Story The Nomad

Chapter One Hundred-One

Percy trimmed the side of bacon straight, reserving the scraps in a separate container. Using a stainless-steel straightedge, he cut a dozen quarter-inch-thick slices and laid them neatly in his bacon bin. He carried both containers back to the kitchen and stowed them in the pantry closet. Returning to the cellar, he loaded a box with canned goods to restock his shelves. Taking inventory of his underground stores, Percy realized another bad weather spell could hit anytime. He needed more potatoes, buckwheat flour for occasional pancakes, and those packs of dried blueberries from Walmart. He jotted a list to carry him through February, then stepped out for coffee.

He settled on the porch to refine the list. The day was sunny but crisp, hovering around 45°F. From now until spring, the weather could swing wildly. Best to get this done as soon as possible. He decided to head into town first thing in the morning and take whatever time was needed. The rest of the morning passed with him adding to the list, occasionally ducking back into the cellar to double-check supplies.

Martin watched the builders hauling away most of the heavy equipment. The cabins were fully erected; only interior finish work remained. Trucks had delivered cabinets, appliances, and electrical gear. Solar installers had been busy since the first cabin was dried in, and vertical wind turbines now stood quietly near each site—far less noisy than the old horizontal ones Martin knew. He'd spoken with the foreman, who later dropped off brochures on turbine options. Martin was tempted to replace the whining unit behind his own house for something quieter.

Emelda and Otis were already in the storage bunkers, assembling boxes of staples for each cabin. The supplies would be ready when the first residents arrived. From what Martin had seen, the furniture looked like it came from a motel supplier—new, functional, and plainly styled. As long as it was comfortable, appearances hardly mattered.

Dale prepped the house for winter. The roofers finished flashing around the chimney and laid the last sheets of metal roofing on the new addition. It expanded the family room and added a walk-in pantry off the kitchen. Conversations with neighbors, plus the recent ice storm, had convinced him they needed more food storage. Sarah already had a running list of items and quantities to stock in case shopping became impossible for weeks. The addition also accommodated an upright freezer and extra refrigerator to supplement their existing chest freezer and fridge. Sarah had taken to calling it the "larder" lately, a term she'd picked up somewhere and preferred over "pantry." Dale had insulated the walls and added vents to draw in cool air during fall and winter, with a split system for summer cooling. Larder it was.

Dale called Jack to mention his planned Saturday trip to Knoxville for supplies. Jack said he'd stop by tomorrow with a list and cash—he'd intended to go himself but could use the saved time for other preparations. That evening, Jack sharpened his chainsaw blade, prepped spare chains, and honed the axe with a stone. He had plenty of deadfall to gather for the woodshed.

Ciara finished Mrs. Holston's painting and carried it over. After several minutes of knocking with no answer, she checked—the car sat under the carport. Mrs. Holston must have gone into town early with friends, maybe skipping her usual Thursday lunch outing. Ciara left the painting by the door and returned to her garage apartment. She called Martin and decided to head over for a visit.

Meanwhile, far from the Tennessee hills, another Dale—Dale Watson—faced a different storm. He tapped his pen angrily on the conference table as he and his accountant reviewed the books. Property taxes were rising sharply after a new valuation, and he wouldn't have enough to cover them next year. His ancestral land, settled by New York farmers in the 1850s, had shifted from failed crops to cattle ranching. They'd thrived by replanting prairie grasses after the buffalo vanished, expanding to over 6,000 acres of pasture by the time his parents passed. Dale trusted his ranch manager fully and rarely visited, but the income had been steady.

Now, local politicians colluded with developers to force him out, with backroom deals and rising assessments. His ex-father-in-law sat on the county board, and after the messy divorce—complicated by Marsha's secret withdrawals and affair with a young banker—Dale suspected the marriage itself had been a long con for land access.

He decided to sell, but not to speculators. He'd find a buyer who shared his vision of preserving the land. Listing on Landwatch, United Country Real Estate, and Land.net, he highlighted the prairie grass's suitability for bison. Interest came quickly, including from a rising Nashville country music star eager to start a bison ranch. After a site visit and negotiations, they settled at $3,300 per acre. With no liens, the sale closed swiftly; the new owner would take possession in sixty days.

Dale used the cash to buy a fifth-wheel RV trailer in Omaha, plus a loaded GMC Sierra 3500 HD pickup—overkill for the trailer's tongue weight under 4,000 pounds, but his first new truck ever. The dealership added a gooseneck-to-fifth-wheel adapter. He arranged movers for the house and began browsing real estate sites for a new start outside Nebraska.

A Missouri farm didn't pan out, but a Tennessee listing on United Country caught his eye. He flew to Knoxville, rented an SUV, and met the realtor in Livingston. The farm exceeded expectations: the previous owner had raised Red Angus, built his own abattoir, and sold custom meat packages plus tanned hides. It included a dry-ice machine and flash freezer—perfect for future bison plans. Dale could start with a 300-head herd, rotating pastures sustainably. He'd dreamed of something similar in Nebraska but lacked the funds to fight the locals and stock bison.

A veterinary clinic stood just a quarter-mile down the road, and Livingston—six miles away—was a tidy town with diners, groceries, and a farm store. Dale's heart raced; this felt right. He planned to submit an offer the next morning.

Stopping the SUV on a ridgeline overlook, he leaned against the fender and watched the sunset paint the valley red and gold. A quiet certainty settled over him. This was where he belonged. Here, he'd build something enduring—far from the greed that had tried to claim his past.
 
Chapter One Hundred-Two

It was another day before the County Sheriff’s Department was called for a health and welfare check on Mrs. Holston. The female deputy found her still in bed. An ambulance and coroner were summoned, and her body was taken to the county morgue.

Ciara was working when Mrs. Holston’s body was discovered. A detective stopped by the diner to speak with her. Of course, Ciara was upset, and the café owner let her take the rest of the day off. Ciara called Martin as soon as she could, and he drove into town to support her.

Mrs. Holston’s house and property were being treated as an active crime scene, so Ciara was given permission to move some of her possessions and temporarily stay elsewhere—but her car had to remain behind. Martin helped her relocate to Flatboat Landing. For decorum, he put her in a guest room with plenty of space for her art supplies.

Ciara was still unnerved, so Martin settled her in a chair in the family room, propped her feet on an ottoman, and fed her hot rum toddies. She finally dozed off. While she napped, Martin prepared a Shepherd’s Pie—comfort food that wouldn’t hurt at a time like this. He even had some ground lamb to use in it.

The morning sunlight crept through the motel room curtains, painting the walls in muted gold. Dale’s body ached from tossing and turning all night, his sleep disturbed by dreams of men and families moving west in wagons to start new lives. Now the tables had turned—he was moving back east to seek his fortune.

It was a dark and dreary day as Dale headed to McGhee Tyson Airport outside Knoxville. Papers had been signed, money transferred, and he continued preparing for his new life in the Volunteer State. After checking his bag, he settled at a Ruby Tuesday in the terminal, planning on his iPad while waiting for his flight to Denver.

There wasn’t much left to arrange back in Nebraska except for the initial shipment of bison—that would take only a phone call. Buck and his sons were already checking and strengthening fences and adding more cross-fencing. The real problem was the huge winter storm moving across the United States, threatening flight delays and cancellations. Dale could only hope and pray it passed quickly.

He’d received an email that his truck and RV trailer were ready for pickup, so he was working on a packing list. His drive back to Tennessee remained uncertain because of the storm. He jotted a note to himself: pick up tire chains and plenty of windshield washer de-icer.

Dale glanced at an airport information board—outside temperature 47°F. Not bad for the area, but his weather app showed Omaha at 25°F with a wind chill of 15°F. Not promising for incoming flights.



Duncan chatted with the deliveryman while the propane tanks were filled.

“I’m glad you came out,” Duncan said. “Looks like we may be in for another rough spell of weather.”

“Yessir. Mrs. Emory greeted me with a list of customers this morning and told me to check on y’all. She stays ahead of things like that. Even with bad weather, this should keep you supplied well into the next two months. You use propane for heating too?”

“Mostly for cooking and water heating. We use wood for heat.”

“Yeah, nothing like a nice wood fire in the evening.”

The deliveryman finished topping off the tanks, handed Duncan a printed receipt, and headed down to the Harringtons’.



Bob pulled the lever, and the hydraulic lines vibrated as the block of wood was pushed into the blade, splitting it into four pieces. His nephew Bobby grabbed the pieces and stacked them on the cart while Bob loaded another round. For the last few, Bob split them as small as possible; then he and Bobby used a hatchet and froe to make even finer kindling. They used the trailer to fill the wood racks on the porches of the Doyles’ and the Andersons’. Bobby went ahead and stocked the wood boxes inside the houses.

With nothing left to split in the woodshed, Bob unhitched the splitter from the tractor, set it up on wooden blocks in the equipment shelter, refueled the tractor, and plugged in the block heater.

Dale’s mind drifted back to his college days at Texas A&M. There had been times when he was headed home on breaks and winter storms made it iffy whether he’d make it. He always had. His thoughts then turned to his great-uncle Dan, who’d served with the 1st Special Service Force during World War II and influenced Dale to join the Green Berets when he decided to serve his country.

Blakesley, Smith, Homan, Daniels, Marks, Jones, Davis, Kailua, and Hadley—all good men to serve with. Some hadn’t made it through. Jones had met and married a cute Welsh girl who could pass for Catherine Zeta-Jones’s sister; they now had a cottage between Trawsfynydd and Snowdonia in Wales. Daniels was still working at Harvey Point, Kailua was back in Hawaii, Homan was a GS-12 training ISA agents, and Blakesley and Davis had died of the big “C.” The angels sang Hadley a whiskey lullaby. Marks had vanished off the radar.

There were a couple of delays, but Dale made it back to Omaha. It felt good not having to check in with anyone about his plans—and sad, too. Whenever he traveled, he used to keep Deborah informed of his ETAs and such. On the other hand, it probably just gave her enough information to plan spreading her legs for someone else.

After arriving, Dale called the Chevy dealership to arrange pickup of the truck the next morning, then phoned the RV dealership to say he’d collect the trailer the following day.

The next morning, Dale admired the pickup as they pulled it in front of the dealership. When they handed him the keys, he checked the fuel gauge—full—then looked under the seats and did a walk-around, inspecting wheel wells and bumpers for trackers or explosive devices. The manager, looking confused, asked what he was searching for. Dale grinned sheepishly. “Sorry, old habits die hard.”

After the manager handed him a debit card with enough funds to fill the tank again, Dale drove to the RV dealership. They had a V-shaped guide-on that bolted to the hitch for autonomous hook-up. He paid cash, had them install it, backed the truck up, and hitched the trailer without issue. After checking the lights, he gathered the cups and hats they’d given him and stowed them in the trailer. He’d do a full security sweep of the trailer later with his detector—but it only picked up ten gigahertz, so he decided to stop in Memphis and have a friend run a thorough check.

His first stop was a bike store, where he picked up two Mokwheel Obsidian Power Station E-Bikes with trailers to store in the toy garage. Passing a Bass Pro, he pulled in to buy winter clothing and anything else useful for the drive to Tennessee.

