Page 1 of Where the Music Grows

Chapter One

Jack

I feel the calf nuzzle into my leg. He’s a little clumsy in his search for food. “Hey, buddy.”

I crouch beside it and run my fingers over the smooth spot between his eyes. In another life, I would have kept it, let it grow old and ordinary, even given it a name. Instead, it wobbles on shaky legs, unaware of what life has in store for him.

And it isn’t great. He isn’t going to grow up and be a strong bull. Only the male calves that have a pedigree from Dad’s prized bull get to stick around. Then they will be sold for thousands of dollars.

But this guy isn’t one of them.

Fifteen years ago, I would be out here crying like a baby. I’d be begging for his life while my older brothers laughed and teased me. My father would get pissed, like my sensitivity was a direct insult to him. Male calves didn’t have much use on a dairy farm. They were sold before they could become a financial burden. Their mamas were needed for their milk production. The babies weren’t needed once the cow was in milk. When I was little, it tore my heart out to watch the calves taken away.

Now, it’s just a fact of life. But I’m glad I’m not going to be here to witness the scene of the calves and old ladies that aren’t producing like they should get loaded up and hauled off. It’s the circle of life. Doesn’t mean I have to like it.

“Take care of yourself, young man.”

I pat his head and get to my feet. I need to change and get ready for my other job. The one that is just barely better than working the farm. At least I don’t have to smell cow shit or listen to the bleating of the mamas looking for their babies.

In the main barn, my father and brothers are working and talking about some new equipment the farm needs. They are always in the main barn with the cows, doing vaccinations and making sure things are clean. I always prefer the calves.

I secretly wish the calves could vanish before they were hauled away. Where is a tornado or cattle thief when you need one? If the calves disappeared before the truck showed up, it would just be an oops. My dad wouldn’t get the chance to scold me for being soft-hearted, for caring about things that shouldn’t matter. I will never forget the time I did try and help the calves escape. I’d probably been nine or ten.

I tiptoe across the yard. My heart pounds so hard I’m sure someone will hear it, but the farmhouse is dark and silent. I’ve got a plan. A stupid, reckless plan, but it’s the only one I’ve got.

The latch on the calf barn creaks when I lift it. I freeze, holding my breath. Nothing moves. Inside, the calves stir, their soft moos echoing in the quiet. They’re so small, so innocent, their big eyes blinking at me in the dim light. “Shh,” I whisper, creeping closer. “I’m gonna help you.”

I fumble with the gate, my fingers trembling as I push it open wide. The calves just stand there, confused. “Go on,” I urge quietly, waving my arms. “Run!” One of them takes a tentative step forward, then another, and suddenly they’re spilling out into the yard, their hooves clattering against the ground.

My chest swells with something like triumph as I watch them scatter into the darkness. But then one of them starts bawling, loud and panicked, and my stomach drops. The lights in the farmhouse flick on.

“Oh no,” I mutter under my breath. I can already hear heavy footsteps stomping toward the barn. Dad’s voice booms across the yard. “What in the hell is goin’ on out here?”

I shake my head, snapping myself out of the memory. Things did not end well for me that night. Suffice it to say, after shoveling shit for two weeks, I learned my lesson. There would be no freedom operations.

I head back inside and grab an apple before heading upstairs to my room. Posters of half-forgotten bands are thumbtacked to the walls and an old acoustic guitar—my mother’s—leans in the corner. She was the one who taught me chords and once said that maybe this farm wasn’t big enough for me. If she was here, she would have pushed me out of the nest and encouraged me to chase my dreams.

I take a quick five-minute shower to wash away the sweat and smell of hay and cow. There is a smell to cows. I didn’t notice it much because I lived and breathed it my whole life. But other people noticed. I’ve heard just about every joke there was about how bad I stunk. It’s funny, because around here, we all live and work on farms and ranches. We all spend our weekends in hay fields, handling animals and cleaning barns.

We all stink.

I step in front of the mirror and run my hand over my jaw. Minor stubble. I’m not going to worry about it. I quickly comb my dark hair in the usual way. It’s not exactly a style. It’s just short. Typical. Boring. But functional. My blue eyes are the feature I get the most compliments on. I think they’re pretty average. My brothers have the same eyes. It’s the thing that everyone notices about us.

Dad walks in just as I enter the kitchen.

“You got work today?” my father asks, looked at my clean jeans and fresh T-shirt.

“Yeah, I’ll be back for supper.”

“Plenty of chores for you to do. Be easier if you just did them during the day like the rest of us.”

I ignore it. It’s the same complaint I always get. My dad wants me under his thumb shucking hay and handling the dairy operation.

I need more.

“I need the job,” I mutter. “I need to pay for college.”

He snorts again. “Working here is going to be all the education you need. Caleb and Michael are doing just fine. It’s not like some stupid piece of paper is going to change much.”