coming back. You’ve been gone almost a week. Thought maybe you tucked your tail and ran home.”

“Nope. Had to pack up my stuff and get it shipped out.” Don rested his arm on the open window. “Main reason I stopped by was to ask about the nearest hardware store. I need supplies for an outdoor clothesline and a new mailbox post.”

“There’s a hardware store in Elsberry, but you’ll have better luck at Home Depot. Traffic shouldn’t be bad this time of day. I can show you the easy route if you want.”

“Well, let’s go then. We’re burning daylight.”

Sophia laughed and jogged around to the passenger side. As Don turned the truck around, she settled in. “How are you going to wash your clothes out here?”

“The motorhome has a combo washer-dryer, but I prefer line-drying when I can. Clothes smell better.”

“They really do,” Sophia agreed.

Don glanced over. “Your doctor’s appointment go okay? Everything all right?”

Sophia grinned. “I’m fine. It was just a gynecologist visit.”

Don felt heat rise in his face. “Sorry for prying.”

“Don’t worry about it.” She waved it off. “So where’d you have to go back to?”

“Albany, New York.”

“From what I’ve read, I don’t blame you for leaving. Sounds wicked up there.”

“Yeah, it was getting that way.” He paused. “I owned a construction company. Sold it recently.”

“What are you planning to do out here?”

“Whatever a gentleman farmer does, I guess. First time for me.”

“Lord love a duck,” Sophia said, shaking her head with a laugh.

“I’ll stay busy. Might plant some trees so my grandkids can rake the nuts and make me a fortune.” Don smiled. “By the way, what kind of fruit trees are in your orchard?”

“Apples and peaches. We mostly sell locally—people come pick their own if they want.”

“Have you been doing that long?”

“My grandparents immigrated here after World War II. They cleared the fields and planted the orchards. My parents kept it going. They never got rich, but they had a good, honest life.”

“So it’s just you and your parents now?”

“Just me and Momma. Dad passed two years ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Thank you.” Sophia looked out the window for a moment. “It’s hard work, but we manage. Take the beltway up ahead.”

They reached the Home Depot quickly. Inside, Sophia led him straight to the correct aisle. Don grabbed a 50-foot spool of green vinyl-coated wire but swapped it when he spotted a portable A-frame clothesline with 72 feet of drying space. He’d only need to anchor the legs. Sophia picked out a clothespin bag and two packs of natural wood pins. They added four screw-in soil anchors and headed to checkout.

Back at Hunter Ridge, they worked together assembling the dryer and driving the anchors deep. Don tested the legs—solid.

“The lines are a little close, but it’s temporary,” he said. “Once the house is done I’ll put in proper T-poles and tighteners.”

“You’re ready now,” Sophia said.

“Yeah. I’ve got bed linens in the washer. If I hang them soon, they’ll be dry enough for tonight.”

“Well, go get them!”

Don retrieved the wet sheets and pillowcases in a garbage bag. Between the two of them they untangled, hung, and pinned everything. The white fabric snapped and billowed in the warm afternoon breeze.

“These conditions keep up, they’ll be dry in no time,” Sophia said.

Don gathered the packaging while Sophia rolled up the plastic straps. “Let me have that. I’ll burn it in the incinerator.”

“You don’t send everything to the landfill?”

“We burn what we can. Only metal goes to the landfill, and they sort it for recycling there. Saves space.”

“Where can I get one of those incinerators?”

“There’s a guy near Auburn who welds them from junkyard scrap. Runs $120 to $150 depending on size. Two-chamber design with catalytic plates—burns the hydrocarbons clean. Almost no smoke once it’s hot.”

“Interesting. I should get one.”

“I need to be getting home. Momma should be waking up from her nap soon.”

Don tossed the bag in the truck bed. “I’ll run you home.”

At the Andersson place, Sophia ducked inside for a moment, then led Don around back to show him their incinerator. She loaded the paper, lit it, and once the catalytic plates glowed orange, added the Styrofoam and plastic. Clean heat rose from the stack with barely a wisp of smoke.

Don emptied the rest of his trash bag, folded it, and followed her into the house. They slipped off their boots in the hallway—Don neatly aligning his Wellingtons beside hers—then continued in stocking feet.

“Welcome to our home,” Freja said warmly from the kitchen. She poured him coffee, set out a saucer of tekakor (tea cakes) and a butter bell, then returned to the island where bowls of ingredients waited beside the ice cream maker.