He started with driving boots, then insulated rubber boots for roadside emergencies, followed by base layers and outerwear. In the camping section, he grabbed a couple of cases of Mountain House meals in case he got stranded, a Cast-Iron 5-Piece Starter Set (his own cast iron was packed in household goods headed to Tennessee), a Cast-Iron Deep Skillet with Lid, a cast iron cookware cleaning kit, an Enamelware 6-Cup Percolator, and stainless-steel cutlery. He also added a quilt and a couple of blankets—he liked sleeping warm but was hesitant to run the propane furnace overnight, so he’d gone with hydronic heating. Still, he’d install carbon monoxide detectors because of the Onan generator.



Alex Field dressed the deer and loaded it onto the back of the ATV, tying it down with ¼-inch rope shanks. Back at the barn, Hank and AnnaMarie waited with pans and knives to finish butchering.

As soon as he’d bled the deer out, Alex had radioed AnnaMarie so she could get things ready. With Hank helping, they soon had the hide off and the deer quartered. Hank kept the hide for tanning. They loaded the pans of meat into the back of Alex’s truck, and he and AnnaMarie took it to the house to finish packaging. AnnaMarie set aside the backstrap to cook for supper.

She already had the kitchen scales, vacuum sealer, bags, and paper towels out. Alex washed the meat, let it drain, patted it dry with paper towels. AnnaMarie packed it by weight and vacuum-sealed portions for freezing. Alex sorted pieces for the meat grinder and cut roasts into other pans. Hank, after stretching the hide on a drying frame and salting it, arrived to help.

“I don’t think this was the biggest buck in the area,” Hank said.

“No,” Alex replied. “I selected one of the smaller bucks this time.”
 
Chapter One Hundred-Three

Not seeing anything else that caught his eye, Dale checked out and headed back to what passed for home in Nebraska these days. A light, powdery snow drifted down as he drove southwest on I-80. Before leaving the Omaha area, he stopped at a Hy-Vee for groceries to tide him over. The house was empty, so he'd likely sleep in the RV trailer tonight.

He loaded the cart with eggs, coffee, oatmeal, bread, canned beans, bacon, hash browns, bananas, apples, grapes, and sandwich fixings. In housewares, he grabbed two carbon monoxide detectors, cleaning supplies, a mop, broom, and dustpan. Thinking ahead to winter, he added a gallon jug of clumping cat litter for traction. After stowing everything in the trailer, he pressed on toward the ranch.

In Kearney, he stopped at an auto parts store and picked up tire chains, a snow brush with integrated scraper, a magnetic windshield cover, booster cables, windshield de-icer, a pack of foldable warning triangles, a 250-piece first-aid kit, and deer whistles.

At the ranch, Dale maneuvered the trailer near the barn to turn around, then ran a heavy-duty extension cord from the mechanical shop to power it. He was still paying for the damn electricity, after all. Later, if he needed full power, he'd switch to the 6kW Onan generator. He set a pot of beans to simmer, watched satellite TV for a bit, then did some online research. Snow continued lightly through the day but blew away without sticking.

That evening, Dale called and arranged his first shipment: twelve Plains bison to arrive in about six weeks. That would give time to finish any fence work.

Dale cooked breakfast, cleaned up, and hit the road. He planned a relaxed drive to Livingston, Tennessee—around 980 miles—breaking it into three or four days depending on weather. The recent storm had passed, leaving clear roads for now, though he kept an eye on forecasts for anything brewing farther north heading his way.

The morning was crisp with the Platte River valley stretching flat and golden under the wide sky. Again, Dale checked the trailer hook up—double-checked the hitch, lights, brakes, and tire pressures, then eased onto I-80 eastbound. The trailer tracked smoothly behind as he rolled past cornfields and the occasional grain elevator, the Great Plains unfolding in their quiet, expansive way. With a self-imposed limit of 500 miles a day, Dale planned a relaxed pace, mindful of the extra weight that means slower acceleration, longer braking distances, and a preference for major interstates over winding backroads.

Day 1 took him across Nebraska and deep into Missouri. I-80 carried him past Grand Island and Lincoln, then he dropped south onto I-29 toward Kansas City after crossing into Iowa briefly. The highway was truck-friendly, with plenty of rest areas and truck stops for easy pull-through parking. He had covered roughly 450–480 miles, settling for the night at a campground near the rolling hills around Lee’s Summit. The evening brought the smell of grilled supper outside the trailer, the hum of the interstate fading as crickets took over.

Day 2 started with the familiar urban hum of Kansas City traffic—nothing too stressful on the interstates, but he stayed vigilant for merging semis. Dale picked up I-70 east briefly, then angled southeast onto I-49 south toward Joplin, Missouri, before transitioning to I-44 east through the Ozarks. The Missouri countryside shifted from open farmland to wooded hills, the trailer swaying gently on the occasional curve. Fuel and lunch stops are straightforward at the big travel plazas. By late afternoon, after about 400–450 miles, he reached a campground near Springfield, Missouri, where the Ozark scenery feels like a reward—rolling ridges, and cooler evening air.

Day 3 brought the push into Tennessee. From the Branson/Springfield area, he headed southeast on US-65 south toward Harrison, Arkansas then on to interstates I-44 to I-55 south briefly, then east on I-40 through Memphis. The mighty Mississippi River crossing on I-40 felt monumental, the trailer rumbling over the bridge as the city skyline rises. Traffic thickened here, but it's manageable; he just kept right and steady.

East of Memphis, I-40 became his companion through Jackson and Nashville. The landscape flattened into fertile Tennessee farmland, then gently rolled as he approached the Cumberland Plateau. With Nashville's bustle ahead, he skirted the city via the interstate loop. By evening, after another 400–480 miles, he exited I-40 near Cookeville, then headed north on TN-111 toward Livingston. The final stretch wound through wooded hills and small communities—he was careful on the downgrades with the trailer, using low gear and engine braking. As he neared Livingston, he turned off onto TN-84 South and soon came to the Ranch gate.

He called Buck, the Ranch Manager, and told him he was at the gate.

"Good. I'll be right down and lead you to the RV pad near the main house," Buck replied.

When Dale arrived, not only Buck but his sons, Earl and Boone, waited by the pad.

“What are your orders, Boss Man?” Earl asked once the trailer was parked.

Dale pointed at Buck. “You take your orders from him. I’m not changing how y’all work around here—just adding four-legged occupants. I’ll go through Buck until I learn the routine.”

“Are you sleeping in the house tonight?” Buck asked.

“Not yet. There’re some renovations I want done first. I’ll wait until they’re finished.” Dale paused. “We’ll receive the first load of bison in about a month.”

Buck nodded. “Fences are checked. We’re cutting more eight-by-eight posts at the sawmill to reinforce a few spots.”

“I didn’t see a sawmill here before,” Dale said.

“It’s back in the grove we log. Guess I missed showing you.”

“I’d like to take a look.”

“Get settled, catch your breath. I’ll show you in the morning.”

“Sounds good. It was a tiring drive.”

Buck and his sons drove off in the Ranger UTV. Dale stood and scanned the ridgelines ringing the valley. Already, it felt like home.

Meanwhile, back north of Livingston, Alex mixed jerky seasoning into the ground meat, covered the pans with plastic wrap, and slid them into the spare fridge to chill overnight.

Hank came down early the next morning and joined them for breakfast.

“Got the smoker going,” Hank said. “Good supply of oak and hickory chips soaking in Wild Turkey and apple juice.”

“You didn’t drink any, did you!?” AnnaMarie asked sharply.

“Well, I had to make sure the apple juice hadn’t turned,” Hank replied with a sheepish grin.

“I’ve got the press washed and ready,” AnnaMarie said.

“Now, what’s this about a press?” Alex asked.

“Uncle Hank uses it for jerky coins,” AnnaMarie explained. “You take a golf-ball-sized lump of meat and press it out.”

“I built the press from a bottle capper and a ring the size of a #3 can,” Hank added. “The capper has a forged metal plate that presses the meat into a thin three-inch coin. After smoking, they’re about two-and-a-quarter inches across—easy to chew and perfect for a vest pocket. Been making ’em for thirty years.”

“How do you hang them?” Alex asked.

“You don’t. Lay ’em on wire-mesh shelves in the smoker so smoke circulates all around. I only hang sausages so the fat drips out the end.”

They spent the morning pressing and smoking jerky coins. Hank timed them until the pork fat melted and pooled on top, then flipped for the same duration. The coins came out pliable, lightly smoky, and addictive.

While Alex finished the last batch, Hank fetched his buck. He wanted only roasts and ground venison, so they quickly field-dressed it, cut out the roasts and backstrap, and ground the rest with pork fat. The next day went to sausages and more jerky coins.

Down the road, Jacob put finishing touches on a mobile woodshed for an elderly Amish couple as Duncan drove up.

“What’s this?” Duncan asked.

“Mr. Dietz at the Amish store commissioned it,” Jacob said. “Portable woodshed on an axle from a scrapped travel trailer. The couple’s getting on in years—one of the community members can hitch a two-horse team, pull it to the main woodshed, load it, and park it near their kitchen door. Saves hauling wood far.”

“That’s thoughtful. What’s it cost?”

“Nothing. I met the couple when I lived nearby. They’re good people. Happy to help.”

Duncan chuckled. “Next thing, you’ll be in a straw hat and suspenders. You’ve got a good heart.”

“Never hurts to be kind.”

“When it’s loaded on your trailer, bring it down. We’ll fill it with their first load of firewood, drop it at the store—free advertising.”

“I’ll do that and call Mr. Dietz.
 
Chapter One Hundred-Four

Copeland Creek Bison Ranch, Overton County, Tennessee — Thursday, November 25th, 2020

Dale opened a pint carton of Egg Beaters and poured a third into the bacon grease sizzling in the pan. He checked the oven—the biscuits were browning nicely. Sliding the frying pan off the burner, he scraped the eggs onto his plate, then pulled the sheet of biscuits out, broke off a couple, and slid the rest back into the cooling oven.

At the breakfast booth, he split the biscuits, smeared them with butter and a dab of grape jelly, and pressed them back together. He blew on his coffee, took a sip, and started eating while tuning the radio on the shelf to the local station. The weather sounded promising: chilly but clear, no snow or ice in the forecast. He finished with a five-ounce glass of apple juice.

He’d called a home renovation specialist—advertised as such, anyway—and they were due at ten Monday morning. Dale walked through the house, refreshing his mental list of repairs and upgrades he wanted done.

A vehicle crunched up the drive. It was Buck.

“I hope you didn’t eat a big breakfast,” Buck called as he climbed out. “May sent me to drag you over for Thanksgiving dinner with us.”

“Thanksgiving?” Dale frowned, glancing at his watch.

“Yep. Fourth Thursday in November, every year!” Buck grinned.

Dale shook his head. “Lost track. Let me throw on a better shirt and change boots. I’ll be right out.”

He changed quickly and slid into Buck’s truck.

“You really forget what day it was?” Buck asked, pulling away.

“Yeah. Got a lot on my mind.”

“Well, you can’t run balls-to-the-wall forever. Take a breather once in a while. Find yourself a good woman—get your ashes hauled.”

Dale chuckled. “Not high on the agenda anytime soon.”

“Don’t knock it. Does a man good. There’s always a willing woman around, long as you ain’t into counting teeth.”

Dale laughed and gazed out at the cross-fencing in the lower pastures.

“How much more needs doing?”

“Four more pastures we can divide, not counting the hay fields. We’ll turn the first load of bison into one soon, then rotate them in a couple weeks. Turns out rotational grazing and regenerative practices actually work.”

