Story Sanctuary

ncsfsgm

ncsfsgm

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Santuary_A.pngBill Hamner, a former electronics-company founder shying away from betrayal and divorce, inherits his uncle Jay’s remote Missouri estate, Westhaven, and leaves Montana for a fresh start.



Chapter One

Bill Hamner peeled away from the rest of the crew working the breaks, easing the last few head of cattle out of the draws. Some of those range cows were half-wild and could turn man-killer in a heartbeat if they felt cornered, but Ranger was the best cutting horse Bill had ever ridden. The gelding read a steer’s intent before it moved and slipped sideways like smoke.

Bill found two more cows, pushed them up the draw, and joined the main bunch. Mr. Gaston wanted to cull the herd while prices held. The ten men searched for cattle hiding in the gullies, draws and coulees and worked the herd slow and steady toward the holding pastures near the ranch house, where good water and fresh hay waited. A chill wind slid down from the mountains, carrying the sharp promise of winter to Glacier County. Five days in the saddle had left Bill hungry for anything besides beef, beans, chili, and fried cornbread.

He dismounted at the barn, stripped the saddle from Ranger, and began currying him down. The horse shivered with pleasure as the comb scraped across his withers and back. Once Ranger had his full attention, Bill swapped the bridle for a halter and led him into the stall. He gave the gelding a scoop of grain, checked the automatic waterer, and latched the gate. Saddlebags slung over one shoulder, Bill started for the bunkhouse.

Mr. Gaston waylaid him halfway there. “Bill, you in some kind of trouble?”

“No, sir. Not that I know of. Haven’t been near Browning in over a month. Why?”

“A well-dressed fellow came by yesterday asking for you—or someone with your name. Smelled like law. You haven’t gotten some Indian girl in the family way, have you?”

“No, sir!”

“Yeah, if you had, her brothers or cousins would’ve already paid you a visit.” Mr. Gaston gave a short chuckle. “Must be looking for somebody else, then.”

Bill showered, pulled on clean clothes, knocked the dust off his boots, and headed to the cook shack. Country-fried steak with all the fixings waited. He loaded his plate and joined the hands at the long picnic table, stabbing two biscuits from the communal platter.

After supper he sat on the bunkhouse porch, listening to the men talk around the fire pit. Someone tuned a guitar; a harmonica joined in. They drifted into “Streets of Laredo,” the mournful notes drifting across the yard. Bill stayed until the music lulled him, then turned in.

Friday was payday. The men collected their monthly checks and were gone by three, chasing whatever trouble the weekend offered. Mr. Gaston still paid in paper, but Bill didn’t mind. Three years earlier he had opened a Wells Fargo account as part of his quiet exit plan and left it untouched. A quick phone photo of the check and the money was in his account. When he needed cash he pulled a few hundred and paid as he went. His only regular stop was Jose’s Cantina—good steaks, burgers, or chicken off the charbroil grill. The crowd was mostly Native American, but Bill had never had trouble there. Some couldn’t hold their liquor, but they were happy drunks who might build a small fire in the gravel lot and dance. He had never seen a fight.

Bill photographed his check and digitally deposited it, let the others have first dibs on the showers, and settled on the porch with a beer. He watched freshly shaven, showered men climb into trucks and roll out in search of excitement.

That was where Ed Jensen found him.

A rented Lincoln Navigator rolled up and stopped. The driver stayed behind the wheel at first.

“You Bill Hamner?”

“Yep.”

The man nodded, climbed out with a manila folder in hand. “I’ve been sent by the estate attorney for your late uncle, Jay Hamner.”

“Late?” Bill’s stomach tightened. “Uncle Jay’s dead?”

“Passed about six months ago. Sorry for your loss.”

Bill took a slow pull from his beer. “What does he want with me?”

“You inherited the entirety of his estate. You need to claim it, or it goes to the state as unclaimed property.”

“How much are we talking?”

“You’ll have to discuss the details with your probate attorney. His name and number are in the folder.” Ed handed it over.

One sheet of paper, a business card stapled to the corner. Springfield, Missouri.

Bill nodded. “Thanks.”

Ed wished him good luck, climbed back into the Navigator, and drove away.

Bill sat for a long minute, staring at the page that told him almost nothing. Looking at his watch finally rose, went to his room, powered on his phone, and returned to the porch. Reception was decent. Springfield was an hour ahead of Montana so he might get someone in the lawyer’s office. The call was answered on the second ring by a pleasant woman’s voice.

“Black and Hazelwood, how may I help you?”

“Bill Hamner. I need to speak with Everette Black.”

“Yes, Mr. Hamner. Mr. Black has been expecting your call. One moment, please.”

Been expecting me. The PI already called him, Bill thought.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Hamner! It’s good to finally reach you.”

“Afternoon,” Bill replied.

“Per your late uncle’s wishes, you are the sole heir to his estate. Most of the real property is in Missouri. Where are you now?”

“About twelve hundred miles from Missouri, as the crow flies.”

“That rules out a quick drive. Can you come to Springfield? If funds are an issue, we can send a plane or arrange a ticket.”

“I’ve got the money for a ticket, but I’m ninety miles from the nearest airport—Glacier International near Kalispell. I could probably make it by Monday.”

“Why don’t I send a jet? No TSA, and you’ll be here much faster with no connecting flights. I’ll have it waiting at the airport and book you a room here near the office.”

Bill hesitated only a second. “All right. I’ll be at the airport tomorrow.”

“Excellent. Looking forward to meeting you.”

Bill ended the call, drained his beer, and tossed the bottle. He knocked on Mr. Gaston’s door and told him everything.

“Well, son, sounds like you’ve got a pig in a poke until you see it for yourself. Take a week—longer if you need.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you.”

The drive through the mountains the next morning took longer than Bill liked, but he reached Kalispell by eleven. The pilots were waiting. He carried his worn leather duffel aboard, buckled in, and minutes later the jet was climbing. They touched down at Springfield-Branson National at two o’clock. A driver delivered him straight to the Hotel Vandivort, leaving him the rest of Sunday to get the lay of the city and let the news settle.
 

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Chapter Two



Sunday morning, Bill left the hotel in search of something better than the usually over-rated breakfast fare of the hotel. The receptionist had recommended the Hatch & Harvest Café just two blocks away. The place smelled of fresh coffee, fried sausage, and warm biscuits the moment he stepped inside. He ordered the full country breakfast—biscuits smothered in thick sausage gravy, two eggs over easy, and a generous bowl of seasonal fruit.

The coffee was excellent, bold and clean. As he ate, Bill let his mind wander. Montana had been good to him in its rugged way, but the endless winters and the ache of old betrayals had worn grooves into his soul. This morning felt like the first deliberate step toward something new. He ate a tangerine, saved an apple, paid the bill with a generous tip, and stepped back into the bright early-autumn sunshine.

He wandered to a nearby park and found a bench overlooking a women’s softball game. The crack of aluminum bats and cheerful crowd noise washed over him. For nearly an hour he watched, envying their simple Sunday ritual. His own life had grown anything but simple—family turning their backs, ranch work that paid the bills but left little room for dreams.

Eventually he returned to the hotel, flipped on a ballgame, and dozed through the middle innings. He woke in the late afternoon, had a quiet steak dinner downstairs, and turned in early. Tomorrow would bring answers, and possibly the biggest change of his life.

