Page 5 of Where the Music Grows

They don’t argue. They never do. Caleb claps me on the shoulder as he passes, like he’s bracing me for impact. My brothers aren’t exactly supportive of my desire to set off on my own, but they don’t discourage it, either. They know I’m different. Michael shoots me an apologetic look before he follows Caleb inside. The screen door slams behind them, leaving me alone with Dad.

I set the guitar down carefully, like it’s made of glass. It’s the most precious thing I own.

He used to be different. That’s what I can’t stop thinking. Before Mom got sick, he’d sit on the porch with her, listening to me play. He’d even smile sometimes, like he almost got it. But after she died, it was like something in him hardened, turned sharp at the edges. He recoils whenever I pick up the guitar. I can’t seem to say or do the right things.

“You’re quitting the hardware store,” he says. No greeting. No lead-up. Just orders.

I blink. “What?”

“You heard me. Starting Monday, you’re working the farm full-time.”

My stomach twists. “We’ve got enough money to hire help. Michael and Caleb are already out there sunup to sundown. And I’m starting college in a couple months—”

“College.” He spits the word like it’s poison. “Waste of time and money.”

“It’s not. I’ve got the scholarship, but I just need a little more money to—”

“And what’s that gonna get you? A piece of paper?” He steps closer, his shadow swallowing me whole. “This farm is your family’s legacy. It’s your legacy.”

“It’s yours,” I snap before I can stop myself. “Not mine.”

His hand twitches. For a second, I think he’s going to grab the guitar, snap it over his knee. But he holds back.

“You’re selling that thing.” He nods at the guitar. “Put the money back into the farm where it belongs.”

The words punch through me. “No.”

“No?” His voice drops, dangerous.

“I’m not selling it. And I’m not quitting my job.” My hands curl into fists at my sides. “You don’t get to decide my life.”

The slap comes fast—a crack of skin on skin that snaps my head to the side. My cheek burns.

“Someone’s gotta knock sense into you,” he growls.

I touch my face, stunned. He’s never hit me before. Not like this.

“You’ll do as you’re told,” he says, turning for the door. “End of discussion.”

Then he’s gone, leaving me standing there, on the porch.

For a long minute, I don’t move. The anger boils under my skin, but beneath it, there’s something worse—hurt. Because no matter how much I fight, this farm is a chain around my ankle, and he’ll never let me go.

But I am going. College. The city. Anywhere but here.

I will not spend my life on this farm. Michael and Caleb can have it. They can share this house and raise their kids here. I won’t do it.

But for now, I’ll do my part. I’ll help out. I’ll make sure the cows are fed, and the chores are done. I owe my brothers that much.

Michael and Caleb are out in the fields by now, the rhythmic hum of the tractor cutting through the afternoon heat. I can hear Dad’s voice carrying over the wind, sharp and commanding, barking orders like he always does.

I take the guitar upstairs to my room and put it in my closet in case Dad gets some wild ideas. And then it’s back downstairs. Back to the field to finish stacking the first cut of hay. I hope like hell I’m not stuck doing this when it’s time to bring in the third cutting.

Chapter Three

Jack

I’m the last one downstairs for dinner. I pull out my chair and take my usual seat. Dad is there chowing down on a drumstick while Michael picks at a thigh. We don’t follow many rules at the table these days. Michael’s hat with the sweat-stained band is on the table. Caleb is using his shirt to wipe his fingers.