Meanwhile, down at the lake, Gene and Bob showed Bobby how to tie evenly spaced snoods, weights, and hooks onto a 150-foot nylon rope for a trotline. Bobby wanted to set one to supplement their food supply. Neither Gene nor Bob loved catfish much, but smoked, they weren’t bad—especially in tacos or stews.

Bobby got the idea after a couple of hens died and weren’t fit to eat. He’d sunk them in a gunny sack by the boat ramp as bait, but all he hooked were carp. The only way carp tasted decent was baked on a fresh pine board, basted in vinegar—then you tossed the fish and ate the board.

Gene bought Bobby a skiff with a 10-hp Honda outboard (and charging system for the Minn Kota trolling motor). They rigged two trotlines, followed Bobby out, and watched him set them in a narrow cove and at a creek mouth. He left them overnight. The next morning, Gene went along as Bobby pulled them in. Anything under twelve inches went back; still, he landed more than they could handle at once.

They skinned catfish until dark, then bagged the rest and left them in the lake overnight (hoping no turtles found them). Later, Gene and Bob built a wire-cloth cage to hold live fish. They filleted most, but pressure-cooked some until the bones softened for stew, then canned it. They kept going until Bob called a halt—vegetables were running low. They had plenty of stew now; neighbors got jars, and Duke could polish off a quart solo.

Martin sensed Ciara stirring in his mind before she appeared. He sat on the deck until she came out with coffee and joined him in the early sun.

“It’s a beautiful day,” she said.

“Indeed. When do you want to start moving your things?”

“After lunch is fine. I don’t have much.”

After Mrs. Holston’s passing, the property was tied up in probate, forcing Ciara to vacate her apartment. Martin offered his big guest bedroom; she accepted immediately. She’d been packing into U-Haul boxes—mostly collected items and art supplies. Her most prized possession was an accordion folder with all her up-to-date records for U.S. citizenship. She was working with a Knoxville immigration lawyer (fifty-two years’ experience) on the process. To bolster her job history for the paperwork, George had hired her as a Data Input Specialist to maintain bunker inventories.

Dale Brighton was proud of his son Andy. The boy had been depressed after their move to the western Cumberland Plateau, but he’d grown stronger, developing a keen interest in the land. His friendship with Otis Edison and the old mountain sage Percy Wilkerson helped. Andy often hiked hours to visit them—after chores, of course. Dale finally bought him a street-ready Rokon trail bike with a one-wheel trailer.

Andy rarely played video games anymore. Instead, he gave himself two or three hours each night reading about off-grid living and survival. He’d decided against traditional college, opting for relevant community-college courses and online ones from UT. He took a part-time job at an auto-parts store—better pay than Walmart—and had pocket money now. Dale had finished solar and wind upgrades on their home; they were building food storage bit by bit. Andy advised them on it, always returning from Jamestown with new additions to the pantry.

Up on the mountain, Percy had finished his spring planting. He loved fresh tomatoes and kept several plants near the house and woodshed for maximum sun. His method: dig a hole two-and-a-half to three feet deep, fill with fresh leaf mold, then plant. He did the same for potatoes and onions. Rows of collards and a patch of mustard greens grew in an open spot near the cabin. Wild garlic, dug from around the garage building, flavored his meals. He could transplant some upslope, but it was plentiful down by the garage—easy to spot summer or winter.
 
Chapter One Hundred-Five

Copeland Creek Bison Ranch, Overton County, Tennessee — Monday, November 30th, 2020

At 10:00 a.m., a white pickup truck rolled up the drive. A man and a woman stepped out. The man introduced himself as Brandon Cobb, and the woman as Aaliyah Bennett, the owner of the company. Dale’s appreciation for her spiked immediately—she carried herself with quiet confidence.

He walked them through the house, outlining his vision: a large chef’s kitchen, a spacious pantry, and an open floor plan on the lower level to keep things simple and flowing.

“Do you like to cook, Mr. Watson?” Ms. Bennett asked.

“I’m getting into it,” Dale replied. “I’m experimenting with Asian dishes right now, but my roots are mid-American country cuisine.”

She chuckled while Brandon inspected the walls for load-bearing structures. He identified one that would need replacing with a steel beam. After a quick discussion with his boss, Ms. Bennett turned back to Dale.

“Any other changes you’re considering?”

“Yes—if possible, extend the front porch around the other two sides of the house, with a doorway from the primary bedroom onto it.”

“We can handle that,” she said. “I’d like to start tomorrow if that works for you. I like keeping my crew busy.”

“By all means. Just keep me updated on the timeline. I’ve got furniture shipping from Nebraska, and I don’t want it sitting around.”

“How long will shipping take?”

“About three days, they said.”

“I’ll keep you in the loop so you can coordinate. Anything needed on the outbuildings?”

“No—the outbuildings just need a few boards replaced, which I can manage. There’s one storage building full of old furniture I need to clear out. Any recommendations for secondhand shops to take it off my hands?”

Ms. Bennett’s eyes lit up. “I know just the person. Mind if she comes by to look at the contents?”

“I’d appreciate it. I could use the space.”

“I’ll bring her this afternoon. I’ll call first.”

“Perfect. Thank you.”

After they left, Dale tackled his list: order vehicle decals from a local sign maker, then visit the veterinary clinic to introduce himself.

The sign shop was efficient. The graphics artist mocked up a logo on the spot—a wagon wheel with a bison head centered, “Copeland Creek Bison Ranch” arcing around the perimeter. Dale approved the colors and ordered two dozen door decals plus smaller ones for equipment.

At the vet clinic, the parking lot held only a couple of cars. The receptionist, nametag reading “Moran,” greeted him and fetched the vet after a brief wait.

A tall, Nordic-featured woman emerged. “Hello, I’m Callie Marshall.”

“Dale Watson, pleased to meet you. I’m the new owner of Copeland Creek Bison Ranch.”

Callie’s left eyebrow arched. “Bison?”

She was big-boned in the athletic sense—six feet tall, two inches shorter than Dale, with a strong, capable build honed from college volleyball and lacrosse before vet school took over. That strength served her well with large animals.

“I just wanted to let you know I’ll provide vaccination certificates when the first load arrives next week. They’ve already been vaccinated against brucellosis, which I figure is your main concern.”

“That’s definitely top of the list,” Callie said. “Mind if I come out when they arrive and draw blood for my own tests?”

“Please do. You’re welcome anytime at the ranch.”

The visit was cordial. Dale headed back, found Buck, and rode with him in the Polaris Ranger to the sawmill where Buck’s sons and some temporary hands were milling fence posts.

“What wood is this?” Dale asked.

“Paulownia elongata,” Buck replied.

“Paulownia? Never heard of it.”

Buck rubbed his chin. “It was brought over from Asia as an ornamental. Grows fast—we can harvest a tree for four-by-fours in about six years. We’ve been cutting six-by-sixes and eight-by-eights for the bison pens. Someone planted a grove here, maybe without realizing how well it’d thrive. It’s not considered invasive like its cousin, but we keep it culled and contained. Cut one down, and it sprouts right back—another harvest in six years or so, depending on size.”

“Interesting. Hardwood?”

“Yep. Rot-resistant, though not fully insect-proof. We coat the post bottoms with roofing tar. Some around here are over fifteen years old. The Carlsons also started a blight-resistant chestnut grove a couple years back, but those aren’t harvestable yet.”

“How many Rangers do you have?”

“Six total. Yours is in the garage at the house.”

“I’m not sure how the bison will react to them. I wouldn’t want to tangle with a bull in one. A good cutting horse might be better.”

“We’ve got six trained cutting horses if needed. Earl’s been keeping them at his place. I can round up more.”

“Good to know. The first load off bison should be fine—they’re used to Gators at the source ranch. It’s future loads from other places I’m concerned about.”

“Speaking of bison, the vet wants to draw blood samples on arrival. Do we have chutes to do that?”

“We’ve got crusher chutes that should work—they’ve handled big bulls before.” Buck replied.

Dale spent the afternoon poking through outbuildings near the house. The garage held a Ranger with room for his truck and another vehicle. A smaller building surprised him: inside sat a golf-cart-sized rig hooked to a solar charger, towing a trailer with a 7 HP gasoline-powered water pump. Closer inspection revealed it as a high-performance portable home wildfire firefighting system, vehicle-mounted. That explained the nearby pond—mosquito concerns had nearly led in draining it, but now it made sense as a water source. He’d ask Buck if they’d ever used it.

Dinner was beef tips and rice. Afterward, Dale caught up on emails and scanned bison meat prices.

He was still washing breakfast dishes the next morning when the renovators arrived. Workers unloaded tools as Ms. Bennett approached with another woman.

“Dale, this is Elizabeth Brunel. She owns a shop and wants to see the storage building contents.”

“Ms. Brunel—Liz, if you like—I don’t have time or interest beyond clearing the space. I’ll order a construction dumpster. Take what you want, tally it up, give me a fair price, and cover the dumpster cost.”

“You’d trust me with that?”

“I’m new here. I don’t know who’s trustworthy yet. I’m willing to gamble on your character. If I lose, it’s tuition for learning who to avoid next time.”

She smiled and extended her hand. “Deal, Dale.”

He unlocked the storage building for her. “Dumpster arrives tomorrow morning.”

That evening, near Flatboat Landing, Sarah and Dale Brighton sat on their porch. Dale shared the contents of the interoffice memo about a Quonset hut the Park Service was selling to employees before sending it to public auction—still in original crates, marked for the 343rd AFBU at a WWII training base at what is now Tullahoma Municipal Airport—likely one of the smaller temporary troop huts transferred to other government agencies when the WWII base was closed. It was priced at $250 for staff. He wanted to buy it for Andy to keep him busy over summer.

Sarah agreed it might be perfect. Yard work alone wouldn’t cut it for a teenager with energy to burn.

They went back inside and watched the news for a while. A newsreader was reporting the HMPV virus, was rampant in Northern California — specifically San Francisco, Marin, Vallejo, Napa, Novato, Santa Rosa, Sacramento and Davis areas.

“That isn’t far from where we lived.” She said.

“Yeah, it’s almost biblical. That area had already been destroyed by the Democrat politicians and now maybe it’s time for retribution. The people in that area are doomed. They certainly won’t let them out now without extensive medical testing.”
 
Chapter One Hundred-Six

When Dale returned to the house, a large construction dumpster had already been delivered. Demolition debris was flying into it at a steady clip. He had no interest in watching the destruction, only in the finished result. He slipped into his trailer, poured another mug of coffee, and settled under the awning to think through the long list of things still needing his attention.

He finished the coffee, backed the Ranger out of the garage, and drove up to the sawmill. For the next several hours he lent a hand wherever it was needed—felling and bucking trees large enough to yield six-by-six timbers, then taking his turn spreading thick roofing tar over the milled beams.

By the time he returned to the house, the demolition crew had made serious progress. Aaliyah was still on site, clipboard in hand, checking items off her list.

“Well?” she asked, looking up with a bright smile. “What did you think?”

“Looks like they know what they’re doing,” Dale replied.

“No, not the house—Elizabeth! Didn’t you recognize her?”

Dale shrugged. “No. If you’ve seen one beautiful woman, you’ve pretty much seen them all.”

Aaliyah’s eyes widened. “She starred for six years in the sitcom Betty of the Bayou.”

“I don’t watch much TV, so…”

“Do you think all pretty women are the same?”