The next morning at nine o’clock sharp, a black sedan delivered him to Everette Black’s downtown office. Mrs. Dennison ushered him straight in.

“Welcome, Mr. Hamner,” Everette said, rising from behind an imposing oak desk. The lawyer was trim, mid-fifties, with sharp eyes.

Bill shook his hand firmly. “Pleasure to meet you. Call me Bill.”

Everette gestured to leather chairs by the window. “This is straightforward, Bill. Your uncle Jay left you everything not allocated to his charities. We spent three years buttoning it up. Sign the documents today, and we’ll get you out to the property.”

“How far?” Bill asked.

“Fifty miles by air. Helicopter. The place sits on a remote arm of Table Rock Lake. Driving takes too long.”

Everette unrolled a large satellite photo. “Private drive branches off the county road here, runs a mile and a half to the gate. Main house perched above the water.”

Bill leaned in. “How much land?”

“One hundred forty-one acres. House, garage, outbuildings, equipment shed. Gentle rolls, good for gardening or pasture. Just need to clear what you need. Around 2.23 miles of property boundary, about a mile of shoreline—protected cove on one side, open water on the other. Excellent crappie and bass fishing. Jay called it ‘Westhaven.’”

Everette slid three envelopes across the table. “Copy of the will, plus two letters Jay wrote for you personally. Open the one marked ‘1’ first.”

“I’ll read them tonight,” Bill said.

Everette arranged the helicopter for the following morning at Springfield-Branson Airport. They discussed the Chris-Craft runabout in the boathouse and Jay’s active final years.

“He outlived the doctors’ predictions,” Everette said. “Main thing that kept him going was making sure you’d be taken care of. He knew you wouldn’t accept charity. Said your pride was always your biggest fault.”

Bill gave a rueful laugh. “After my family blindsided me, I don’t think I have much pride left.”

Everette’s expression softened. “Some things just don’t buff out.”

The driver would pick them up at eight-thirty the next morning.

The helicopter lifted off on schedule. The twenty-minute flight offered a stunning view of the Ozark hills and Table Rock Lake winding like a sapphire ribbon through dense hardwood forests. They set down gently on the Table_Rock_home_summer_B.pngwide gravel driveway behind the main house.

A Black man in his late forties waited nearby. Everette introduced him. “Henry Smith—caretaker, mechanic, chief cook and bottle washer, and jack-of-all-trades. He was with Jay for fifteen years.”

“Good to meet you, Henry.” Bill shook the callused hand.

Henry’s voice was warm. “Pleasure’s mine, Mr. Hamner.”

Henry led them through the house: open floor plan, large windows framing the lake, spacious kitchen, stone fireplace, and upstairs bedrooms with calming views. It felt lived-in yet orderly.
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Outside, they climbed into a four-passenger UTV. The equipment shed held a late-model tractor, mowers, tillers, and neatly organized tools. A sturdy horse barn with multiple stalls and tack room stood ready, though Jay had never bought horses. Riding trails cut invitingly through the woods.

The land rolled gently, thick with oak, hickory, and pine. The shoreline offered rocky points and quiet coves. The property felt truly isolated—no neighbors, just trees, water, and sky. I could get used to this, Bill thought.

They ended the tour on the wide deck overlooking the lake. While Henry fetched lemonade, Everette spoke quietly. “Henry’s been concerned about continued employment. Loyal man.”

When Henry returned, Bill invited him to sit. “How would you feel about staying on and helping me with this place?”

Henry looked relieved. “I’d be proud to, Mr. Bill. Promised Mr. Jay I’d stay if you wanted me. Know this land like my own heartbeat.”

“Then consider yourself my majordomo.”

Henry smiled broadly. “Thank you, sir.”

Everette raised an eyebrow after Henry stepped away. “Well?”

“It beats eating trail dust and cow farts in Montana,” Bill said, gazing at the sparkling water. “A man could build something real here.”

He planned to return as soon as he could trailer his horse south.

The flight back to Kalispell was smooth. Before leaving the town, Bill handled truck maintenance—an oil change, radiator flush, new tires—then sat down with ranch owner Mr. Gaston that evening.

“I hate to lose you, Bill. You’ve been one of the best. But I wouldn’t turn down an inheritance like that either.” Gaston offered a bonus check.

“Don’t, Mr. Gaston. More money is the last thing I’ll need.”

Gaston chuckled. “Stick around and buy me out.”

Bill laughed. “And face another Montana winter? While you’re busting ice in the tanks, I’ll be pulling crappie out of Table Rock Lake. Thanks for everything. Learned a lot.”

He loaded Ranger into the recently purchased trailer with extra hay and feed at the insistence of Mr. Gaston, said goodbyes at first light, and headed south.

The drive was long but steady. Stops outside Butte, Billings, and a longer rest near Spearfish, South Dakota, where he slept sitting up in the cab. He pushed through Mitchell and Sioux Falls, turning south on I-29. The landscape flattened, then gave way to Missouri’s rolling green hills. The air grew humid. Bill’s thoughts stayed on the lake house and the fresh start Uncle Jay had given him.

Nearing Branson, the winding backroads proved tricky. He called Henry, who met him on Route 13 and led him in. The final mile and a half felt like entering another world.

Henry had prepared the barn—fresh hay, feed, full water trough. Ranger kicked up his heels in the paddock, trotting a joyful lap before grazing.

Bill stood in the yard as evening light painted the lake gold. The house stood solid and welcoming behind him. The air smelled of pine, water, and possibility. For the first time in years, the future felt like something to build. The place already felt like a sanctuary.
 
Chapter Three

Bill pulled the last case from the truck bed—first one in, last one out. The reinforced aluminum felt heavier than it should, weighted by memories he had sealed away for years. He hadn’t been ready to open it. Not until the long drive from Colorado had put enough miles between him and the wreckage of his old life. The sun was dipping low over the Tennessee hills as he carried it inside Jay’s—his—office and set it gently on the coffee table. Dust motes danced in the slanted light. Later, he told himself. For now, the truck needed attention.

He walked out to the pumphouse storeroom, where Uncle Jay’s old pressure washer sat coiled like a sleeping snake. The air smelled of damp concrete, motor oil, and the faint sweetness of hay from the nearby barn. Bill connected the hose, fired up the machine, and blasted 1200 miles of travel grime from the big Ram. Water sheeted off the black paint in muddy rivers. Each pass felt like scrubbing away the past. When he finally killed the motor, the quiet of the evening settled in—cicadas humming, a distant dog barking, the soft rustle of leaves in the breeze off the Cumberland Plateau. This was home now. Not Denver. Not the glass-and-steel world he had built and then watched crumble.

Back inside, Bill retrieved the rugged laptop from its hardened case. The machine was a beast—mil-spec, encrypted, designed for environments far harsher than a quiet rural office. He set it on the heavy oak desk, plugged in the power supply, and powered it on. The fan whirred to life. Within seconds it locked onto the Starlink router, the connection solid and fast. At the login screen he completed the two-factor authentication with the old protocols, took time t update the password, then he let the operating system hunt for updates and left it running. It might take hours. He didn’t mind. Time moved differently here.