Sophia retrieved the frozen bowl from the freezer and slotted it in. Freja began adding ingredients, but Sophia gently stayed her hand on the sugar scoop. Once the machine hummed to life, they sat at the table with coffee, tea, and warm tekakor.

“Momma, Don moved here from New York to be a gentleman farmer!” Sophia announced with a grin.

“Nothing gentlemanly about it,” Freja said, eyes twinkling. “Just hard work and prayer if you want to make a living.”

“Do you grow more than apples and peaches, Mrs. Andersson?” Don asked.

“Call me Freja. And yes—we keep a big garden every year. Only the strawberries are for sale. We can vegetables, fruits, and some meat to get us through winter and to help neighbors who aren’t as blessed with good land.”

“That’s commendable. I’m hoping to start my own garden, maybe some nut trees too.”

“Pecans do well here. If you try English walnuts, get the Carpathian variety—they handle our weather swings better.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll remember that. How are the winters?”

“Generally mild, but we get surprises. Usually three to five inches of snow a month. Last year we had a blizzard with eighteen inches. Late spring frosts can be tricky—we set out propane Frostguards to protect the trees and strawberries.”

“Frostguards?”

“Propane burners,” Sophia explained. “We move them into the orchard with the tractor forks. The rotating nozzles blow hot air through the canopy. Much cleaner than the old oil smudge pots.”

The ice cream machine stopped after about thirty minutes. Freja served Don first—peach ice cream bursting with fresh fruit flavor and rich cream.

“This tastes like biting into a perfect peach,” Don said. “Delicious.”

“The secret is the fresh milk and cream from the Admundsons,” Freja replied. “Can’t sell it directly, but she keeps us supplied.”

Freja reached for more, but Sophia warned, “Momma, don’t ruin your supper!”

“Just a spoonful. I still need to peel potatoes.” Freja turned to Don. “You’ll eat with us, won’t you?”

“I don’t want to impose…”

“Dumheter!” Freja said firmly. “You’re a guest. You have an obligation to accept.”

Don bowed slightly at the waist. “In that case, I’d be honored.”

Sophia laughed and tugged his elbow toward the hall bench for their boots.

“Momma can be stubborn,” she whispered. “She usually gets her way.”

“She seems like a force of nature.”

Sophia first showed him the big equipment barn: tractors, sprayers, trailers, and two dozen Frostguards lined up neatly. She explained their use in detail, then walked him through the rest of the operation—how they bought feeder hogs each summer, fattened them on fallen fruit, and butchered them in the fall for canning and freezing.

Don heard a whirring sound and asked Sophia what it was.

“It’s a wind generator that helps charge the battery bank over there. It supplies power for the building, and to keep the tractor batteries charged in the winter.

Dinner was köttbullar—Swedish meatballs—creamy mashed potatoes, pickled cucumbers, and fresh yeast bread. Afterward they sat on the porch with glasses of chilled Swedish cider, talking easily as evening settled.

Don finally stood. “Thank you both for a wonderful evening, but I’d like to get in my laundry before it gets dark. I really appreciate the welcome.”

As he drove home through the quiet countryside, Don felt a deep gratitude for neighbors like the Anderssons. It was exactly the kind of place he’d come here to find.
 
Chapter Five

Don made his bed and renewed his research on his computer. At 11:00 he undressed and turned back the coverlet. It was heaven. The sheets lay crisp and inviting, bleached by the day’s honest sunlight rather than any harsh chemical. The fabric carried the faint, clean scent of the outdoors and warm grass, a whisper of the open fields that no perfumed laundry additives could ever match.


The crew was on hand bright and early the next morning. The crew had removed the walls and flooring from upstairs the day before and would start working on the downstairs today. A separate crew was moving the stripped out wood to an area and neatly stacking it. Two stacks were already tarped.

“What are they doing with the lumber?” Don asked George.

“Use it where they can. Most of the salvaged stuff is pine flooring and since you requested reclaimed oak flooring, you can either burn it as firewood or sell it to reclaimed wood dealers.”

“People would actually buy it?”

“Sure, there’s a big market for it.”

“What about using the pine flooring to build the built-in bookcases in the library?”

“I’ll talk to Holly.” George replied.

“George, can you find be the best solar contractor around? I’m thinking of going off-grid.”

“I’ve heard a name, but let me check it out.” George replied.