“Initially, yeah. The glow of a fire is nice to look at, but get too close and it’ll burn you.”

Aaliyah tilted her head. “Do you think I’m pretty?”

“That’s a loaded question,” Dale said carefully. “I wouldn’t want to cheapen you by praising your beauty over your intellect—especially since I don’t know you all that well yet.”

“Nice save.” She smiled. “So… you do think I’m pretty?”

“Yes,” he admitted. “I think you’re quite attractive. I’m also curious why you don’t have a jealous husband hovering around.”

Aaliyah’s expression softened. “I had a husband once.”

She looked away for a moment, then continued. “My family traces back to the Bendahara dynasty—the current ruling houses of Pahang, Terengganu, and Johor in Malaysia. My father arranged a marriage to one of the sons of another sultan. I refused to be handed off like property to a man I’d never met, expected to become the first of his wives and mistress of his harem.”

Dale’s eyebrows shot up. “First wife… and mistress of his harem?”

“Oh yes. Influential men can have up to four wives plus a harem. My father blamed my UCLA education for my ‘rebelliousness.’ I fell in love with a fellow student, David Bennett. We were married for a short time, but he died under mysterious circumstances. I suspect foul play. After that, I was considered damaged goods—only suitable as a second or third wife. So they left me alone.”

“Jesus Christ,” Dale muttered. “That’s sick.”

Aaliyah gave a small, resigned shrug. “It is what it is.”

“I’m going to need a drink after that story. Care to join me?”

Aaliyah grinned. “I went from Islam to Baptist. I suppose I could try being a backsliding Baptist for an evening.”

Dale led her to his camper, set out an extra camp chair under the awning, and returned with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s #10 and two glasses with ice. He poured three generous fingers into each and handed one to her.

“Here’s to better futures than our pasts,” he said, raising his glass.

Aaliyah took a sip and flinched.

“Want some Coke with that?”

“Please.”

Once she’d topped off her glass, she asked, “Now that you have the CliffsNotes version of my life, what’s yours?”

Dale leaned back. “Grew up on a cattle ranch in Nebraska that had been in my family for seventeen generations. Joined the military at eighteen, did six years, decided the corruption there was no different from the civilian world, and got out. Went to Montana State, got a degree in Animal and Range Sciences, then went back home.”

“That leaves out a lot,” Aaliyah said. “Why are you here instead of Nebraska?”

“When I got back, local politicians decided my land would be better used for subdivisions. I fought them for a while, but then I met a local girl and got married. Turns out her father was one of the senior county commissioners leading the charge to take my land. I also learned my wife wasn’t exactly the faithful type. After the divorce, I didn’t have the money left to do what I wanted—raise bison and keep fighting the land grabbers. So I sold the place to a guy who also wanted to raise bison, made a decent profit, and bought this property instead. Let him deal with the commissioners.”

Aaliyah nodded slowly. “Corruption is everywhere. People would rather take what others have built than earn it themselves.” She paused. “Have you seen your ex-wife since the divorce?”

“Yeah. Ran into her a few times at dances with whatever guy she was with at the time.”

“How did that make you feel?”

“Nothing, really.” Dale gave a wry smile. “My parents taught me early to give my used toys to the less fortunate.”

Aaliyah giggled, quickly covering her mouth. “That’s… an unusual way to put it.”

Later that week, Dale Brighton bought the Quonset hut. No one else had given it a second glance at the auction. He hired a trucker from Jamestown to haul the crates to the property and had them dropped behind the barn. Staring at the mountain of shipping containers, he wondered if he’d bitten off more than Andy could chew—but he was willing to let the boy try.

When Andy saw the crates, he immediately located the assembly instructions and spent the next three days studying them. Only then did he approach his father with a plan.

They discussed placement and different setup options. Andy explained how they could assemble the ribs, concrete them into the ground, then pour a four-inch slab for the floor once the main structure was up. That way, roof runoff wouldn’t pool on the interior. He even sketched a simple gin-pole system made from saplings to raise the ribs upright to be braced. Dale listened carefully, asked pointed questions, and finally nodded.

“How many bags of concrete are you going to need?” he asked.

Andy gave him the exact count.

“I’ll pick them up tomorrow, along with the tools you’ll need.”

The next morning Dale returned from the home improvement store with sixteen bags of Sakrete, a mortar hoe, a heavy-duty wheelbarrow, a block and tackle, and an extra hundred-foot water hose. When he pulled up, Andy and Otis were already bolting ribs together with cordless drills and crescent wrenches.

“Where’d the extra drill come from?” Dale asked.

“Otis brought it from home,” Andy said.

“I’ll back the truck in. You two unload it.”

Andy’s face lit up when he saw the supplies. “Let’s get this unloaded, Otis! We can set up the gin pole today and start raising ribs tomorrow!”


That evening Dale asked, “I was thinking of making stir-fry. Want to join me?”

“I’d love to,” Aaliyah said.

He fired up the stove , heated sesame oil in his wok, and began cooking the meat and vegetables he’d prepped the night before. Aaliyah took charge of the rice cooker. They each had a Coors Light with the meal—Dale wasn’t a huge fan of light beer, but it beat a drain pour.

After they cleaned up, they sat talking quietly and sipping water until a little after ten. Aaliyah headed home, and Dale went inside to make cinnamon roll dough for the next morning. He shaped the rolls, prepared the icing, and put everything in the refrigerator.

​
The house was transforming quickly. The birch-stained shiplap walls looked far better than the old painted sheetrock ever had. The kitchen was completely gutted, and new, higher-quality hickory cabinets were being installed that day. Dale had the crew save the old cabinets for the storage building once Liz finished sorting through it. She was hauling away far more than she was throwing out; Aaliyah said Liz had shop helpers who would restore many of the pieces.

With lighting and the new major appliances still to come, Dale called his moving company to arrange shipment of his household goods.

Aaliyah offered her services as an interior decorator and helped him place his furniture tastefully throughout the house. She also had Liz refurbish several items from the storage barn and brought them back inside. Dale was genuinely impressed with the result and paid her fairly for her time. She even went with him to Food Lion and helped him stock the pantry for the first time in years.

He bought enough supplies to last a month—his old habit—plus a little extra. He planned to have dinner guests now and then. Buck’s wife, Mary, helped him fine-tune his storage list, teaching him the staples to keep on hand and the smartest items for quick meals.

She also settled one final question with a laugh: “What are you going to do when you run out of toilet paper a few sheets short?”
 
Chapter One Hundred-Seven

Later that next day, Andy had the ribs concreted in within hours. They could start attaching the sheet metal in a couple of days. He decided to give the concrete an extra day to cure, just to be safe. He mentally walked through the assembly sequence again, making sure everything would go as efficiently as possible. The galvanized sheets being numbered would help. They only needed to align the first holes, fill in a row of holes with a one-and-a-half-inch bolt with a metal and rubber washer, and the tension would hold the panel in place while they tightened the nuts from the inside.

When Dale arrived home that afternoon, he inspected the work Andy and Otis had completed. It looked solid. He made a mental note to sit down with Andy that evening. Inside the house, Sarah and the girls had supper ready. Dale washed up and joined them.

The dinner table was lively with talk of school, local gossip, and everyone’s day. Andy ate mostly in silence, his mind clearly racing ahead to the next steps on the Quonset hut.

After dessert—apple crisp with ice cream—each person rinsed their own dishes and loaded the dishwasher. While the girls helped Sarah finish cleaning the kitchen, Dale and Andy walked back out to the Quonset hut.

“What’s next?” Dale asked.

“We’ll start sheathing day after tomorrow,” Andy said. “It looks like a lot, but we should finish in a couple of days. After that, I want to spray foam insulation between the ribs before installing the Masonite liner. I’ll need to run the wiring first, though.”

“Give me a list of the wiring and specs. I’ll pick it up for you. We can rent the foam sprayer from the hardware store too. Figure out the square footage between the ribs so we know how many tanks of foam we’ll need. Don’t forget a cleaner for the foam sprayer.” Dale paused. “Better yet, I’ll give you the credit card and my truck. You can go into town tomorrow and get everything. I may be home late—I’ve got some work near Big South Fork Lodge.”

“Okay, Dad. Thanks.”

Andy gathered the empty concrete mix sacks, carried them to the fire pit, and burned them. The brief flames made the steel skeleton of the hut shimmer against the growing darkness.

“We made it out of California just in time, huh Dad?”

“It was long past due,” Dale said. “That mess had been building for years. If this job hadn’t come up, we’d still be scraping by to get out. Sometimes a greater power gives you the push you need.”

“Do you think there will be a civil war?” Andy asked.

“I don’t know, son. People can only be pushed just so far before something breaks. Hopefully it won’t happen here. If it does, it’ll be in places where the local governments care more about holding onto power than taking care of their people.”


On the other side of the river, Martin had a truckload of unsplit hardwood—roughly six cords—delivered and dumped beside the woodshed. He and John had also picked up a PTO-driven wood splitter at an estate sale. Martin backed the tractor up to the pile and began feeding the first pieces through the machine. It was still real work, but far easier than swinging a maul and pounding wedges.

He soon had a good stack of split firewood and started racking it neatly in the woodshed. The last dozen pieces he ran through again, making smaller pieces for kindling. George had shown him where to look for fatwood along the old logging trails near the Fentress County Solid Waste Site. Years ago, loggers had used pine logs to stabilize trail edges; over time, the resin-rich logs got buried and turned into dense, oily fatwood that burned like jet fuel. Martin had found two eight-foot logs and was slowly splitting them with a froe and mallet. He planned to test a few pieces in the splitter. It should work perfectly.


Percy took down a ham, took it out of the linen bag and ran his hand over it. No seepage, no smell. He rebagged the ham and called Buster in. A family of racoons had taken up living nearby and Buster was determined to keep them driven off. Percy shouldered the ham and made his way down the mountain. He was taking the ham to the IGA in Jimtown and have the butcher slice it up with their meat saw. He also wanted to pick up a dozen smoked hocks. He leaned the bagged ham up against the garage to open the door then placed the ham on the seat in the truck. After checking the fluids, he cranked the truck, let it idle and watched the gauges. Seeing no warning signs, Percy pulled the truck out, stopped and closed the garage door and headed out to TN-52 and on to Jimtown.

The butcher quickly had the ham cut up into nice even slices with bone in. His assistant was vacuum packing them in two-slice packages and placing them into a box. The ham hocks went into the bag the ham had been in. Percy picked up two bunches of spring onions, three sleeves of garlic bulbs, two 18-egg cartons of eggs, six lemons, and cream of tartar. Percy was hankering for a lemon pound cake. He loaded his purchases in the truck and stopped by the filling station to top off his tank. Quickly in and out—just the way Percy liked it.


Bob pulled his seventh trout out by 10:00 and pulled up the anchor. It was his limit and was about what he liked to work with at a time. Two of the trout had been Browns, eighteen inches in length. They weren’t common, but Bud knew where they could be found, and again, he didn’t keep anything under twelve inches. He quickly went back to the dock and cleaned the fish, then carried them to the house to finish cleaning and applying a dry rub to them. While they were marinating in the rub, he started the fire in the smoker firebox. He planned all this week on fishing and smoking trout. If Bobby could catch a few catfish on his trot line, that would be good too. He could smoke some fillets, but they were due for a catfish stew too. He would remind Bobby to save out the 8-inch fish for the stew. The fish would be pressure cooked first to soften the bones.