The next morning, sunlight streamed through the tall windows as Bill sat down to the fully updated machine. He navigated layered VPNs and secure tunnels, then logged into Terminal #247 in the unmanned server room back at Hamner Enterprises headquarters. The custom dashboard appeared—hidden for years, dormant code he had written himself in the early days when trust was still a luxury, long before he noticed the change in her eyes, like she was thinking of somewhere or someone else. With a single click he triggered the kill switch. Every contract initiated without his specific digital signature terminated instantly. Alarms would be flashing across executive screens within minutes. They should have killed him at the beginning of the coup. Instead, they had left him alive to become this.

At 9:01 a.m. he inserted a thumb drive. The script executed flawlessly: a coordinated dump of every share he controlled through shells, trusts, and offshore entities—dormant since he walked away from Denver. Proceeds from the sales were funneled directly to a bank account in Liechtenstein. Bill leaned back, watching the stock tickers on a secondary monitor. For a few minutes, the price held steady. Then the first big holders noticed. Panic selling began. By noon the stock had dropped twenty points and the decline was accelerating. Other investors, smelling blood, bailed to protect their portfolios. Bill reopened the dashboard, checked the next automated task, killed the video feed to the network, and let it ride. Another wave would hit at 15:00. By closing bell, Hamner Enterprises would be trading as ashes. He had built the empire from a three-hundred-fifty-dollar-a-month rental space. He could burn it down without regret. Bill was tempted to be the human embodiment of the Allstate mayhem commercials. If there is a way to take something what his betrayers thought sweet, wholesome, and entitled, and turn it into a catastrophic shit-show, then that’s what he felt like doing. But he had a plan, and like they say in scuba and sky diving, ”Plan your dive, and dive your plan.”

The second checkmark was quieter but no less final. It canceled every personal vehicle lease his ex-wife had left on autopilot renewal—her careless oversight. It also severed the automatic transfers from accounts his wife never even knew existed feeding the household account that covered utilities, the big house mortgage, and her endless luxuries. They all were tied to offshore accounts and would soon have dried up anyway. Petty? Perhaps. But Bill was done bankrolling the lifestyle of people who had stripped him of dignity. Let them figure it out. Their daughter, now nineteen, had grown used to spa days and resort getaways with her circle of friends. Under her mother’s mentorship, she felt entitled and he was there just to pay for everything. Those accounts would empty quickly. She could learn what real work felt like—maybe slinging overpriced coffee at Starbucks, flashing cleavage for tips, and discovering that the world didn’t owe her a damn thing. They deserved every negative emotion they were about to feel. The mental pain and suffering they had put him through had been dehumanizing, otherwise he wouldn’t be able to put them on their paths of personal ruination without emotion.

Bill closed the laptop lid with a soft click. No wild rush of vengeance surged through him. Only the deep, steady satisfaction of justice served. For too many months he had treaded water in a sea of betrayal and despair. A man shown no respect, discarded like yesterday’s news. Now it was their turn to test those cold waters. Bill felt like a blank sheet of paper before the first line is drawn. He needed to start drawing the outline of his future.

He rose and crossed to the bookcase. His fingers brushed the spines until he found the eight-volume set of Aristotle’s Politics. He pulled down the first volume, its leather cover worn from Uncle Jay’s hands, and carried it out to the wide deck overlooking Table Rock Lake. The air was warm, laced with the scent of cut grass and distant woodsmoke; the hint of Fall in the air. Bill settled into a sturdy Adirondack chair, opened the book, and let the old philosopher’s words wash over him. Time passed easily here.

He read until Henry called him for supper. The savory aroma of grilled pork chops drifted from the kitchen, mingling with the earthy smell of collard greens and fresh cornbread. Henry had set the table simply but invitingly—stoneware plates, real silverware, cloth napkins, small dishes of mango salsa on the side.. He served Bill first, then started back toward the kitchen.

“Henry?” Bill called after him. “Aren’t you eating at the table?”

“No, sir, Mr. Bill. I usually take my meals in the kitchen.”

Bill set his fork down. “Henry, do you have a room in this house?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then your place is right here. This isn’t the 1800s, and I’m not running a plantation. When I said you were my majordomo, I meant head employee and partner in keeping this place running—not some hired help eating alone. I appreciate everything you did for Uncle Jay, and what you’re already doing for me now. But as far as I’m concerned, we’re in this together.”

Henry paused in the doorway, studying Bill with quiet appraisal. Then he nodded once. “Yes, sir.”

He returned moments later with his own plate and a tall glass of iced tea, taking the chair across from Bill. The older man moved with the easy economy of someone who had spent decades working with his hands.

“There,” Bill said, smiling faintly. “That feels better already. Now we can talk like men instead of boss and servant.”

They ate in companionable silence for a few minutes, the food excellent—pork chops seared perfectly, collards seasoned with just the right touch of vinegar, red pepper and smoked pork, cornbread golden and crumbly. “Henry, I’d like to hear about Uncle Jay’s last few years,” Bill said eventually. “What interested him, what he was thinking, what he did besides chase horses, dogs, and slow women.”

Henry chuckled softly. “Maybe you should start with Mr. Jay’s diaries. They’ll tell you more about his thoughts than I can.”

“Diaries? Where would I find them?”

“First cabinet on the right as you enter the office—part of the built-in shelving. He kept them organized by year.”

“Very well,” Bill said. “I’ll set Aristotle aside for a while and dive in. Though the old Greek had some wisdom worth holding onto. More people should read him these days.”

“Where did you get your education, Henry?”

“Grambling State University. Played shortstop for the Tigers.” Pride edged the older man’s voice. “Those were good days—heads full of big ideas, hopes riding high.”

Bill nodded. “Then life starts throwing spears at your back. You learn to dodge or you don’t last long.” He took another bite of cornbread. “I started an electronics company in a cheap rental space and built it into something worth hundreds of millions. Had the Midas touch with circuits and contracts. Not so much with choosing a lifetime mate.”

Henry waited, fork paused.

“Found out my marriage’s lifetime guarantee came with an expiration date,” Bill continued dryly.

“Mr. Jay mentioned you have a daughter.”

“You can say that in the past tense. She willingly covered for her Mother’s affair. Our daughter laughed in my face when everything fell apart. All they cared about was the size of the settlement. Well, that money spigot is turned off now. I kinda wish I had CCTV to see if she’s laughing now.” Bill said, grimly.

“I trust you didn’t do anything illegal,” Henry said carefully.

“Legal by every statute written. Morally?” Bill shrugged. “She had too many years listening to her mother’s poison. Probably doesn’t know any better. Now she can find out about the honest side of life.”

“Ernest Hemingway said the only thing he knew about morals is that moral is what you feel good after, and immoral is what you feel bad after.” Henry said.

Bill chuckled. “Then what I did must have been moral. I feel damn good about it.”

Dessert was blackberry cobbler, still warm from the oven, made with a can of Comstock blackberry pie filling but elevated by Henry’s touch. He had whipped a packet of Dream Whip into soft peaks for topping. The tart-sweet berries paired perfectly with the simple meal. After they finished, Bill insisted on carrying his own dishes to the kitchen. He rinsed them beside Henry and loaded the dishwasher, keeping only his tea glass for later.

“Lowland Scotch?” Henry offered as they wiped down the counters.

Bill shook his head. “No, thank you. Another glass of that tea will do me fine for now.”

They stood for a moment in the quiet kitchen, the weight of the day settling. Outside, night had fully claimed the hills. Stars pricked the clear sky, and somewhere in the distance an owl called. Bill felt the first real threads of peace since arriving. The petty justice was done. The future—whatever shape it took on this land—lay ahead. Tomorrow he would read Jay’s diaries. Tomorrow he would start building something real.
 