Don finally went down into the basement for the first time. It smelled like an unfinished basement, he guessed, not having really been in one before. The floor was dirt but dry, and the mortared stone walls were part of the foundation with only pilings supporting the floor joists along the center. It was cool down there and not damp at all. With a concrete floor, it could be a pretty good storage place, maybe even build a storm shelter. Missouri did average about 30 tornadoes a year and some up to an EF3 in this area. It might be the prudent thing to do. A storm shelter with a way to escape outside in case the house collapsed. Another thing to put on his wish list.

With no where to be except in the way of the workers, Don decided to go visit the office in Troy of the Lincoln County Extension Agent to talk to him or her about nut trees. He really was curious about growing them even though it could be as long as six years before he saw any production. George had his cell number if any questions arose.

Don wasn’t in any big hurry and set his speed control to a sedate speed and cruised the twenty miles to Troy. The visit was very informative and Don walked out with an armload of materials and suggestions on where to find more information on nut growing, where to get trees, and irrigation equipment companies nearby. He was even given the current groundwater situation in case he wanted to irrigate. Missouri, it turns out, has plenty of aquifers, thus water. Another entry for his wish list.

Don took the rest of the day revisiting the out buildings and realized something: almost every building was built with timber framing construction. Whoever had them built, had them built with pride and care. A long open equipment shed that looked ancient, was still as solid as the day it was erected. All the posts were of what he guessed were Black Locust. Don carefully inspected the roof of the structure looking for leaks. It would be a shame to lose the structure due to disrepair. As he looked at the shed, he could just see the equipment that might fill it spaces in the future. More entries on the wish list.

Don did a bit of cleaning maintenance after breakfast, drank a glass of cold water before going out to watch the workers. The outside work was going quickly. Despite having any outside maintenance in quite a few years, there had been little damage done. They were now erecting tarps around the edges of the roof to begin replacing the slate tiles that had covered the roof for generations. One falling off the roof could decapitate a House_roofing.pngperson if they were hit, or at least cause serious injury. They were replacing the slate with Synthetic (Rubber)Slate Tiles with a fifty year warranty. During Don’s inspection of the outbuildings, at least the major ones, he’d noticed different roofing materials had been used for different building. Some had used concrete tile, like the equipment shed, some had used a roll type roof, some tin or galvanized metal and a couple used Asphalt shingles. Since he hadn’t decided on what to use the buildings for yet, Don decided to roof all the buildings with the Synthetic slate tiles, to give the farm the same overall look no matter the structural load the buildings in the past had maintained. If he decided to get rid of a shed, he could always have it torn down for the wood. So, George was bringing in another roofing crew just to handle the reroofing of the outbuildings.

Don made a small pitcher of ice tea and a sandwich for lunch. While wiping up the crumbs from the prep counter, Don’s phone rang.

“Good afternoon! My name is Tom Howard and I was asked to contact you about your interest in Alternative Energy options. I'm with Gateway Alternative Energy Solutions, and I've gotta tell you — this is prime country for making your operation run smarter, cheaper, and tougher against whatever Mother Nature or the grid throws at you.

Picture this: Your barns, pumps, coolers, and workshops humming along on sunshine and wind you own, instead of paying those monthly bills to Cuivre River Electric Cooperative. Missouri's got solid solar potential, and with Lincoln County's rolling fields and open skies, your place is perfect for rooftop or ground-mount solar arrays that pay for themselves fast.

“Whoa, Whoa! Mr. Howard! I’d really like to talk to you face to face about this. I’m a novice at owning a new home and setting out on an idea of energy independence. Can you come out here and see my situation?”

“Well, of course! I can come out anytime you are ready to talk. It will give me the lay of the land.”

“Fantastic! What about Wednesday afternoon at one o’clock?”

“I’ve added it to my calendar, Mr. Billings. I look forward to talking to you.”

“Good-bye, Mr. Howard.”

“Whew! That guy was eager!”

Don had never even thought about power for his condo. You paid the utility company and the lights and water came on. He had a huge learning curve. To clear his mind a bit, Don decided to make a run to Home Depot and get some portable outside furniture to put under the awning of the Motorhome. He could set up a nice work area to use his computer without being stuck inside. He thought, on his way out, about inviting Sophia to go with him but was afraid to push it too far. He liked her, she was pleasant to be around, and he didn’t want to scare her off. He set his GPS to the shortest route to the closest Home Depot and hit the road.

At Home Depot, Don quickly found four Coleman Deck Chairs with Side Table and a folding aluminum table large enough to work on or eat from. He also found an outside carpet RVers used to place under their awnings. This led him over to the grill section and he started scoping out the stainless steel grills. He was looking over one he liked and a voice next to him said, “You don’t want that one!”

