Page 3 of Where the Music Grows

“Why not? You’re young. You’ve got the whole world in front of you.”

I scoff. “I’ve got a dairy farm in front of me. And a long dirt road.”

“You’re going to write a good one. Just you wait.”

I laugh. “Might be waiting a while. Feels like there’s not much time. You know how it is.”

“What about your college plans?”

I rub the back of my neck. “Trying to figure that out. I’m thinking about doing music, but I gotta nail down the basics first.”

George nods with understanding. “They won’t be too pleased about that back on the farm, I guess.”

“No. Not at all.”

“Not their decision, though,” George says gently. “Remember, it’s yours, not theirs.”

“For now, I’m not saying anything,” I tell him. “I’m going to do general ed stuff. I doubt I’ll get a degree anyway. My dad doesn’t want me going at all. Thinks it’s a waste of time and money.”

I shrug, picking up a box of nails and sliding it onto the shelf. This mundane work is not where I belong. I know it. I feel it. I’m not supposed to be here. And I won’t be forever. I’m going to make it. I’m going to get my ass out of this town. I’m never going to look back. Aiden, Brendon, and Trent will be here forever. They’ll all work at the plant until they retire.

Not me.

I can’t. It’ll kill me.

“You’ve got a gift, Jack,” he says. “Don’t let anyone talk you out of chasing it. Not your dad, not those idiots out there, nobody. You hear me?”

It’s easy for George to say—he’s not the one staring down the barrel of his father’s disappointment every damn day. Still, there’s something about the way he says it that makes me believe him, even if just for a second.

Chapter Two

Jack

The sun beats down on the back of my neck. The sweat trickles down my spine and pools at the waistband of my jeans. My hands are raw from grabbing bales, the rough twine biting into my palms right through my worn gloves no matter how hard I try to avoid it. The hay scratches at my arms, leaving red lines that itch like crazy. I swear, this stuff is worse than poison ivy.

I heave another bale onto the flatbed, grunting with the effort. My shoulders ache, my back feels like it’s one wrong move away from snapping, and my jeans are so full of hay it feels like I’m wearing a damn scarecrow costume. I swipe at my forehead with the back of my hand, but it’s pointless—more sweat just takes its place.

“You gonna keep up, or what?” Caleb calls from the other side of the field. He’s tossing bales onto his flatbed like they’re pillows, not even breaking a sweat. Always showing off.

“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter under my breath, grabbing another bale and hauling it up. My legs shake a little as I stack it on top of the others. It’s not that I’m weak—okay, maybe I’m not as strong as Caleb or Michael—but this work just feels wrong. Like I’m pouring everything I’ve got into something that doesn’t mean a damn thing to me.

The tractor rumbles in the distance. I can just make out Dad’s silhouette behind the wheel. I grab another bale, gritting my teeth as the twine bites into my gloves again. The heat is relentless, the air thick with the smell of hay and diesel from the tractor blowing black smoke. The thing is older than I am and is broke down more often than it runs. My shirt is soaked through, clinging to my skin like a second layer. I can feel the sunburn starting to bloom on the back of my neck, but I don’t stop.

“You good?” Michael’s voice cuts through the haze of heat and exhaustion. He’s standing a few feet away, his flatbed half-full already. His tone is casual, but there’s a flicker of concern in his eyes.

“Peachy,” I snap harsher than I mean to, slamming another bale onto the stack. My arms are trembling now, but I keep going. “Just loving every second of this.”

Michael doesn’t say anything for a minute. “It’s not forever, you know,” he says.

“Long enough,” I mutter under my breath.

We’ve been working since dawn. The idea is to start early to beat the heat, but inevitably, we’re still left cooking under the Wisconsin summer sun. From where we are in the hay field, we can hear the telltale sign of the dinner bell.

Yes, we use a dinner bell. It was old-fashioned but effective. It wasn’t actually dinner. It was lunch. We didn’t typically eat breakfast. If we wanted to eat breakfast, we had to sacrifice sleep. None of us are willing to do that.

We all stop what we’re doing and head toward the house. Caleb and Michael are way ahead. The screen door slams behind me as I step into the kitchen, the smell of fried chicken and biscuits wrapping around me like a hug. My brothers are already at the table, shoveling food into their mouths like they’ve been starved for weeks.

“Took you long enough,” Caleb says, wiping grease off his chin with the back of his hand. “Thought we’d have to eat without you.”