Very good, as usual! We expect no less from you. But, I don't understand Bill's motivations. It leaves a question hanging from the ceiling. There he is working a ranch in Montana with no schedule or plan. What was he waiting for? He couldn't have known about the inheritance beforehand. He had no contact with the ex. Why set up such a complete and complicated revenge lesson without a more timely and obvious trigger event? The rationalization of why is sweet justice, but what else was he waiting for? Only ncsfsgm knows.....
 
Chapter Four

Bill returned to his office, the weight of the day still clinging to him like the humid Missouri air outside. He rummaged through the desk drawer and pulled out a couple of beer coasters, setting his sweating glass of sweet tea on one to protect the polished wood. The room felt solid, lived-in—a far cry from the sterile corporate spaces he'd left behind. He powered up the old Panasonic Toughbook. Its thick, rugged chassis was built for abuse, but the keyboard dug into his wrists after too much typing.

He crossed to the aluminum case still open on the coffee table, retrieved a wired mouse and the flexible keyboard rolled neatly in one corner, and set them up on the desk. The flat layout was immediately more comfortable. He made a mental note: he needed something newer—a solid desktop with modern processors. Security would demand custom hardware, but parts were easy enough to source if you knew the right people. This machine was tricked out with every encryption and VPN layer He could buy at the time, yet it was dated. Most systems felt ancient after three years. Temptation flickered to slip back into the old company servers, but he held back. He'd gotten away with enough already. Of course, even if they traced his MAC address, it would only lead to the Earth Station near Warren, Missouri, before the signal jumped to fiber optics. The Toughbook itself had come from a contract with the Fulton County Sheriff’s Department four years back. Outdated, but reliable in its own stubborn way.

He'd ask Henry about custom computer builders in Springfield or Branson. Circuit board tools and components could always be ordered online with the right precautions. Bill started a full systems check, then rose and opened the tall cabinet where the diaries waited. Twelve volumes, spines neatly numbered. He pulled down the one marked “1” and settled by the window, the afternoon light slanting across the pages. It wasn't long before he fetched a legal pad and pen for notes.

Henry appeared at 20:30 sharp, his timing impeccable as always. “Ready for a drink, sir?”

Bill nodded. “Yeah, I am.”

Henry returned minutes later with a generous pour of 12-year-old Glenkinchie Single Malt, neat. The rich, peaty aroma filled the room. Uncle Jay had certainly known how to stock a cabinet.

The first volume felt like a preface, written in Jay's final months. It chronicled how he'd quietly followed Bill through the worst of his troubles—tracking locations, checking on his well-being from afar. Jay admitted he could have stepped in sooner, but that might have done more harm than good. Bill needed to face his demons alone. Reading the words, Bill felt a knot loosen in his chest. Jay offered him a true fresh start now, urging justice over revenge against those who'd betrayed him. The volume was short, almost like a letter from beyond. Bill soon reached for volume two.

This one had more substance. Jay wrote of growing up in North Carolina's Piedmont region during the 1950s and '60s—days filled with fishing the creeks, squirrel hunting in the woods, and the simple rhythm of boyhood chores. He recalled his first trip to a department store, eyes wide at the water cooler marked “Colored.” Young Jay hadn't understood the world beyond play and chores; the only colored water he knew was the grape Kool-Aid his mother occasionally mixed. He'd reached for it eagerly, only to be yanked back by his collar. It took years for the full meaning to sink in, but that single moment, a building block, shaped him more profoundly than earning his first million.

Life hadn't been easy for Jay and Bill's father, but it built character. At eight and nine, the boys worked a neighbor's farm, catching turkeys for artificial insemination of the hens. A dollar an hour bought chewing gum, bubble gum, clothes, and eventually their own haircuts. Jay stashed a quarter from every dollar earned. He always had money—except on haircut Saturdays, when seventy-five cent haircut from a dollar left just enough for five comic books or a bag of hot cashews. Batman, Superman, Green Hornet: you could reread them endlessly, savoring every one. Cashews? Gone in a bite. Unless, of course, you were a student at Pittsboro Elementary.

Bill paused, the stories stirring memories of his own father. He set the diary aside, took a long shower, and changed into boxers and a clean T-shirt. Back in the chair, he sipped the Glenkinchie, the whisky warming him as the pages turned. Eventually, sand gathered in his eyes. He slipped a bookmark with vintage advertisements— one from the box on the shelf—between the pages and headed to bed, the weight of inheritance settling over him like a well-worn quilt.

The next morning, Bill woke to the rich scent of coffee and something savory sizzling. He dressed quickly, made the bed with hospital corners, and followed his nose to the kitchen. Henry stood at the stove, stirring a pot of grits while prepping a cast-iron skillet for eggs.

“I didn’t ask yesterday,” Henry said, glancing up with a small smile. “How do you like your eggs?”

“Over easy, thanks.” Bill poured himself a mug of coffee, the steam rising invitingly.

By the time the plates were ready, Bill's mouth was watering. Henry had outdone himself: thick country ham steaks, creamy grits studded with bits of chopped ham, a square of Queso fresco, fluffy hot biscuits, and a ladle of red-eye gravy. Jars of grape, blackberry, and strawberry jelly sat alongside apple butter on the table. Henry poured large glasses of orange-pineapple juice for them both before sitting.

Bill had enjoyed fine breakfasts before, but this one surpassed them all. He savored every bite, finally mopping the last of the gravy and egg yolk with half a biscuit. “Henry, I can’t remember the last time a breakfast hit me like this. What’s the story with the cheese?”

Henry chuckled. “Mr. Jay picked up a taste for Queso fresco on his trips to Costa Rica. Got me hooked too. Adds that nice touch, doesn’t it?”

“It really does.” Bill refilled his coffee from the carafe. “Say, do you know a reputable custom computer builder in Springfield or Branson? I’d like something built to spec—secure, powerful, up to date.”

“Yes, sir. Mr. Jay stuck with notebooks but had me destroy his and the drives after he passed. Said some knowledge wasn’t meant for others. We can head out as soon as I clean up. Drive takes about an hour, traffic permitting.”

Bill retreated to his suite, brushed his teeth, and swapped his hat for a Bass Pro cap from the closet. Wallet, cards—check. Outside, Henry was pulling a later-model Land Rover Defender 130 from the garage. Bill climbed into the passenger seat, and they rolled out smoothly.

“You’re welcome to drive this anytime,” Henry said. “In fact, it’s yours. GPS is preloaded with home, Walmart, Home Depot, Lowe’s, Grand Village Shops, and some top restaurants in Branson. Just hit the ‘Home’ preset to find your way back.”

Traffic stayed light. They reached Springfield in good time. Henry navigated to Galaxy Custom Computers. A man in his mid-to-late twenties greeted them promptly.

“Hi, I’m Bill Hamner. I need the best custom business rig you can build. No gaming focus. Minimum: three-terabyte main drive, two two-terabyte portables, wireless ergonomic keyboard, wireless trackball mouse, dual forty-inch monitors, Microsoft Business Enterprise, Corel PaintShop Pro, the top HTML editor available, a compiler, and whatever else fits a modern professional setup—emphasis on security and reliability.”