Don’s head snapped around and asked the woman “why”?

“It’s got cast iron burners. If it is left outside in the humidity, the burner will have rusted to dust by next season. You want a grill with stainless steel burners. Trust me, it took me a couple of grills to figure it out. And of course, replacement burners cost almost as much as a new grill.”

“Thank you for your input. You’ve probably saved me some money. So, you live around here?”

“Yes, but not close. I have a tree nursery over near Troy.”

“Troy?! Lincoln County?!” I live in Lincoln county!”

The woman laughed. “Well, howdy do neighbor! I’m Sarah Parsons, tree farm owner.” She said, holding out her hand.

Don took her hand. “Don Parsons, general ne'er-do-well and budding gentleman farmer.”

Sarh laughed. “I think I like both titles.”

“Does your tree inventory include nut trees?”

Sarah gave him an interested look. “It just so happens it does. I have pecans, and walnuts both selected for growing in this area. How did you know?”

“Just hoping. I may be needing some of your inventory in the future.”

Sarah grinned. “Well, I’ll leave the porch light on.”

“Do you have a business card?” Don asked.

Sarah pawed her way in her purse and came out with an attractive business card holder. She pulled one out and handed it to Don.

“Expect me to visit in the near future.” Don said.

“I look forward to it.” Sarah replied.

Don found a floor assistant and had a stainless steel grill with stainless steel burners loaded on a flat cart and selected a grill cover for it. The assistant followed him through check-out and helped him load the grill into the truck. Then it hit him: he had to assemble the grill and had no tools to do it with!

Don went back in and bought a neat 161 piece home tool kit in a convenient folding case and headed home. Don’s armpits were soaked from talking to Sarah. She had come on strong and he was taking an interest.
 
Chapter Six


Tom Howard arrived promptly at one o’clock. Don greeted him with a firm handshake, and the two men spent the next couple of hours walking and driving the immediate farmstead. Don laid out his vision: a stand of nut trees and a sizable truck garden to feed the family and generate some income.

“You’ve got a nice piece of ground here,” Tom said, shading his eyes as he scanned the open fields. “With the right setup, you could make your money back quick by selling excess power back to the grid.”

Don shook his head. “No grid-tie for me. I’ve done some digging. Power around here comes through Cuivre River Electric Cooperative. Their generation and transmission folks are Associated Electric and Central Electric Power Cooperative. Every hand the juice passes through adds fees and taxes. They’d buy my surplus for pennies, then turn around and sell it to my neighbors at full rate. Call it business if you want. To me it feels like dirty money. I’ll keep what I make.”

Tom grinned, clearly impressed. “You’ve done your homework. Even without net metering, you can still stack the incentives. The USDA’s Rural Energy for America Program—REAP—offers grants that can cover forty to fifty percent on qualifying projects. Layer on the federal thirty-percent Investment Tax Credit, and your out-of-pocket drops fast.”

“Sounds worth looking into,” Don said. “You’ll have to walk me through the paperwork.”

“Happy to. Won’t sugarcoat it—it’s not cheap. But once it’s in, you’re insulated from ice storms, blizzards, outages, and price spikes. Solar panels, battery storage, and a good wind setup will keep everything running.”

“Wind generators?” Don made a face. “I hate that constant whine.”

Tom chuckled. “Sun doesn’t shine three hundred and sixty-five days a year. You’ll want backup. Since hydro isn’t viable here, that leaves wind or diesel. But there’s a newer option that might solve the noise problem.”

Don raised an eyebrow. “I’m listening.”

“Vortex wind generators—bladeless. They work on vortex-induced vibrations instead of spinning blades. Wind flows past a cylinder, creating alternating eddies. Those pressure differences make the mast oscillate, and that motion drives a linear alternator at the base. No gears, no lubrication, no whirring blades.”

“Safer for birds and bats too, I’d guess.”

“Exactly. Quieter, lower maintenance, more compact. You can even cluster them closer together. Downside is they’re less efficient—maybe thirty percent behind traditional turbines—and they perform best at specific wind speeds for resonance. They’re still better suited for smaller-scale setups than utility farms, but the technology’s improving fast.”

Don nodded slowly. “Big wind farms stick with blades for a reason, I suppose. Scaling’s tricky—like trying to bake a cake for a hundred with a recipe for two.”

“Pretty much. For a whole city you need hydro, nuclear, or solid fossil fuels—natural gas being the cleanest bridge. But for a place like this?” Tom gestured across the fields. “We can make renewables work.”