Bill & Maybelle Carter, Ashelyn’s parents, were back in town, coming in from Michigan. They had hauled back three bushels of apples Ashelyn had asked them to pick up and Maybelle, Ashelyn, Angie, and Lorrie Jo were now canning and dehydrating them. Bill was designated Chief Apple Peeler. Once Bob had a good cold smoke going, he added the racks of fish to the smoker and set the timer on his phone for his first check. He had two carboys of mead to siphon off while he waited. Bob had placed the carboys on the table the night before to let any sediment settle and placed a bench in front of the table to place the capper and the bottle cases on. He put the Autosiphon hose into the carboy and the first 32-ounce bottle. When the bottle was full, he capped it and placed the full bottle into an empty crate. These already had Sparkalloid added to them to reduce the lees and get them to settle, so he had good clear mead. Bob ended up with thirty clear bottles of mead and two cloudy. Bob would drink the cloudy ones himself. The flavor or alcohol content wasn’t any different, but some people were put off by cloudy mead.

He hauled the cases to the root cellar where they would remain in the dark and cool.
 
Chapter One Hundred-Eight

Apples had been cooked with sugar and spices, and some were dehydrated into rings. Bob was carrying the last cases of canned apples to the root cellar when George Asher pulled up with the five gallons of honey Bob had ordered. George just so happened to have an extra five-gallon bucket in his truck, so Bob bought that one too. Another run of mead was definitely in the works before the real cold set in.

Bill was happy to be off the road for a while and was making quick work of the smoked trout Bob had prepared. Maybelle had returned from their road trip with bags and bags of dust catchers for Ashelyn. The two women were chirping over every piece like magpies. She had, however, brought some nice wind chimes that Bob didn’t mind, along with several excellent cheeses from Wisconsin and multiple bags of fresh cheese curds. Bob still wouldn’t have given a rat’s ass for the curds.

Jacob’s idea for a mobile woodshed had caught on with several of the county’s more affluent residents—especially those with outdoor entertainment areas who didn’t want an unsightly shed in view of their guests. Jacob had already sourced four sturdy frames from junkyards and was busy converting them. When not overloaded, the sheds could be towed by a lawn tractor.



Andy had finished insulating the interior of the hut with foam board and was now installing the Masonite liner. Dale had fabricated a narrow steel trimming tool with handles so they could shave the excess foam cleanly before attaching the panels. The sections went in smoothly, secured with self-tapping screws. Andy planned to paint the liner a light color; dark brown would make the place feel like a cave. Dale was surprised the old Masonite was still in such good condition—flexible and clean, as if it had just come off the shelf. Whatever preservative they’d used back then had held up remarkably well.

Once the liner was complete, the bottom six inches of the walls would be painted and forms built for the concrete floor. Dale decided to have the concrete delivered and professionally finished rather than let Andy spend days mixing and troweling it himself.

Andy had already sketched a detailed floor plan and was researching plans for a full-size captain’s bed. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that he intended to move into the hut once it was finished. Sarah had tried to talk him out of building his own bed—she could simply order one—but Dale told her to let the boy try. “Just don’t throw the coupons away,” he added with a grin.

While the concrete cured, Andy began building his bed, a bedside table, and other furnishings from the sturdy wooden shipping crates the parts had arrived in. He left the original stenciled markings visible: Camp Forrest, Tullahoma, Tn.



Dale Watson officially moved into the main house. Buck’s wife May and Earl’s wife Cynthia helped him throw a housewarming party. Everyone on the ranch was invited, along with Callie Marshall, Aaliyah Bennett, Brandon Cobb, and Elizabeth Brunel. The menu featured country-fried steak, corn on the cob from Mary’s freezer, mashed potatoes, green beans, plenty of sweet tea and beer, and several bottles of local wine Callie had brought.

Mary and Cynthia had convinced Dale of the wisdom of keeping both chest freezers well stocked. One was already in the basement; the second had been discovered in the storage barn. After having both units serviced, Dale filled them with beef and pork from Beason Family Farms, whole chickens, and frozen vegetables. He was a competent enough cook that he could put together a solid meal on short notice.

Elizabeth had claimed several pieces from the storage barn for herself but surprised Dale with a restored antique mantle clock as a housewarming gift. He was genuinely pleased. Aaliyah had also done an excellent job selecting items to fill out the house. The women all loved his kitchen and spent much of the evening offering enthusiastic suggestions about the utensils and cookware he needed. Dale insisted he could get by with a frying pan, a bean pot, and a sheet pan for biscuits. They promptly informed him they would be training him properly soon enough.

The bison arrived right on schedule. Callie performed the blood tests while the animals settled quickly into their new pasture. Once they learned the boundaries, they calmed even further. Earl had brought over a couple of saddle horses and tack for Dale. Each day Dale rode among the bison to get them accustomed to his presence. He smiled when he saw one of the bulls mount a cow—natural herd growth would be welcome. Another load of bison cows was already scheduled for early January.

Later in the week, Callie confirmed the bison were clean, as Dale had expected. Still, it was good to have official documentation that he wasn’t introducing disease into the county.

Riding every day in the late fall weather meant Dale needed better gear. He added thermal-lined jeans, a shearling-lined ranch coat, and a pair of Double H Ice Roper boots. Aaliyah gave him a wool Stetson. The temperatures were mostly in the forties, but the wind could cut through a man after a couple of hours in the saddle.

One afternoon Dale called Buck up to the house. On the table in his study, he had a map of the entire property weighted down with a stapler and pencil cup.

“Tell me about this section down here,” Dale said, pointing.

“That parcel was added last year. The owner used to raise hay for us. When he went into a nursing home, the boss bought it to keep the hay production going.”

“How’s the house?”

“Should be in decent shape. Keys are in the lockbox.”

“I’ll check it out,” Dale said.

The next morning, Dale invited Aaliyah over for breakfast at seven. He made his specialty—Denver omelets—along with crispy hash browns from a large Russet potato. He had just started the first omelet when she arrived. She poured herself coffee while he plated the food and added thick slices of buttered farmer’s bread.

As they ate, Aaliyah asked, “So what’s this new project?”

“I’ll show you after breakfast.”

After they loaded the dishwasher, they drove to the Henderson place.

“I remember seeing this from the highway,” Aaliyah said, “but I didn’t realize you owned it.”

“I’d almost forgotten about it with everything going on. I want to fix it up and use it as a guest house.”

Aaliyah gave him a puzzled look. “It’s a little far from the main house for a guest house, don’t you think?”

“I’ll explain later.” He pulled a key ring from his pocket and handed it to her. “No huge rush, but I’d like it ready by the first of May. Use whatever furnishings you think work from the storage buildings and let Beth go through the rest.”

Aaliyah walked through the house, making notes on her phone. It already had a pantry and two and a half baths. Structural work looked manageable, though she’d have Brandon check the load-bearing walls.

“What about the wallpaper?” she asked.

“Do whatever your eye tells you. I’m not a big fan, but there will probably be mostly men staying here, so keep it simple and masculine.”

When Buck learned Dale was renovating the Henderson house, he asked about it. Dale led him out to the barn and leaned on the corral fence.

“Buck, I’d appreciate it if you kept what I’m about to tell you between us.”

Dale then shared the story of the informal network that had begun during the early years of the War on Terror—how some senior NCOs started quietly helping good soldiers whose families had fallen apart while they were deployed. The group had grown into a well-funded operation with assets across government agencies. They extracted men (and occasionally women) in bad situations, gave them new starts, and helped them decompress before rebuilding their lives.

“And you’re going to use the Henderson place for one of your stations in your underground railroad?” Buck asked.

“Something like that. It’ll also give us some temporary help around the ranch when needed.”

Buck nodded slowly. “They better be careful. You don’t mess around bison unless your head’s on straight.”

“We’ll evaluate every one of them,” Dale assured him. “Make sure their hat’s on right.”

Buck tugged on his hat brim, a sly grin spreading across his face. “And what’s going on between you and that Bennett woman?”

“Nothing,” Dale said evenly. “She’s just handling the renovation.”

Buck chuckled. “If you say so.”
 
Chapter One Hundred-Nine

In the hush of early December 2025, Overton County in central Tennessee lay quiet under a slate-gray sky. This was no bustling metropolis but a patchwork of rural neighborhoods scattered across gentle hills and hollows—modest homes tucked among hardwood forests, family farms with weathered barns, and the occasional country store or church steeple rising above the tree line. ZIP code 38573 marked a place where life moved to the rhythm of seasons and soil, where neighbors knew one another by name and the nearest big town, Livingston, felt a world away. But on December 8, the weather forecast carried an edge sharper than the autumn chill. Meteorologists on Nashville stations warned of a perfect storm: warm Gulf moisture riding north on a jet stream, colliding with a stubborn Canadian cold front anchored over the Cumberland Plateau. Temperatures would plummet below freezing just as precipitation arrived. For three days, Overton County would endure an ice and snow siege that no one in living memory could quite match.

The residents weren’t surprised. They paid close attention to winter forecasts. Mother Nature never slept and could throw a sudden uppercut.

Duncan made the rounds, checking that everyone had enough firewood for four or five days. He and the kids drove down to Carolyn and Harold’s with a trailer load of split wood, filling their woodboxes and stacking the rest in the woodshed. They headed home just as a light rain began to fall.

Day One began innocently enough. Dawn broke cold and damp, with highs struggling to reach 38 degrees Fahrenheit and lows already in the mid-20s. Residents stirred in kitchens, brewing coffee and checking weather apps on phones that still held signal. Local radio announced the closure of county schools—it made no sense to bus children for just a few hours only to send them home because of icing dangers. Farmers like Earl Thompson, who raised cattle on 120 acres off TN-111, checked their herds early, spreading extra hay where frost crunched underfoot. The air carried the sharp scent of woodsmoke from chimneys already lit against the dropping mercury.

By mid-morning, a light drizzle pattered on tin roofs and bare branches. It was ordinary rain at first. But as the cold front dug in, surface temperatures hovered at 28 degrees. The droplets turned treacherous. Freezing rain arrived by noon, a glassy veil coating everything it touched. Power lines glistened. Tree limbs—oaks and hickories dominant in these hills—took on a crystalline sheen, each twig sheathed in ice that refracted the weak winter light like fragile jewelry. Drivers on winding two-lane roads felt the change immediately. Tires slipped on blacktop; pickup trucks fishtailed gently at stop signs. Radio crackled with the first alerts: “Freezing rain advisory in effect. Avoid unnecessary travel.”

By late afternoon, ice built to a quarter-inch on exposed surfaces, bowing slender branches and making every step treacherous. In Wirmingham, the small cluster of homes around the old cemetery, porch railings turned into slick sculptures. At the lone convenience store near the intersection, owner Mary Ellen Hargrove watched customers hurry in for bread, milk, and batteries, their coats dusted with ice pellets that tinkled like chimes. “This ain’t no joke,” she told a regular. “My granddaddy used to talk about the ’94 storm. This feels worse already.”

As dusk settled around 4:30 p.m., the freezing rain intensified, falling in steady sheets. Power flickered once, twice, then held—but not for long. Around 7 p.m., the first major outage struck. A massive oak along a rural lane, its branches weighted by nearly half an inch of ice, groaned and snapped with a sound like a rifle shot. The limb crashed across a primary line, plunging a dozen homes into darkness. Within the hour, more followed. Transformers popped like fireworks in the distance, blue sparks flashing briefly before vanishing. Emergency dispatch in Livingston logged calls steadily: downed lines, minor fender-benders on icy curves, an elderly woman whose heat pump had failed.