The young man extended a hand. “Billy Simpson. Just wrapped a build that topped PC Magazine’s benchmarks for performance and display.”

“Sounds perfect,” Bill said, reaching for his wallet.

“No payment upfront. Pay when you’re satisfied. I’ve got most parts from building the test unit; accessories will need ordering. Two weeks to assemble, test, and deliver.”

Billy handed over his card. Bill reciprocated with his number. The transaction felt straightforward, a small step toward reclaiming control.

“That was quick,” Bill remarked as he climbed back into the Defender.

“Where to next?” Henry asked.

“New phone. This burner works, but I want something current.”

“We can hit any carrier, but there’s a secured Iridium sat phone at the house—registration scrubbed, repeater for indoor use. Untraceable for sensitive calls.”

“Good to know. For now, let’s grab an iPhone.”

As they drove, Bill gazed out at the passing landscape—rolling hills giving way to the edges of the Ozarks. Uncle Jay’s diaries had opened a window into a world of quiet resilience, the kind of life Bill was determined to build here. The old betrayals still stung, but justice, not vengeance, would guide him. With Henry’s steady presence and tools like this Defender and the coming custom computer, he felt the foundations of a new life solidifying. Self-reliance wasn’t just survival; it was inheritance.

They pulled into a tech retailer a short while later. Bill selected a capable iPhone model, handling the setup with practiced efficiency while Henry waited patiently. The burner could stay as backup. Emerging into the midday sun, Bill slipped the new device into his pocket, its weight a small but tangible upgrade.

“Back home?” Henry asked.

Bill nodded. “Yeah. There’s more reading to do.”

The drive back felt lighter. Volume three waited on the shelf, and with it, more pieces of the man who had quietly prepared this sanctuary. Bill leaned back, letting the Defender’s capable suspension absorb the road. For the first time in years, the future didn’t feel like a trap—it felt like ground from which he could launch a new life.
 
Chapter Five

When they returned home, Bill settled back into the diaries while Henry slipped away to the kitchen. Some time later, the rich aroma of meatloaf pulled Bill from the pages. He glanced at his watch—nearly four hours had passed. His stomach growled in protest. He drained the glass of water beside him, slipped a bookmark into place, and headed for the kitchen.

Henry had already set places at the breakfast table. Bill preferred its cozy intimacy over the formal twelve-seat dining table.

“Smells good, Henry,” Bill said.

“Just a simple supper—meatloaf, green beans, mashed potatoes, and some cheater rolls.”

A pang hit Bill at the word cheater. “What’s a ‘cheater roll’?”

Henry chuckled. “What I call rolls when I don’t have time to do them right. Grab a bag of Sister Schubert’s frozen dinner rolls, and in ten minutes you’ve got decent bread.”

Bill filled the tea glasses with ice and carried the pitcher to the table. Henry plated generous servings and joined him with the basket of warm yeast rolls.

The meal was simple, hearty, and deeply satisfying. Afterward, Bill retrieved the diary and carried it out to the deck overlooking the lake. He still had three good hours of daylight. He picked up where he’d left off and read for another hour before Henry appeared with a glass of whiskey and settled into the adjacent chair.

Bill took a slow sip, savoring the peaty smokiness as he gazed across the water.

“Henry, Uncle Jays diaries are making me see things a lot clearer:

The enduring maxim “freedom isn’t free” captures a profound truth about the human condition. If only people considered how their actions affect others, attitudes might change. Emotions like lust and greed can twist a personality in the snap of a finger. They think they have the freedom to do whatever they want, simply because they want it.

Well, freedom isn’t free. My freedom includes the right to protect myself from the bad intentions of others. Justice may come immediately or late, but as the aggrieved party I have the right to it—measured by the harm done. When I first suspected betrayal, I set certain measures in motion. They would protect me and the company until I chose to pull the plug and slip away into obscurity.

Liberty is not a natural default state but a hard-won achievement, sustained by sacrifice, vigilance, and moral courage. I took over the company from my father with a promise: I would build it further and uphold the quality and pride that defined it. Just as the rights we cherish—speech, assembly, self-determination, and the pursuit of happiness—exist only because generations paid for them in blood, toil, and treasure, my freedom to protect what I built is not erased by someone else’s desire to take more than they earned… or by a willingness to spread their legs and ass cheeks to maintain a certain lifestyle. To treat personal freedom as an entitlement, handed down without cost, is to invite destruction.

Henry sat listening quietly. If a heart could be heard bleeding, this was the sound of the first deep cut.

“History bears witness. Freedom for millions came at an unimaginable price during the Revolution as well as in a civil war later. In the twentieth century, two World Wars and the Cold War tested that resolve again. Yet sacrifice reaches far beyond battlefields. In the shadows of everyday life, people fight for their very existence against those who believe they are entitled to what you have worked and sacrificed for. They lie, cheat, and steal. It is my duty as a lover of freedom to ensure cheaters never win. You beat them like an Arab dog until they quit—leave them standing alone with nothing gained, when they could have had it all with a modicum of loyalty and decency.

My personal freedom required daily investment. I educated myself on every way humans could hurt me, mentally and physically, and built defenses accordingly. The price of attempting injury to me includes being stripped of everything you hold dear. Just as parents should instill responsibility in their children, I see it as my civic duty to teach proper values to those who cross me. And I can be quite… innovative.

On a personal level, freedom demands trade-offs. Yes, I gave up my station as CEO of a great company, but I made sure my employees were taken care of. I surrendered the visible trappings of wealth and returned to basics. I was preparing a new life where I would not depend on others for my happiness. True personal freedom is not a license to act without consequence; it is liberty under morality and conscience.

Ronald Reagan once warned that freedom is “never more than one generation away from extinction.” I learned the hard way that my own freedoms were always one hidden smile or wink away from destruction.

Early on, Uncle Jay instilled in me that freedom isn’t free—though I didn’t grasp the full weight of it then. He planted the seed and let me cultivate it at my own pace. My freedoms were purchased over time by refusing passivity and staying vigilant. To value freedom is to accept its burdens. He prepared me so he could pass on an inheritance worth keeping. I almost feel guilty for it.”

“The guilt they may try to hang around your neck is not yours unless you willingly accept it,” Henry said quietly. “I see no guilt you need to bear.”

Bill closed the diary for a moment, letting the words settle. “Henry, I want to do more cooking around here. I used to be pretty good at it—eager to let the inner chef out. In the morning, I’d like to go through the pantry and see what we have to work with.”

“I think you’ll find more than ample stores,” Henry replied. “Mr. Jay had bursts of interest in many things. He studied how food moved from fields and pens to the table. Even bought a trucking firm out of St. Joseph that hauled produce from California to the East Coast and turned a solid profit. He admired the Mormons for their practice of keeping a year’s supply of food per family and expanded on the idea. He borrowed from survivalists—what they now call ‘preppers’—and built his own comprehensive plan. We could stay out here for well over a year without needing to go into town. The pantry stays stocked, and we have two basement storage rooms, two large freezers, and an extra refrigerator. We even grew vegetables for a time in the old garden plot on the east side of the yard, until Mr. Jay started feeling poorly and couldn’t keep it up. Anyway, the roadside farm stand isn’t far when things are in season.”

The light had grown too dim to continue reading. They went inside. Bill considered another drink but stopped himself. He had come this far without drowning his sorrows, and he wasn’t ready to celebrate what he’d uncovered today. Still, it had been revealing. There was far more to Uncle Jay than he had realized.