They settled into the shade of the awning while Don described his long-term goals: self-sufficient power, nut and produce sales, and enough reserve to weather hard times. Tom took careful notes, sketching rough load estimates and asking pointed questions about future expansions.

By the time Tom’s truck disappeared down the gravel drive late that afternoon, Don’s head was spinning with numbers and possibilities. Tom checked the roof space, south-facing fields, wind patterns, and ran the numbers tailored for Don’s setup. Don jotted a few more items on his growing wish list before the details faded.

Dinner alone in the cramped quarters held no appeal, so Don drove into Troy. Sami’s Family Restaurant caught his eye again. The moment he stepped inside, the warm smells of fried food and fresh coffee wrapped around him like an old friend. A friendly waitress seated him in a booth and brought sweet tea while he studied the menu—country comfort classics: liver and onions, country-fried steak, grilled pork chops, chopped hamburger steak, fried catfish.

He was leaning toward the steak when a familiar voice sounded at his shoulder.

“Well, hello, stranger!”

Don looked up to find Sarah Parsons smiling down at him. He stood as best he could in the tight booth and returned the greeting.

“What are you doing in the big city?” she teased.

“Washing the trail dust out of my throat and filling the hole where my stomach used to be. Care to join me?”

“I’d be honored.” She slid into the opposite seat. “I didn’t expect you’d be shopping for trees already.”

“Not quite yet. Still need to figure out land prep and equipment. But I’m getting there.”

Sarah reached into her purse, pulled out a couple of folded pamphlets, and selected one. “Here. Pecan tree planting guide. Even lists ideal soil pH.”

Don scanned it, genuinely grateful. “Perfect. Now I just need walnut info.”

She smiled and produced another sheet. “Carpathian or black? We carry both.”

“Both, then. You’re becoming dangerously helpful, Sarah.”

“That’s the plan,” she said, eyes sparkling.

The waitress returned. Don ordered country-fried steak and an appetizer of fried pickles. Sarah chose the fried catfish. “We’ll share the pickles,” Don added.

While they waited, Sarah asked about his equipment needs. When he mentioned Ennis Implement, she nodded. “Good choice. They’ve got new and used—tractors, implements, the works. Right here in Troy.”

The fried pickles arrived, golden and crisp, perfect with ranch dressing. They vanished quickly. When the entrées came, the country-fried steak was seasoned just right, the gravy rich, and the mashed potatoes creamy and buttery. Conversation quieted as they ate, broken only by appreciative comments about the food.

Afterward they lingered over coffee and pie until the restaurant neared closing. Don walked Sarah to her car in the back lot.

“This was a mighty fine evening,” he said. “We’ll have to do it again.”

“I’d like that.” Sarah rose onto her toes and kissed his cheek. “Good night, Don. Drive safe.”

“You too.” He watched her buckle in and pull away, taillights fading into the warm Missouri night.
 
Chapter Seven

Under the head electrician's guidance, the crew was rewiring the entire house. The old system was a patchwork of decades-old additions, none of it up to code. With the framing for the expansion complete, fresh siding was already going up.

The work hummed along smoothly, so Don decided to head down to Troy and visit Ennis Implements. Might as well stay ahead of the game.

Sarah had been right—the place had everything he needed. He bought solid used equipment and arranged delivery. Afterward, he stopped at the local fuel distributor and ordered tanks for the fuel farm he planned to set up. By the time he pulled into Hechler's on Main Street to pick up hand power tools and manual implements for the future, the morning felt like a solid win. He’d already claimed one of the outbuildings as a woodshop and was determined to equip it properly.

Sophia found him there later that afternoon, building shelves from scrap lumber pulled out of the house. Old kitchen cabinets, cleaned and reinforced, would store the woodworking supplies.

She knocked on the doorframe. “Busy as a bee, I see.”

Don looked up and grinned, genuinely pleased. “Yep. Putting a few pieces of the puzzle together. Figured I’d turn this into a proper woodworking shop. Been a long time since I built anything with my hands. Looking forward to getting back to it.”

“Everything coming together, then?”

“Yeah, faster than I expected in some ways.” He brushed sawdust from his shirt. “Ran into the owner of a tree nursery at Home Depot. She’s got pecan and walnut trees ready to go, so I can start my orchard sooner than planned. Good advice, too. She’s willing to help me get set up.”

Sophia’s expression faltered. “Sarah…”

“Yeah, that’s her—Sarah Parsons.” Don set down his tape measure. “You know her?”