Inside homes, families adapted with rural resourcefulness. The Johnsons, a young couple with two toddlers in a modular home off a gravel road, lit candles and fired up their wood stove. The children, wide-eyed, pressed noses to frosted windows, mesmerized by the ice-encased world. “It’s like a fairy tale,” the five-year-old whispered, while her parents exchanged tense glances over radio reports. Livestock suffered too. Earl Thompson spent the evening in his barn, lantern in hand, breaking ice from water troughs and blanketing horses whose coats were stiff with frozen drizzle. The temperature bottomed at 22 degrees that night, and freezing rain continued, building to three-quarters of an inch in spots. Roads became mirrors; even four-wheel-drive vehicles slid helplessly. Wirmingham slept fitfully, lulled by the percussion of ice pellets and the occasional distant crack of another branch surrendering.

Day Two dawned worse. Overnight, the storm evolved from freezing rain to a mix of sleet and light snow as the cold deepened, but the ice damage was already profound. By 8 a.m., accumulations reached a full inch on power lines and tree canopies—the kind of loading engineers dread. The landscape had transformed into a glittering, treacherous wonderland. Every fence post wore a crystal crown; every blade of dormant grass was sheathed in ice. Brief sunlight around 10 a.m. turned the hills into a prism of refracted light, but the beauty was deadly. Branches continued to fail with thunderous reports echoing across the hollows. One utility crew from Cookeville reported over forty outages just along TN-111 before noon. Entire neighborhoods went dark: the cluster around Wirmingham Cemetery, farms along Obey River tributaries, homes near the old schoolhouse ruins.

Snow began in earnest by midday, fat flakes swirling in a stiff nor’easterly wind gusting to 25 miles per hour. It accumulated atop the ice, creating a deceptive blanket—six inches by dusk, with more falling. Roads were now impassable. The Tennessee Department of Transportation closed secondary routes, and even the state highway saw jackknifed semis blocking lanes. Schools had been canceled the previous afternoon; now county offices followed. Grocery shelves in Livingston emptied of generators and propane. Isolation set in across the county. A retired couple, the Harrisons, huddled in their century-old farmhouse, relying on a fireplace and quilts. Their electric well pump failed, forcing them to melt snow for water—an old skill revived in crisis. Neighbors checked on one another via walkie-talkies and satellite phones, ferrying supplies on foot where possible, boots crunching through the icy crust.

The human toll mounted subtly. An elderly man living alone suffered a fall on his icy porch steps while trying to salt them; volunteers from the local fire department, chains on their truck tires, rescued him after a frantic call. Livestock losses were minimal but heartbreaking—two calves on a nearby farm succumbed to exposure when their shelter collapsed under snow weight. Wildlife fared poorly too. Deer tracks crisscrossed fields, but many sought shelter in thickets only to find branches collapsing around them.

By evening of Day Two, snow totals hit eight inches over much of the county, with drifts to two feet in open fields. The wind howled through the trees, creating a low, constant moan. Power remained out for over seventy percent of the area; utility crews from as far as Nashville struggled to reach rural lines, their bucket trucks inching along at five miles per hour. Inside candlelit homes, families told stories by firelight—reminiscences of milder winters and fears for the holidays now just weeks away. A local Baptist church, its generator humming, became an impromptu warming center, serving hot soup to those without heat. Children built tiny snowmen in backyards, their laughter a defiant spark against the storm’s roar. Yet anxiety simmered. Cell service was spotty; satellite internet the only link to the outside world for many. The National Weather Service upgraded the event to a blizzard warning, noting ice accumulations rivaling the historic 2009 storm.

Night Two brought no respite. Snow fell heavier, another four inches overnight, driven sideways by winds now gusting 35 mph. Temperatures held in the low 20s, keeping the ice base unyielding. The cumulative weight proved catastrophic for the forest. Entire stands of timber groaned and toppled, blocking driveways and secondary roads. One massive pine crashed through the roof of a vacant hunting cabin. Emergency services, stretched thin, prioritized life-threatening calls: a heart attack victim airlifted by helicopter from a farmstead, the pilot navigating whiteout conditions with mountain-rescue skill.

Day Three arrived with fragile promise. The snow tapered by mid-morning, reduced to flurries as the low-pressure system drifted east toward the Appalachians. Total snowfall reached 14 inches in Livingston—a record for early December—atop the treacherous ice layer. The sun peeked out around noon, casting long shadows across a landscape both pristine and devastated. Trees stood skeletal, half their limbs littering the ground like broken bones. Power poles leaned at drunken angles; some snapped entirely. Outages persisted for most, with restoration estimates stretching into a week for the hardest-hit hollows.

Cleanup began haltingly. Chainsaw crews—neighbors and volunteers—carved paths through downed timber, their blades whining in the crisp air. Snowplows scraped main routes, but gravel roads remained buried. Residents emerged bundled in layers, faces ruddy from cold, sharing generators and stories. Earl Thompson assessed his pastures: fences bowed but intact, cattle huddled in the lee of the barn. Mary Ellen reopened her store on a generator, selling the last canned goods at cost to those in need. The Johnsons’ toddlers built a proper snow fort, their mittens soaked but spirits high. The Harrisons, warmed by community aid, sipped coffee and thanked God for survival.

By late afternoon on December 10, the storm had passed. Skies cleared to brilliant blue, the temperature climbing to 32 degrees—just enough to begin a slow melt that would turn roads into slushy hazards for days. Yet Overton County endured, its people bound tighter by the ordeal. Power flickered back in pockets as crews worked through the night, but full restoration would take time. The ice would linger in shaded spots until mid-month, a reminder of nature’s power. In the end, the three-day siege claimed no lives in the immediate area, though property damage ran into the millions—crushed roofs, snapped poles, lost livestock. It was a story residents would retell for generations: the early December storm that glazed Overton County in ice and buried it in snow, testing but not breaking the quiet resilience of central Tennessee’s hills.
 
Chapter One Hundred Ten

Andy and Otis hurried to finish installing the Masonite sheets before the storm arrived. They hung and staked tarps at each end of the hut to keep the weather out. When they had done all they could, they rode their cycles up the mountain to see if Percy needed any help preparing for the storm. They found Percy and Buster sitting warm and happy inside the cabin. Percy was already prepared.

That evening, Dale found his son sitting morosely quiet, reading the manual for the hut.

“What’s wrong, Andy?”

“It’s taking so long to build the hut.”

“You need to have patience. The manual says the normal building time for the hut with the windows option, for ten men, is one day. Andy, that was meant for experienced military men—a squad of soldiers many years older than you. I think you’re doing a great job, and I’m proud of you. What’s next on the agenda?”

“I guess we build forms for the floor and pour concrete.”

“Well, you build the forms, and I’ll have the concrete delivered and finished for you.”

For a week, Jamestown filled with vehicles covered in mud from the unpaved county roads. Dale had no problem ordering the concrete or hiring finishers. His place sat on a paved road, so the workers and truck could reach it without issue. Early-morning driving could still be hazardous because of frozen meltwater on shaded sections of the roads.

Andy and Otis laid out plastic sheeting and gravel inside the forms for the floor, then waited patiently for the concrete to arrive. Andy busied himself with small tasks to burn off nervous energy.

Percy was enjoying the morning sun. Although the air was still chilly, the sun melted the snow and ice; the meltwater flowed downhill, and the spring showed an increased flow. Small animals and birds scampered through the undergrowth, appreciating the slightly warmer weather.

Martin used the tractor to move the winter’s accumulation out into open areas where the sun could finish nature’s cycle. Small streams and the river ran with fuller banks. As he worked, Ciara’s thoughts on color mixtures drifted through his mind. When he finished, Martin returned the tractor to the shed and went inside.

Ciara had doctored a jar of spaghetti sauce, browned some ground beef, and made garlic toast with the last of the bread for lunch. Martin encouraged her to talk about her latest painting—a mare and her foal—and listened as she described what the piece was making her feel. She mentioned she was running low on paints. Martin promised to take her into Knoxville on Saturday to restock. Ciara brightened, and they finished their meal in good spirits. After clearing the dishes, Martin helped her mix enough bread dough for four 2.5-pound loaves to rise and proof.

Christmas was around the corner. Dale, no fan of Christmas shopping, ordered gift boxes of bison and elk meat for the Everly families and Callie Marshall. For Aaliyah, he bought a three-quarter-length black premium leather coat with a removable fur hood. He put up a Christmas tree and decorated it, but the house still didn’t feel especially cheery. The only bright spot was that he had invited Callie and Aaliyah over for Christmas dinner. He was making an elk roast instead of prime rib.

Early on Christmas Eve, Dale delivered gifts to Buck, Earl, and Boone’s places, then to Callie’s and Aaliyah’s. He returned home and began making pies. After the apple, sweet potato, and pecan pies were in the oven, he rubbed the roast with salt, black pepper, garlic powder, and an eighth of a teaspoon of hickory smoke powder, then placed it in the pantry refrigerator. All he had left for the next day was to make garlic mashed potatoes, green bean casserole, roasted Brussels sprouts with bacon, and yeast rolls. He would need to rise early to have everything ready for the two o’clock dinner.

Christmas morning, Dale started the coffee, then got out the wooden dough bowl Aaliyah had salvaged from the shed and began making the yeast rolls. While the dough rose, he washed and sliced the Brussels sprouts. The roast was already in one of the ovens, filling the house with mouth-watering aromas. Aaliyah soon arrived with a cardboard pie box containing a half-dozen apple and almond bear claws. She freshened Dale’s coffee, poured herself a cup, and they sat down to enjoy the pastries before he started on the Brussels sprouts.

Callie arrived at ten o’clock, ready to help with anything needed. She and Aaliyah quickly put their heads together. Callie left briefly and returned with two boxes of Christmas decorations. Before long, she and Aaliyah had Dale’s house looking far more festive.

“You ladies didn’t need to do that!” Dale protested.

“Of course we did!” Callie said. “Bachelors don’t know how to decorate for the holidays.”

“I didn’t feel I needed to, since I had the two most eligible bachelorettes in the community watching over my shoulder to keep me from committing a horrible faux pas.”

“Do you need some help cooking?” Aaliyah asked.

“You could start peeling potatoes,” Dale said. He took the Brussels sprouts out of the pan, placed them in a bowl, and slid the bowl into a warming drawer.

“I love the way you have this kitchen set up!” Callie said.

“That was Aaliyah,” Dale replied.

“I just did what you wanted. It made sense if you’re cooking for a group,” Aaliyah said.

“Well, you don’t often see two wall-mounted ovens with warming drawers around here,” Callie remarked. “Do you cook a lot, Dale?”

“Just my regular meals. But when I’m cooking for a group, having multiple ovens makes it a lot easier to time everything. I can do the main entrée and the sides at the same time.”

Callie found another potato peeler and helped Aaliyah. They peeled three pounds of potatoes. Aaliyah wrapped the peels in newspaper and carried the bundle out to the compost bin on the side porch.

Dale washed out his large frying pan and began sautéing onions and garlic in olive oil. He opened cans of French-style green beans and got the sour cream from the refrigerator. After draining the beans and adding them to the pan, he prepared a 9x13 glass baking dish. Once the beans were heated and tossed, he poured everything into the dish, added plenty of shredded cheddar, and topped it with cornflake crumbs tossed in butter. He slid the green bean casserole into the oven, then brought out a bowl of what looked like cucumber slices from the refrigerator along with two forks.