The next morning, Henry prepared a breakfast fit for a ranch hand: sawmill gravy thick with smoky bacon, eggs, biscuits, fried cinnamon apples, and a cheesy hashbrown casserole. A large glass of orange-tangerine juice and a steaming mug of coffee waited at Bill’s place.

“This is really good bacon, Henry! I hope we have plenty left.” Bill aid.

Henry grinned. “I’m told people who eat bacon are less likely to blow themselves up in the name of Allah.”

“I’m going to blow up like a beached whale if I keep eating like this,” Bill said with a grin. “I think I’ll saddle Ranger and give him some exercise today.”

“That sounds fine. You need air that hasn’t been filtered through these walls.”

Bill resisted second helpings of the casserole and biscuits with gravy. He pulled on his old, stained cowboy hat, walked to the barn, and saddled the horse. Henry met him outside with a wool blanket, a canteen that had been soaked to keep the water cool, and a handheld GPS unit.

“When you’re ready to head back, just select ‘Barn’ from the presets and it’ll guide you straight here,” Henry said. “Keep the canteen off Ranger’s withers so the water stays cool. It’s good, refreshing water—got a few minerals, but nothing that’ll hurt you.”

“Thanks, Henry.” Bill swung into the stirrup. “I’ll only be gone a couple of hours.”
 
Nice start to a story. I was worried when he accepted the private jet, helicopter without asking. But as we find he had money, understands such things, sounds like he kept substantial funds. It was safe to do it without checking. Likely cost +5x as much waiting extra day, renting suv driving hour himself. *but then paying lawyer his $700 per hour maybe copter cheap?
 
Chapter Six

Bill flipped to the section in the diary where Uncle Jay had written about buying the trucking company. He studied the logistics of bringing goods to people, searching for ways to improve the efficiency of hauling something as simple as a can of beans from Chestnut Hill to Tacoma.

“Chestnut Hill? Why there?” Bill asked Henry.

Henry chuckled. “Chestnut Hill, Tennessee—one of the main plants for Bush Brothers & Company. They can Bush’s Beans, one of Mr. Jay’s favorite foods.”

Bill had already discovered ample stock of every flavor in the pantry and the basement storerooms. Henry hadn’t been exaggerating; they could go weeks without heading into town for food. And Henry had mysteriously hinted that wasn’t all.

Bill decided on country-fried steak after spotting several packs in the freezer. Two pieces each would feed him and Henry tonight, but he planned to fry a full dozen. Cold steak sandwiches were welcome anytime—better with lettuce and tomato. He probably couldn’t match Gladys’s version, Mr. Gaston’s cook, but he’d give it his best shot. He’d pair it with a pack of Bird’s Eye spinach, garlic-parmesan roasted potatoes, and Sister Schubert’s rolls. He’d need to practice making yeast rolls from scratch soon.

As Bill set the cube steaks out to thaw, Henry entered the kitchen. “It’s bread day.”

Bill stepped aside as Henry retrieved a large oblong wooden bowl from the pantry, then a stoneware mixing bowl. Henry added warm water and white sugar into the stoneware bowl, stirring until dissolved, then sprinkled in a packet of active dry yeast. He let it proof until the mixture foamed creamy and active. Next came cooking oil and salt. He reached for the container labeled “Bread Flour” and worked it in one cup at a time—six cups total—until a shaggy dough formed.

Henry dusted the island countertop with flour, dumped the dough out, and kneaded it until smooth and elastic. He oiled another stoneware bowl, placed the dough inside, covered it with a clean dish towel dampened by the faucet sprayer, and set it aside.

“How long do you let it rise?” Bill asked.

“Until it doubles in bulk—about an hour,” Henry replied.

Bill retreated to the office-library and mentally cataloged the shelves. A surprising number of books focused on post-apocalypse preparation and survival fiction. He set a fifty-minute alarm on his phone. When it sounded, he returned to the kitchen.

Henry was greasing two cast-iron bread pans. He punched down the risen dough to release the gases, turned it out onto the floured island, divided it into two equal portions, and shaped each into the pans. With his fingers, he leveled the tops. “Needs to rise about an inch above the rim,” he said, setting a timer for fifteen minutes.

Bill slipped back to the library. When the timer rang, Henry preheated the oven to 350°F. Once hot, he slid the pans inside and baked the loaves until deep golden brown. He repeated the process with two more loaves, this time using Pullman pans for perfectly square sandwich loaves.

Later, Bill conducted a thorough inspection of the pantry and basement storerooms. With everything stocked, there was truly no need to go into town—not even for sour cream. Powdered versions mixed up on demand. Buckets of dry beans stood ready beside containers of all-purpose flour, bread flour, and jars of wheat gluten for fortifying their own mixes. One entire section held nothing but Bush’s Baked Beans: Country Style, Brown Sugar Hickory, Homestyle, Maple and Cured Bacon, Onion, and Bourbon and Brown Sugar. A clipboard labeled “Restock” listed buttermilk powder, whole milk powder, garlic powder, chili powder, salad dressings, paprika, brown sugar, onion powder, vanilla extract, arrowroot, laundry detergent, dish detergent, and Borax.

Upstairs, Bill retrieved the cast-iron chicken fryer and the container of beef tallow. He set those aside, selected potatoes from the vegetable cart, peeled and diced about two pounds’ worth, then tossed the cubes in extra-virgin olive oil with salt, pepper, garlic powder, and grated Parmesan. He spread them on a baking sheet to roast. Turning his attention to the fryer, he melted tallow over medium heat and prepared the coating: flour seasoned with black pepper and garlic salt in one dish, and six eggs beaten with milk for the wash in another.

He dipped each cube steak—flour, egg wash, flour again—then carefully lowered them into the hot tallow. As pieces finished, golden and crisp, he drained them on a rack set over a baking sheet and transferred them to the convection oven to stay warm.

When the potatoes began browning at the edges, Bill stirred them and returned the sheet to the oven. The spinach simmered gently in a pot with a pat of butter and a splash of water. He set six yeast rolls on a baking sheet, ready for the oven once the potatoes came out.

A few of the larger cube steaks took longer, but eventually everything came together. Potatoes went into a serving bowl, rolls slid into the oven, and the steaks joined the warming drawer. Henry wandered in for a glass of water just as Bill announced supper would be ready in about ten minutes.

Henry savored the meal. “I’d be proud to share this kitchen with you anytime, Mr. Bill.” They worked side by side to clean up, then Bill retired to the diary.

The first pages he read that night lingered in his mind:

“The youth of today, assisted by a government trying to control the population, has brought human evolution to a standstill. Instead of perpetuating the species, humans have misdirected their energies toward whatever makes them feel good instead of surviving what nature and mankind throw at us. It started in the 1960s with free love, drugs, the idea you could simply opt out from the hardships that trained and developed human beings in past times. Instead of growing families, we now have on-demand divorces, abortions, and greedy lawyers. We have a generation who believe men can be women and women can be men, but no one can define just what a woman is.