“We went to the same high school.” Sophia hesitated. “Don… you should watch yourself around her.”

He raised an eyebrow but kept his tone light. “I bought some farm equipment from Ennis Implements. They’re delivering it tomorrow.”

“That’s good. You’ll need the ground prepped for the orchards.”

“Orchards—plural?” Don asked. “Why not plant them all together in one area?”

“If I remember right, walnuts harvest a little earlier than pecans. Mix them and you’ll be sorting forever.”

“Hmm. No sense making more work for myself. I’ll lay out two separate plots.” He wiped his hands on a rag. “Sarah mentioned she has Black Walnuts, too.”

Sophia stared at the workbench, her mind clearly elsewhere. After a moment she excused herself. “I’ve got to pick up fertilizer at the co-op.”

“Okay. Thanks for stopping by,” Don said, watching her go.

He stood in the sudden quiet, staring at the empty doorway. “Wonder what that was about?”



The farm equipment arrived the next day. Having run heavy machinery on job sites before, Don found the controls straightforward. He hooked up the turn plow and carved out a field two hundred feet wide by two thousand feet long—room for fifty pecan trees spaced eighty feet apart at maturity. Two rows of twenty-five, split by a twenty-foot farm road down the middle. It took focus to keep the rows straight and the grass fully turned, but it wasn’t as bad as he’d feared.

Afterward he took soil samples. The test results called for 200–275 pounds of lime per thousand square feet. Don ran the calculations, called Magruder Limestone Company up on US-61, and arranged delivery and spreading. He repeated the process for the two walnut plots—Carpathian and Black—then disked the lime in and let it work.

He also had a second well drilled strictly for irrigation, complete with its own solar array, and contracted a St. Louis firm to design and install a drip system. The trees could come soon.

While he worked the fields, Sophia stopped by occasionally with a Coleman jug of ice water. The tractor cab had air conditioning, but the sun still drained a man. Don always returned the jug and enjoyed the brief visits with her and Freja, though he kept them short. On his last stop, after finishing the Black walnut field, he mentioned he was nearly ready to plant.

“Momma, Don is getting his trees from Sarah Parsons,” Sophia said.

“Stay away from that woman,” Freja said sharply, her voice laced with contempt.

Don leaned back, caught off guard. “Whoa! Something I need to know?”

Sophia sighed. “After high school, Sarah went to Northwestern and earned a design degree. She came back to Troy and set her sights on Daniel Parsons almost immediately. His family had run a very successful tree farm outside town for generations. With urban renewal picking up, they were thriving. Daniel had just taken over the operation when she… became involved with him. They married, she got pregnant, not necessarily in that order, then suffered a miscarriage. For a while the marriage appeared stable enough. Then, three years ago, she served him divorce papers, citing physical and mental abuse.”

“Daniel Parsons was one of the kindest, most decent men you could ever meet,” Freja continued, her tone heavy with regret. “When it was all over, everything he had left could fit in a Piggalawilly bag.”

“That’s Piggly Wiggly, Momma.”

“No difference!” Freja waved a hand. “She took it all—his money, the farm, his dignity. You’re new here, Don, and you carry yourself like a man of means.” Her eyes narrowed with concern. “Watch the right hand, but it’s the left that holds the dagger.”

Don thanked them for the warning, his mind churning as he drove back to the house. He liked Sarah—or at least the version she’d shown him. This cast everything in a different light. He needed a plan.

He made a pot of coffee and sat under the awning until the mosquitoes drove him inside. By morning the path forward felt clear. He would treat Sarah like one of the shadier clients from his New York days: keep the prize just out of reach, stay polite, stay sharp. He could do it with a straight face. He’d done it before.

The only real problem was timing. Parsons Nursery was the only local source for three-year-old trees. Anything else would mean waiting six years for the first real harvest. He’d make it work.



Don spent the rest of the morning finishing shelves in the workshop. At one o’clock he called Charlie Gitto’s On the Hill and made reservations for Saturday night.

The HVAC crew was on site that day, running lines for the mini-splits before the walls closed up. Instead of whole-house or single-room systems, Don had gone with modern zoned heating and cooling. It didn’t rule out the big rock fireplace, which had been rebuilt with a remotely controlled blower that captured heat and distributed it through the Great Room and into ductwork for the rest of the house when needed.

Sophia came over later to apologize for her and Freja “butting in.”

Don led her outside to a bench in the shade of the roof overhang. “Sophia, I appreciate it. You two did the right thing. I’m going to have to shift directions a bit, and I’ll need your help.”