“Try this,” Dale said, setting everything on the island. The women each took a fork and sampled a slice.

“This isn’t a pickle… and it’s got a little bite,” Callie said, chewing thoughtfully before stabbing another slice.

“It’s a cucumber salad. I peeled and sliced the cucumbers last night, then let them marinate overnight in white vinegar, water, sugar, salt, cayenne pepper, dried parsley flakes, black pepper, and basil. It makes a nice side for the elk roast.”

“I do appreciate a man who can cook!” Callie said.

The women set the dining table with a tablecloth while Dale tended to the food, moving dishes from the ovens to the warming drawers and slicing the roast when it was ready. He carried the hot dishes to the table and set them on trivets the women had placed. When the rolls were done, he transferred them to a warming basket, and they all sat down. Callie offered the blessing, and they began filling their plates.

Forty minutes later, three very satisfied people laid their knives and forks on their plates and sighed contentedly. There was no room left for pie—that would come later in the afternoon. Before tackling the dishes, they relaxed in the great room, sipping Food Lion eggnog laced with Southern Comfort, and watched part of a football game.

Dale made sure they divided the leftovers into thirds so each household had a meal for the next day.

“I’m surprised we didn’t have bison roast for dinner,” Callie said.

“That will be next Christmas,” Dale replied with a smile.
 
Chapter One Hundred Eleven


Dale found a 1985 Land Rover 110 listed in a car trade paper. When he inspected it, the vehicle had a 2.5L 17J/12J diesel engine paired with a four-speed transmission. The body was in rough condition, but the custom body shop assured him they could repair it and add the modifications needed to turn it into something close to a 130. Dale wanted it as a sort of estate vehicle for the Henderson place—one available to anyone staying there.

Aaliyah had tastefully furnished the house using a mix of pieces salvaged from the storage barn, refurbished items, and new purchases. She bought fresh linens but reused most of the existing dishes, pots, pans, and utensils.

Dale contacted CSM Shriver, one of the board administrators of the rat line, and let him know he had a safehouse available if they ever needed it.

The second load of bison cows arrived and were turned out into their pasture. Callie examined them and declared the herd disease-free. Dale already had three pregnant cows from the first shipment and hoped for more. He moved one of the bulls in with the new group and let nature take its course.

Fence maintenance was an ongoing chore. They had raised the perimeter fencing to seven feet and replaced the weak posts. A two-thousand-pound bison could tear down a fence in minutes by simply rubbing against it, and the animals could jump five or six feet from a standstill. They would reinforce the cross-fencing gradually as time allowed. Custom cattle scratchers and heavy cables sized for bison were being installed in all the pastures. One final load of bison from South Dakota was scheduled to arrive in late March to complete the initial herd Dale wanted to build. As long as the animals stayed content—with plenty of water and forage—they were unlikely to test the fences.

Buck and Dale were adding an electric wire to the perimeter fence to discourage rubbing when Buck’s tone shifted.

“May was talking last night about those two heifers pawing the ground for you.”

“What do you mean?”

“The doc and that Bennett woman. They’ve both been showing a lot of interest. You’re gonna need to decide pretty soon. They’re asking May questions about you all the time.”

“Buck, I’m just trying to be friends with them. I don’t think I’m ready to get tied down to another woman yet. There’s a lot going on.”

“Well, that might be your plan,” Buck said with a chuckle, “but man plans and God laughs. May said something last night that had me rolling on the floor.”

“What was that?”

“She said love is like a fart. If you have to force it, it’s probably just crap. You need to open up your heart—don’t strain yourself—but see where it leads.”

Buck’s words stuck with Dale for the rest of the day and well into the evening. He was open to sharing his home with a partner. That night he found himself doing something he never thought he would: writing down the pros and cons of each woman as he saw them right now. He had never raised bison before, either.



Bob and Ashelyn enjoyed a quiet but satisfying Christmas with Bill and Maybelle. On Christmas Eve day, Maybelle and Ashelyn taught Bobby and Lorrie Joe how to make presents for the birds—a Carter family tradition. The kids gathered medium and small pinecones, which the women dipped in melted beef tallow Bob had saved. They pressed wild bird seed and juniper berries into the cones, repeating the process three times for a good coating. A small red bow finished each one. They hung the ornaments from tree branches with fishing line. The birds seemed to approve; at least they left Bob enough tallow to coat his boots a few more times.

Another storm system was dropping down from Canada, so Bill and Maybelle decided to head out and meet some snowbird friends near Corpus Christi. After restocking them and sending them on their way, Bob and Ashelyn filled the wood rack on the deck and topped off the chicken feeders and waterers. Bob tied a tarp over the truck’s roof and windshield and waited for the weather to hit.

They received a call around seven that evening from Bill and Maybelle, who were overnighting in Muscle Shoals, Alabama. They planned to reach Greenville the next day. The farther south they traveled, the more likely they were to see only rain instead of ice. Still, Texas was known for surprise ice storms. Over the next couple of days the temperatures dropped. Then the rain began. Nights stayed in the high thirties, days in the low forties—miserable but not freezing. Bob only went outside to gather eggs and check on the chickens. He bottled some mead indoors, grateful for the warmth.



Duncan managed to fill the game feeders before the rain arrived. With Johnny’s help, he stocked the wood rack, and the household hunkered down. Allie, Sally, and Rosemary made Rice Krispies treats, some loaded with M&Ms. Steady rain fell outside while wind gusted up to thirty miles an hour. No one wanted to be outdoors, and even the kids skipped riding the carts down to Carolyn and Harold’s. By late afternoon, most of the house was reading or quietly working on hobbies.

On the third day, a new wave of moist Gulf air rolled up from Louisiana, increasing the downpours. Flash flood alerts went out, and emergency agencies went on standby. Bridges and low-lying areas were monitored closely; the county road crews stood ready to close roads. The rain finally slackened on the fourth day and ended that evening. Everyone was grateful they had only dealt with rain. It could have been a devastating snow or ice storm.



A week after the last planned load of bison arrived—twenty-five cows and two young bulls—the annual spring BBQ and dance was held at the VFW. It was a community event; even non-veterans were welcome. With few other entertainment venues nearby, it drew a big crowd. May kept urging Dale to invite someone, but his mind still wasn’t made up. New cows were arriving, and that took priority. They had been gradually combining the bison groups to help them acclimate and establish a herd pecking order. The newest arrivals would be placed in a pasture within sight of the others so Dale could cull any that wouldn’t integrate.

Dale spent most of every day on horseback and had developed the easy gait of a man who lived in the saddle.

Callie was there to test the new bison. During a break she asked, “Are you coming to the BBQ next Saturday?”

“Yeah, I suppose I will. This bunch should be settled in by then.”

“You know there’s a dance that evening, right?”

“I heard. I hope your dance card still has a couple of empty spots.”

Callie chuckled. “We’re not that formal around here, but I’ll save you a few dances.”

Dale tipped his hat. “Then I look forward to it.”

Aaliyah was far less subtle. She made it clear she expected Dale’s time and attention and was ready to claim it the moment he arrived.

Buck got a kick out of watching the two “heifers” vie for Dale’s attention. May walked around with a knowing smirk.

Dale didn’t reach the BBQ until almost three o’clock. Aaliyah had been watching for his truck. She met him at the edge of the street across from the barber shop, dressed to kill in a medium-blue chambray tiered skirt and an eye-catching white silk off-the-shoulder peasant blouse. She looked stunning. Dale gladly offered his arm. They made an attractive couple, and many heads turned. Even Callie glanced their way before quickly looking away, disappointment flickering across her face.

They both got ribs from the grill and laughed as they wiped sauce from each other’s faces. Dale mingled with the local men, answering questions about raising bison while politely declining offers of hay for the coming winter. Dale explained that bison were efficient grazers; with rotational grazing, they needed very little supplemental feed.

When the dancing started, Dale and Aaliyah washed up and met by the dance floor. They danced three songs before Dale excused himself, saying he had promised Callie a couple of dances. Aaliyah let him go reluctantly and went to get a drink.

Dale danced twice with Callie before a local sheriff’s deputy cut in. He found Aaliyah resting at a table near the edge of the floor.

“Want to get some fresh air?” he asked.

She nodded. They slipped out the back and strolled along Broad Street. Dale walked quietly, reflecting on the long journey that had brought him here.

“What are you thinking about?” Aaliyah asked.

“Just my journey to this place.”

“Was it bad?”

“At first. The betrayals finally forced me to find a way out. It hurt to give up the family home, but then I remembered how my own family had left New York for Nebraska. A neighbor lady once told me that home is where your heart is. When the chance came to sell to Blake Overton, I took it as a sign to start over.”

“Blake Overton? The country music star?”

“The same one. He wanted to raise bison too and thought my ranch was perfect. I agreed, but I didn’t have the money to fight the vultures and speculators. I found the Copeland Creek place and jumped on it. It felt like freedom. It’s smaller than my old ranch, but it’s been satisfying. I brought some scars with me, but they’re healing faster every day.”

“Well, I’m glad your journey ended here,” Aaliyah said softly.

“It’s not over yet. I still have a lot to do… and I want to start a family.”

“I hope I can be part of those plans.”

“I’ve been thinking about that,” Dale replied.

They returned to the dance and shared a few more songs. Aaliyah danced with a couple of other men while Dale stood to the side, watched hungrily by the wallflowers.

At eleven o’clock, Dale said goodnight to Aaliyah and drove home. During the short trip, he thought about the day but still hadn’t made his decision.
 
Chapter One Hundred-Twelve

Alex watched as the truck backed up beside the woodshed. The Carpenter brothers hopped out and began stacking the load of split oak and hickory firewood. Alex had contracted with them for four cords, delivered and neatly stacked. He pitched in, and the three men soon fell into an efficient assembly line. In a pinch, Alex could have cut his own wood—he still had about six acres of timber on the thirty-five-acre property—but the brothers brought it already split, saving him hours of work. He was happy to pay them. Hank was in the same boat; he bought his firewood from the Carpenters too.

The weather had been unusually mild for January, but that was about to change. The day carried a sharp bite, and the cold sliced straight through Alex’s leather work gloves. After an hour of steady labor, AnnaMarie stepped outside with a large thermos of hot coffee and enamel cups. She’d also brought a container of her chewy chocolate-chip cookies studded with pecans. Wayne and Frank thanked her warmly.

They finished unloading and stacking, then sat on the tailgate drinking coffee and talking about the weather.

“I figure we’re in for another batch of snow before March,” Frank said.

“Wouldn’t surprise me,” Alex replied.

“Well, we’ve got plenty more wood cut and split if you need it, Alex,” Wayne added.

“I’ll let you know, but I think this will carry me through.”



Percy checked his fuel cans and found six empties. He added the proper amount of stabilizer to each, loaded them into the back of the truck, and secured them with a ratchet strap. He was down to his last pork belly, so he planned a run to Gray’s Smokehouse for a couple more, plus some smoked ham hocks. If they had a spare ham or two, he’d take those as well. Andy had brought over a mess of fresh green beans, and Percy wanted ham to cook with them.