“Result? An entire generation of 18- to 35-year-olds walking around with the energy, libido, hormones, and protective instincts that evolution spent millions of years calibrating for child-rearing and improving their chances of survival—but with zero actual children and energies misdirected. Mankind was erasing itself. There were pockets out there that hadn’t lost their evolutionary instincts, but they were being shouted down by those who thought they knew what was best for everyone. Women’s rights, gender equality, LGBTQ+... There was a time when humans disdained those who refused to breed, and when they did, they selected partners to grow large, strong families. Selecting the same gender for a mate got you instantly ridiculed and, at minimum, driven from the fold. Many times, they were outright killed because they added nothing to humankind but another mouth to feed during times when every scrap of food was needed to sustain those vital to the village. Depositing your seed in a dung heap did nothing to sustain the group.”

Bill sat back and thought about what he had read. If Uncle Jay had felt that way, why hadn’t he ever had a wife or spoken of developing a relationship? When Henry brought his nightly drink, Bill asked, “Henry, did Uncle Jay ever have any love interests?”

Henry set the tray down and eased into a chair. “Yes, as a younger man he did. He was engaged to a bright young lady who volunteered with Doctors Without Borders. She was in Central Africa when she contracted a strange flesh-eating virus. They evacuated her immediately, but she insisted on being used as a study case to help develop a cure. She waited too long. The disease overwhelmed her immune system. Mr. Jay was devastated. That was before you were born. He stayed in business and donated heavily to research grants—both to find a cure and to ensure no other families would suffer the loss he had. I haven’t heard if they ever found a complete cure, but they developed ways to combat the virus and save lives.”

“Life sucks and then you die,” Bill said quietly.

“Yes,” Henry replied, “but there are many good things you can do in between.”

“I suppose so.” Bill paused. “For now, I think I’ll start here with Westhaven.”

“I’ll need to go into town tomorrow to restock a few things for the pantry and basement,” Henry said.

“Branson?”

“I usually buy most of the canned goods at Sam’s Club or Costco in Springfield. Branson doesn’t have either. I do pick up some specialties from the Amish Country Store there.”

“Well, give me a yell when you’re ready. I’ll ride along—might as well get familiar with the area.”
 
ncsfsgm said:
Chapter Five

When they returned home, Bill settled back into the diaries while Henry slipped away to the kitchen. Some time later, the rich aroma of meatloaf pulled Bill from the pages. He glanced at his watch—nearly four hours had passed. His stomach growled in protest. He drained the glass of water beside him, slipped a bookmark into place, and headed for the kitchen.

Henry had already set places at the breakfast table. Bill preferred its cozy intimacy over the formal twelve-seat dining table.

“Smells good, Henry,” Bill said.

“Just a simple supper—meatloaf, green beans, mashed potatoes, and some cheater rolls.”

A pang hit Bill at the word cheater. “What’s a ‘cheater roll’?”

Henry chuckled. “What I call rolls when I don’t have time to do them right. Grab a bag of Sister Schubert’s frozen dinner rolls, and in ten minutes you’ve got decent bread.”

Bill filled the tea glasses with ice and carried the pitcher to the table. Henry plated generous servings and joined him with the basket of warm yeast rolls.

The meal was simple, hearty, and deeply satisfying. Afterward, Bill retrieved the diary and carried it out to the deck overlooking the lake. He still had three good hours of daylight. He picked up where he’d left off and read for another hour before Henry appeared with a glass of whiskey and settled into the adjacent chair.

Bill took a slow sip, savoring the peaty smokiness as he gazed across the water.

“Henry, Uncle Jays diaries are making me see things a lot clearer:

The enduring maxim “freedom isn’t free” captures a profound truth about the human condition. If only people considered how their actions affect others, attitudes might change. Emotions like lust and greed can twist a personality in the snap of a finger. They think they have the freedom to do whatever they want, simply because they want it.

Well, freedom isn’t free. My freedom includes the right to protect myself from the bad intentions of others. Justice may come immediately or late, but as the aggrieved party I have the right to it—measured by the harm done. When I first suspected betrayal, I set certain measures in motion. They would protect me and the company until I chose to pull the plug and slip away into obscurity.

Liberty is not a natural default state but a hard-won achievement, sustained by sacrifice, vigilance, and moral courage. I took over the company from my father with a promise: I would build it further and uphold the quality and pride that defined it. Just as the rights we cherish—speech, assembly, self-determination, and the pursuit of happiness—exist only because generations paid for them in blood, toil, and treasure, my freedom to protect what I built is not erased by someone else’s desire to take more than they earned… or by a willingness to spread their legs and ass cheeks to maintain a certain lifestyle. To treat personal freedom as an entitlement, handed down without cost, is to invite destruction.

Henry sat listening quietly. If a heart could be heard bleeding, this was the sound of the first deep cut.

“History bears witness. Freedom for millions came at an unimaginable price during the Revolution as well as in a civil war later. In the twentieth century, two World Wars and the Cold War tested that resolve again. Yet sacrifice reaches far beyond battlefields. In the shadows of everyday life, people fight for their very existence against those who believe they are entitled to what you have worked and sacrificed for. They lie, cheat, and steal. It is my duty as a lover of freedom to ensure cheaters never win. You beat them like an Arab dog until they quit—leave them standing alone with nothing gained, when they could have had it all with a modicum of loyalty and decency.

My personal freedom required daily investment. I educated myself on every way humans could hurt me, mentally and physically, and built defenses accordingly. The price of attempting injury to me includes being stripped of everything you hold dear. Just as parents should instill responsibility in their children, I see it as my civic duty to teach proper values to those who cross me. And I can be quite… innovative.

On a personal level, freedom demands trade-offs. Yes, I gave up my station as CEO of a great company, but I made sure my employees were taken care of. I surrendered the visible trappings of wealth and returned to basics. I was preparing a new life where I would not depend on others for my happiness. True personal freedom is not a license to act without consequence; it is liberty under morality and conscience.

Ronald Reagan once warned that freedom is “never more than one generation away from extinction.” I learned the hard way that my own freedoms were always one hidden smile or wink away from destruction.

Early on, Uncle Jay instilled in me that freedom isn’t free—though I didn’t grasp the full weight of it then. He planted the seed and let me cultivate it at my own pace. My freedoms were purchased over time by refusing passivity and staying vigilant. To value freedom is to accept its burdens. He prepared me so he could pass on an inheritance worth keeping. I almost feel guilty for it.”

“The guilt they may try to hang around your neck is not yours unless you willingly accept it,” Henry said quietly. “I see no guilt you need to bear.”

Bill closed the diary for a moment, letting the words settle. “Henry, I want to do more cooking around here. I used to be pretty good at it—eager to let the inner chef out. In the morning, I’d like to go through the pantry and see what we have to work with.”

“I think you’ll find more than ample stores,” Henry replied. “Mr. Jay had bursts of interest in many things. He studied how food moved from fields and pens to the table. Even bought a trucking firm out of St. Joseph that hauled produce from California to the East Coast and turned a solid profit. He admired the Mormons for their practice of keeping a year’s supply of food per family and expanded on the idea. He borrowed from survivalists—what they now call ‘preppers’—and built his own comprehensive plan. We could stay out here for well over a year without needing to go into town. The pantry stays stocked, and we have two basement storage rooms, two large freezers, and an extra refrigerator. We even grew vegetables for a time in the old garden plot on the east side of the yard, until Mr. Jay started feeling poorly and couldn’t keep it up. Anyway, the roadside farm stand isn’t far when things are in season.”