He gave her the short version of the New York mess. She listened without judgment.

“How can I help?”

“First, I haven’t picked out kitchen appliances yet. I want your input. There’s a Sub-Zero demonstration on Clayton Road Friday—would you come with me?”

“Yes, I can do that.”

“Good. Second…” He smiled. “I want to take you to dinner. Will you go with me to Charlie Gitto’s Saturday night? Reservations are already made.”

Sophia’s face lit up. “Yes. Yes, I will.”

“Now, to help shape perceptions—if Sarah hears about it, she’ll probably try harder. Could you treat this like a real date when we’re out?”

Sophia grinned. “I think I could manage that.”

“Perfect.” Don leaned back, satisfied. “On the kitchen side, I’m building a professional-grade setup. Electric cooktop—the battery bank can handle it—Sub-Zero fridge and freezer, electric range, separate Wolf convection steam oven, high-end microwave, and whatever else makes sense. I want tools that actually work when I need them, not just showpieces.”

“That’s going to be an amazing kitchen.”

“Yeah. I want to do it right. Comforting to have good equipment when you’re in the mood to cook.”

“That is true. Now I know why you wanted to leave New York. I thought it might have been the politics and taxes.” Sophia said.

“Well, it was those too. Taxes were jumping higher and higher each year, tax dollars burned in non-infrastructure programs and wasted away. The Democrat administration supped with the devil in support of the socialist Democrats that are popping up like warts. They will reap a whirlwind someday with them. The Democrat Party may be just what destroys America in their continuous quest for absolute power. When the time is right for them, the DSA will crush the Democrat Party like the SS did the SA in Germany during the Night of the Long Knives in ‘34.
 
Chapter Eight

They arrived fifteen minutes early at the Sub-Zero dealership and just walked around looking at the appliances.

“Why did you choose these brands?” Sophia asked.

“I want a great kitchen and these are high quality appliances, something I can be proud of.” Don said. “I know they will probably stick out like a sore thumb in the new kitchen in an antebellum home, and I’m sure there are brands that work just as well in the big box stores but these are really good.” My kitchen in my condo was twice as big as my two bedrooms. When I had the time, I’d cook just for relaxation, trying all kinds of recipes. I’ve got cookbooks from famous chefs, some of them signed, for every kind of food you can think of.”

“What is your favorite food?”

“Oh, I don’t know. If you put the effort into every dish, they all taste good. When I screw up, it leaves a bad taste in my mouth. I’m sure it’s psychological, but with the right tools my chances of screwing up diminish greatly.”

The most interesting demonstration was the convection steam oven. Don hadn’t been sure how it actually worked but major chefs swore by them. Before they left, Don put in an order for everything he wanted and they went to an early dinner at a family restaurant that had a buffet.


Saturday evening, Don splashed on some aftershave and dressed in one of his better Brooks Brothers suits. He checked himself in the mirror, straightened his tie, and decided the suit and freshly polished shoes would do the job. He drove over to the Anderssons’ place. When Sophia stepped down the porch steps in a classic little black dress, her blonde hair loose but held back by elegant decorative clips Freja had taken out of her jewelry box, he nearly stumbled. He caught himself and offered his hand.

He led her around to the passenger side of the truck, opened the door, and deployed the drop-step. Sophia stepped up with practiced grace, showing just a flash of toned thigh as she settled into the seat. Don closed the door securely, walked around the rear of the truck adjusting his jacket, and climbed in.

As they drove toward the city, Sophia asked what he’d been up to. Don told her about his hunt for shop equipment and the dust collection system he’d have to pick up in Hannibal—an all-day trip, most likely. “Would you like to ride along?”

“Of course I would,” she replied, her voice low and sultry.

Don felt the familiar pull. She was really leaning into the role tonight. They were supposed to be acting like it was a real date, after all.

At the restaurant, Don handed the keys to the valet and hurried around to help Sophia out. She emerged with fluid poise. He offered his arm; the doorman opened the entrance for them immediately. The hostess confirmed their reservation and led them to a quiet, candlelit table.

A sommelier appeared right away. Don requested a bottle of Chianti Classico 2015. The sommelier opened it, poured a taste, and at Don’s approving nod, decanted the rest before filling their glasses one-third full.

Sophia watched Don’s every move with quiet interest. Once the sommelier left, they raised their glasses.

“To a wonderful night,” Don said.

They clinked gently. Sophia took a sip. “You seem to know your way around wine.”