Andy, meanwhile, was putting the finishing touches on his Quonset hut. The lights were installed, and the toilet plumbing was complete. He was now building a captain’s bunk—bed with drawers underneath—along with cabinets and shelves for books and storage. Otis had given him a window-mounted fan to pull fresh air inside, and the turbine roof ventilators would keep the temperature comfortable. His mother had found an old GE clock radio in storage and made curtains for the windows.


Hank James was dumping cabbage leaves and cores—leftovers from making kraut—into the hog trough when the hogs turned it over in their frenzy. Should’ve run them out first, he thought. He stopped, went inside the pen, and righted the trough. The hogs immediately pressed against him, eight hundred pounds of eager weight shoving at his legs. His foot caught in a depression. He felt a sharp pop in his knee and hobbled out of the way as fast as he could.

Limping back to the house, he dropped into his recliner and called AnnaMarie. By the time she arrived, his knee was already swelling. She made an ice pack, gave him Tylenol, wrapped the knee with an ACE bandage, and had him elevate it. She followed the RICE protocol—Rest, Ice, Compression, Elevation—to the letter.

When Alex got home, AnnaMarie told him what had happened. “Sounds like it might be an ACL injury,” Alex said.

“What’s he going to have to go through?” she asked.

“Depends. If it’s not torn, what you’re already doing is about all they’ll recommend—maybe add crutches and a brace. If it is torn, he’ll need surgery, but that’s outpatient. He’d be home the same day. Healing would take six to nine months either way.”

“He’s going to have a hard time over there by himself,” AnnaMarie said.

“Just move him into the guest bedroom. He’s more than welcome—you know that.”

Later that afternoon, Alex returned with AnnaMarie. He dug out a wrap-around knee brace he’d kept from an old training injury. AnnaMarie packed four changes of clothes and Hank’s toiletries. Alex fitted the brace, and with the help of Hank’s livestock cane, they got him into the side-by-side UTV. Alex made a mental note: If Hank’s going to be stove-up for a while, I’ll build a ramp.

They settled Hank into Alex’s La-Z-Boy, repacked his knee with ice, and Alex poured him three fingers of Wild Turkey 101 before handing him the TV remote. Alex was glad AnnaMarie had insisted on installing the walk-in bathtub with safety bars in the guest bathroom a few weeks earlier. He liked the tub himself—the aqua-massage jets were a nice bonus. For supper, AnnaMarie made breaded pork chops, mashed potatoes, turnip greens, and cornbread.

The next morning, Hank managed to get himself into the tub after breakfast. Alex stood by to help him dry off afterward. He re-wrapped the knee, got Hank’s socks on, and the three of them headed to the doctor. An MRI showed good news: only a Grade 1 ACL injury—the ligament was stretched but not torn. The doctor told them to continue the RICE treatment and offered a prescription for Tylenol with codeine. Hank declined.

“Got plenty of regular Tylenol at home,” he said. “Codeine just puts me to sleep during my John Wayne movies.”

On the way back, Hank asked Alex to stop at the pharmacy for four wide elastic bandages—“I’m not paying twenty dollars apiece at the doctor’s office”—and a case of his favorite beer. Once home, they got Hank comfortable in the recliner with fresh ice packs. Alex whipped up a quick batch of hummus in the food processor—chickpeas, bacon grease, salt, pepper, a touch of cayenne, garlic, and tahini—then served it with corn chips, a cold beer, and North to Alaska playing on the TV. Hank was set for the afternoon.



Sunday evening, Dale received a call from CSM Shriver.

“You got room for a visitor?”

“Sure,” Dale said. “How long?”

“Minimum of six weeks.”

“Send him—or them—on out. I’ll have the place stocked.”

“I’ll give you a heads-up on arrival time. Send me the coordinates if the house isn’t where you’re living now.”

Dale hung up, wondering exactly how many people were coming.

The next day he asked May if she could recommend a cleaning service that would come out once a week. She said she’d check.

Aaliyah went with Dale to Food Lion, where they bought a week’s worth of groceries and plenty of cleaning supplies. While they were in the store, May called back. She’d found someone perfect—a young widow who needed the work, not a formal service.

Dale told her where they were and asked her to have the woman meet them at the house.

They were still unloading groceries when May pulled up, followed by another truck. May and the woman helped carry everything inside. Once the bags were put away, May introduced her.

“This is Moran O’Connor. Moran’s husband was a trucker. He passed in an accident last year.”

While Aaliyah gave Moran a tour of the house, May quietly filled Dale in. Moran was still waiting on the insurance settlement and had a sweet four-year-old daughter who usually tagged along on cleaning jobs.

“How much should I pay her?” Dale asked.

“She’ll come at least once a week—vacuuming, dusting, sweeping, mopping, trash, kitchen, and bathrooms. Two hundred twenty-five dollars sound fair?”

“Sounds good to me. The guy who’s coming will probably appreciate the break from chores.”

Dale and Aaliyah sat down with Moran, went over the details, and agreed she would come on Fridays. Moran thanked them warmly and headed back to May’s to pick up her daughter.
 
Chapter One Hundred Thirteen



Aaliyah had questions about what Dale planned to do with the Henderson place. Dale swore her to secrecy. Confident she would keep her word, he told her about the program.

“That is so sad,” she said. “You’d think they might give them a chance to work things out.”

“Sometimes that works. But most of these guys are coming straight out of a combat zone. Killing is still heavy on their minds. To save lives—and taxpayer money—this might be the best option. Plus, most of them don’t have any trust left to salvage a relationship.”

“Did you feel that way when your wife did what she did?”

“It crossed my mind,” Dale admitted. “But I decided she wasn’t worth going to prison over. If I’d stayed longer, though, I might have gotten rid of her father… and a few others. That marriage was built on a web of deceit, and someone needed to pay. Thank goodness Overton came along.”

The restoration shop called. The Land Rover was ready. Dale asked Aaliyah to ride with him so she could drive his truck home. The restoration had gone smoother than expected. They unbolted the body, lifted it off, and performed the metalwork. OEM parts were still available for everything that needed replacing. The upholsterer had done excellent work, and the detailers had transformed the rest. The shiny black truck now wore the Copeland Creek Bison logo on both doors. It was a professional, head-turning job.

A couple of ideas flashed through Dale’s mind as he inspected the finished vehicle. He filed them away for later.

The Land Rover drove beautifully. On the way back to the ranch, one of those ideas crystallized. Once they arrived, Dale measured the roof rack and ordered a roof-mounted vehicle camping tent. It would turn the ranch truck into a versatile recreation rig as well.

The second idea was a two-way radio system for the entire property. He called BEARCOM in Nashville, explained what he needed, and scheduled a representative to visit the ranch.

​
On Saturday morning, Dale received a text that a helicopter would arrive around 1400. He reached the Henderson place an hour early and did a final walkthrough. The house was spotless. He moved on to the outbuildings, noting minor repairs that still needed attention.

Right at 1400, an MH-60 descended and landed in the hayfield beside the house. Two men with duffel bags stepped out. The helicopter lifted off almost immediately and headed west. Dale opened the gate, welcomed them, and drove them to the house.

“Jim Cramer,” the first man said, extending a hand.

“Ron Chambers,” the second added. “I’ll be staying with him for initial counseling.”

Dale showed them inside. Ron let Jim take the master bedroom and claimed another for himself. Once they were settled, Dale pointed out the keys hanging by the refrigerator—for the house and the Land Rover.

“Call me if you need anything,” he said.

While Jim unpacked, Ron stepped outside with Dale.

“How do you fit into all this?” Dale asked.

“I’m here to counsel him and make sure he doesn’t go off the rails. He’s still pretty pissed.”

“How’d you rate an MH-60?”

“Just a training flight out of Sabre. They have to log the hours anyway.”

Dale nodded toward the driveway. “If you’re worried about him bucking, you might want to hold onto the truck keys for a while.”

“I plan to.” Ron glanced across the fields. “Where’s your place?”

Dale pointed. “About a mile that way.”

He handed Ron a card with his contact information. “Anything you need, just call.”

​
Dale returned home, saddled a horse, and rode out to check the bison. The pastures were greening up nicely in the rested sections. They would open the next one soon and rotate the herd onto fresh graze. He spotted Buck driving along the fence line and rode over.

“Looks like they’re about finished with this pasture,” Dale said.

“Yeah, I was thinking of opening the next gate Friday. They’ll be in the new one by Saturday morning.”

“I’ve got mineral blocks coming in this week. One per fifteen bison. That should help pull them into the new area.”

“They look content enough,” Buck said.

“I’ve seen the bulls mounting quite a bit. We might get a good crop of fall calves.”

“Let’s hope so.”

Buck continued his fence check. Dale rode down along the creek, then cut across the ridge through the hardwood forest. The day was pleasant—high fifties with a light southeast breeze. The sky was overcast, with drizzle forecast for tomorrow. Best to enjoy the saddle today. Then again, he had a brand-new slicker he hadn’t even worn yet. He might ride tomorrow anyway if nothing came up.

Back at the barn, he curried and brushed the gelding, gave him a scoop of sweet feed, and headed for the house, already wondering what he could throw together for lunch.

He didn’t notice Aaliyah’s Mercedes parked out front until he stepped inside. She was in the kitchen, stirring a pot of soup.

Dale peered into the Dutch oven. Bison stew. He dipped a teaspoon in and tasted it.

“That’s delicious. And plenty of carrots—just how I like it.”

“Thank you,” she said, smiling. “I’m learning what you like. Elk burgers and campfire beans for dinner.”

“You’re stealing my heart, woman.”

“You really need a perfect wife or a mistress here at all times.”

Dale gave a theatrical “Hurrumph!” then grew more serious. “Aaliyah, why did you decide to stay in this area? There are a lot more glamorous places.”

“I don’t care for the rich-and-famous life. I have the money to live in New York or Los Angeles, but I prefer staying out of the spotlight. And I love it here.”

“Any new projects?”

“We’re quoting a pool, patio, and hot tub for a client.”

“Someday I’d like a patio with an outdoor kitchen and maybe a hot tub,” Dale said. “But no pool. I’ve got enough work around here without skimming one every evening before I can take a dip.”

“Hire someone to maintain it.”

“My money’s better spent turning this ranch into what I want it to be.”

“Well, when you decide on that patio and hot tub, let me know.”

“Enough dreaming for now,” Dale said with a grin. “I’m hungry.”

​
When Martin returned from Jamestown, Ciara was riding the zero-turn mower across the yard. He parked the truck and walked over to where she would have to turn. She stopped and killed the engine.

“You don’t have to do that,” Martin said.

“I know. I was feeling cooped up and needed some sun and fresh air. Tuna sandwiches for lunch? I’ll make fries.”

“Sounds good. Want me to finish the mowing?”

“No, there’s not much left. Where do you dump the bag?”

“Just leave it. I’ll get it later.”

Inside, a yellow chyron glowed on Martin’s monitor—an important message within the last thirty minutes. He opened the communications program, printed it out double-spaced, then pulled Volume 8 (Winter 1952) of Reader’s Digest Condensed Books from the shelf. He turned to the indicated page and began deciphering.

It was a routine movement order. Visitors arriving Saturday night. This would go to George; he handled logistics for these things.

Martin erased the message, overwriting the sector three times with random characters.

He heard the mower shut off and the screen door slam. Ciara was back inside. He tucked the folded printout into his shirt pocket, returned the book to the shelf, and stepped outside. After emptying the grass collector, he drove down to George’s, handed him the message, then returned to the house.

Another day at Flatboat Landing.
 
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