The light had grown too dim to continue reading. They went inside. Bill considered another drink but stopped himself. He had come this far without drowning his sorrows, and he wasn’t ready to celebrate what he’d uncovered today. Still, it had been revealing. There was far more to Uncle Jay than he had realized.



The next morning, Henry prepared a breakfast fit for a ranch hand: sawmill gravy thick with smoky bacon, eggs, biscuits, fried cinnamon apples, and a cheesy hashbrown casserole. A large glass of orange-tangerine juice and a steaming mug of coffee waited at Bill’s place.

“This is really good bacon, Henry! I hope we have plenty left.” Bill aid.

Henry grinned. “I’m told people who eat bacon are less likely to blow themselves up in the name of Allah.”

“I’m going to blow up like a beached whale if I keep eating like this,” Bill said with a grin. “I think I’ll saddle Ranger and give him some exercise today.”

“That sounds fine. You need air that hasn’t been filtered through these walls.”

Bill resisted second helpings of the casserole and biscuits with gravy. He pulled on his old, stained cowboy hat, walked to the barn, and saddled the horse. Henry met him outside with a wool blanket, a canteen that had been soaked to keep the water cool, and a handheld GPS unit.

“When you’re ready to head back, just select ‘Barn’ from the presets and it’ll guide you straight here,” Henry said. “Keep the canteen off Ranger’s withers so the water stays cool. It’s good, refreshing water—got a few minerals, but nothing that’ll hurt you.”

“Thanks, Henry.” Bill swung into the stirrup. “I’ll only be gone a couple of hours.”
Click to expand...
"Nothing better for the inside of a man then the outside of a horse." John Wayne You are off to another great start. Thank You.
 
Chapter Seven

The next morning, Bill swapped his boots for comfortable walking shoes. They’d be traipsing through big-box stores all day, and he didn’t need sore feet on top of everything else.

They started at Sam’s Club. Henry parked the Defender and trailer just far enough from the loading zone to avoid the usual chaos. The house account card needed renewing, so Henry added a duplicate for Bill. Inside, they moved methodically down the wide aisles while Henry checked items off his list: stacked cases of canned vegetables, coffee, jars of peanut butter, oversized bottles of spices, toilet paper, paper towels, laundry and dish detergent, and anything else that looked useful. He grabbed a large bundle of dish towels on special. Bill lingered near the hardback books, thumbing through a couple before catching up.

At Costco, Henry selected several bottles of wine—some for drinking, some for cooking—then filled the cooler he’d brought with cans of frozen orange juice concentrate. He added two dozen small cans of strawberry, pineapple, and lime daiquiri mixes for good measure.

With the list complete, they loaded the trailer and headed back toward Branson. Henry still had one more stop: the Amish Country Store. “Not essentials,” he said, “but nice to have around. Keeps morale up.”

From the outside, the store looked plain, almost forgettable. Inside was another world. Bill stepped through the door and felt the shift immediately—the warm scent of spices and wood polish, the quiet hum of conversation, shelves packed with color and craft. Henry would have grabbed his items and left, but Bill had to walk every aisle first, taking it all in. Jellies, jams, pickles, relishes, sauerkraut, every kind of candy imaginable, spices, manual kitchen gadgets, handmade crafts—he wanted to see it all.

Henry followed patiently, a faint grin on his face.

“Well! Hello, Miss Mary!” Henry called as they approached a woman examining galvanized watering cans.

“Mr. Henry, how nice to see you.” Her eyes drifted to Bill.

Her hair was styled in a Dutch braid along the left side of her head, ending in a neat bun. She stood about five-nine, mid-to-late twenties, dressed plainly but with quiet grace.

“Will you be able to come by on your usual day?” Henry asked.

Mary_Brandt_ACS_A.png“Yes, of course. William finished that whirligig for your patio—the man chasing the pig. I think you’ll like it.”

“I’m looking forward to it. Oh, this is Bill Hamner, Mr. Jay’s nephew. He’ll be taking over the place.”

“Mr. Hamner,” Mary said softly, “I’m so sorry for your loss. Mr. Jay was a wonderful man.”

“Thank you, Miss…”

“Mary. You can call me Mary.”

“And you can call me Bill.”

“Are you looking for something specific?” she asked.

“Not really,” Bill admitted. “Maybe some jams and jellies to go with Henry’s biscuits.”

Her face lit up. “Then you must try the blackberry—it’s my favorite. Come, I’ll show you.”

She led him two aisles away and took an 18-ounce jar from the shelf and handed it to him.

Bill studied the simple label, then smiled. “Thank you. I’ll look forward to trying it.”

Mary excused herself a moment later, saying she needed to get home. Bill watched her go, then turned back to the shelves with Henry trailing along, still grinning. “The Italians call it "thunderstruck." Henry thought.



“Who was that?” Bill asked once she was out of earshot.

“Mary Brandt, a local Mennonite widow. She comes by every two weeks to give the house a touch-up.”

“Widow?” Bill’s brow furrowed. “What happened?”

“Her husband was killed on Route 160. A semi crossed the line. They’d only been married a short time—no children. Mr. Jay hired her to clean twice a month after she lost her husband. Mostly dusting, but it gave her some income and helped her through the grief.”

“Who’s William?”

“Her brother. Twelve, almost thirteen. Talented woodcarver.”

“They live near Westhaven?”

“A couple miles out.”

Bill continued down the aisles, adding a few jars and small gadgets to his basket. Henry picked up apple butter and a large bag of arrowroot powder. Bill paid, and they headed back to Westhaven.

“When will she be back?” Bill asked casually as they drove.

“You mean Mary?” Henry’s smirk returned. “First and third Wednesdays of the month.”

They unloaded the trailer and restocked the pantry and freezer. While Henry fried pork tenderloin and fries for supper sandwiches, Bill stepped onto the deck with a book, trying to let the day settle.

Later that evening, after they’d eaten, Bill opened the second envelope from Everette. Inside was a smaller one containing the combinations to two safes he hadn’t yet touched. Jay’s letter had stressed using the exact sequence.

Henry led him to the office. He swung aside a portrait of John Wayne, revealing a recess in the bookcase wall. The first safe—about three cubic feet—opened to reveal neat stacks of strapped U.S. currency, rolls of gold coins in various denominations, and bars of gold, silver, platinum, and palladium. Bill counted carefully and noted everything down. The cash alone totaled $175,000. His hands shook as he closed the door.

He found Henry in the kitchen. “You need to see this.”

Henry listened as Bill described the contents, then nodded. “Mr. Jay wanted you to have a fallback if the banks ever failed. Those safes are something else. If the house catches fire, they drop down a chute and get buried under six feet of soil. Keeps the metals from melting together. Jay saw a man’s coin collection ruined by heat once—worthless after.”

Bill exhaled. “I haven’t opened the second one yet. Need a minute to calm down.”

“I’ll bring you a drink.”

Bill stepped back onto the deck, staring out into the gathering dark. “This is insane,” he muttered.

Henry joined him a moment later, handing over the glass. They sat in companionable silence for a while.

“Are there many Mennonites around here?” Bill asked eventually.

“Quite a few. They came down from Saskatchewan, Canada, around the turn of the twentieth century. Mostly farmers at first, but many have moved into trades. They’ve blended in well—good people, strong community.”

Bill nodded, thinking of the store. “I enjoyed that place today. Could’ve spent hours there. Feels like there’s a lot I didn’t even know I needed.”

Henry just grinned and took another sip of his drink.
 
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