“A lot of dining—some good, some bad. Part of the old job.”

“How does it feel being so far from the fancy restaurants and nightlife of your old life?”

Don leaned back slightly. “Honestly? Relief. I played the part to land contracts, but it stopped being fulfilling a long time ago. I hated sucking up to people who looked down on everyone else. My father trained me for that world, and I followed until I couldn’t anymore. I sold the company, but in a way the employees wouldn’t suffer because of my decision.”

Sophia took another sip. “What’s your plan with Sarah?”

The waiter arrived with menus before Don could answer. He ordered the Veal Parmigiano; Sophia chose the Veal Lemonata—thinly sliced veal in a white wine lemon butter sauce with capers. For appetizers, Don picked toasted ravioli and Sophia went with calamari fritti.

When the waiter left, Don topped off her glass. “Getting back to your question,” he said, voice softening as he leaned closer, “I plan to keep the conversations going… but I’m not committing to anything beyond those trees. It won’t be easy, though. She’s very flirtatious.”

A flicker of playful jealousy warmed Sophia’s eyes. “Do I need to do anything to shield you from her charms?”

Don’s grin deepened, slow and intimate. He reached across the table and brushed the back of her hand, thumb lingering against her skin. His gaze held hers. “You already are. Just by being you… you’re all the armor I’ll ever need.”



Don’s quest for shop equipment continued in earnest. He picked up a heavily discounted used 8-inch straight-knife jointer with four spare sets of blades, followed by a 10-inch table saw with a 52-inch rip capacity, a 15-inch bandsaw, and a combination 6x48-inch belt and 12-inch disc sander. George arranged for electricians to wire the shop for the heavy loads. Don called Tom Howard with the specs; Tom confirmed the battery bank could handle everything without issue.

The final pieces were a 20-inch planer and a 20-inch variable-speed floor drill press. At George’s suggestion, Don arranged to buy a dust collection system in Hannibal and made it a priority to install it before the shop filled up. He called Sophia and asked if she still wanted to ride along Wednesday morning. She agreed enthusiastically and promised a thermos of coffee plus some of Freja’s kanelbullar for the trip.

Don didn’t know what kanelbullar were, but he assumed they were some kind of Swedish pastry.

He was told he’d need a trailer for the ductwork, so he loaded plenty of ratchet straps.

Wednesday at 8:00 a.m., Don pulled up at the Anderssons’. Sophia, dressed in jeans, cowboy boots, and a crisp button-down shirt, hopped in carrying a thermos, a travel mug, and a cardboard pie box. She made him wait while she retrieved a knotted pastry, wrapped it in a napkin, and handed it over.

Don took a bite before shifting into gear. It tasted like a high-end cinnamon roll. “These are really good.”

“Yes, but these are Swedish cinnamon rolls,” Sophia said proudly. “There’s nothing else like them in the world.”

“Don’t be piggish,” she added with a grin, watching him wolf down the bun as she wrapped one for herself. “I only brought six.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The drive took less than an hour. Don had braced for delays from road construction at the Bowling Green interchange, but traffic moved smoothly. As he’d left that morning, a concrete truck had been backing up to the cellar door—the basement floor pour was underway.

They located the address in Hannibal easily. Don backed the trailer into the driveway. An elderly man wearing a mask and his son-in-law Johnny met them. Don had expected dusty parts that would need disassembly assembly, but the capture-tank stand and ducting were layng in the drive…spotless. The unit looked barely used.

“I hope this is all right,” the man said. “Johnny cleaned it up for me.”

“Why are you selling it?” Don asked.

“COPD. Can’t be around dust anymore, without an expensive mask.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Don paid in cash. Johnny helped load the heavy base into the truck bed and the ducting into the trailer. They strapped everything down securely.

It was nearing lunchtime, so they decided to eat before heading back. Sophia checked reviews and directed Don to Drake’s Steak and Ale. They slid into a booth and ordered pork tenderloin sandwiches, fries, and iced tea.

When the food arrived, Sophia laughed. “This thing is as big as my head!”

The tenderloin hung well over the bun. Don removed the pickles, added mustard, salt, and pepper, and dug in. It was a satisfying, filling meal. He had to force down the last few fries.

By the time they returned to Hunter Ridge, both were pleasantly groggy from the food. George rounded up a couple of guys to help unload the equipment. Don then drove Sophia home. Before she stepped out, she leaned across the seat, kissed him on the cheek, and smiled.

“Thank you. I had a wonderful time.”
 
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