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Chapter1

Drawing Battle Lines

Ford Evans struggled to wrap his brain around the size of four-hundred acres. Now that he was in charge of the buildings on his buddy’s apple farm, he figured he’d better get a feel for the size and scope of the property.

He grabbed his tablet and headed to the front of the property. Might as well start his initial survey of what needed to be done at the driveway and work his way in a logical pattern.

Ford had grown up in Miami and he knew blocks, square yards, and linear feet, but not acres. A walking tour of the entire place would help.

He’d been at the farm for the better part of a week, but building a compost facility had taken up a shit-ton—hah—of his time. Now, the Worminator was up and running, so Ford could turn his mind to the rest of the property to see what needed fixing, what needed rebuilding, and what tasks would take priority.

The To Do List would be long. Actually, the To DoListswould be long. He was sure he’d have at least a dozen lists by the time he was done with his initial survey of the place. The thought had him grinning. He would never run out of things to do on the farm. It was perfect.

Who would have thought a kid from Florida would find his place on an apple farm in Vermont, land of winter and snow?

The thought sent chills down his spine, even though it was a warm spring day. Hurricanes? Sure. No problem. You could prep for those. He’d been building window coverings and filling sandbags since he’d been in kindergarten. He knew to always have a go-bag ready. The army had reinforced all those lessons of preparedness.

What the hell did a builder—a construction guy—do in the winter in Vermont? Building snow forts wasn’t quite the same as putting up new houses.

Although the family business back in Florida had turned more to commercial buildings. Not Ford’s favorite. He liked the buildings to have souls. He actually preferred restoring to building new, not something his family business did.

Older buildings had character. Newer ones were more about cost per square foot. Which meant fewer corners and less interesting shapes. Square boxes stacked on and beside square boxes.

He liked buildings that were unique. Things that had potential. Restoring that potential was the best part of being a builder.

His dad and older brothers, all seven of them, would disagree. They liked efficiency and safety. Straight lines and secure foundations. Nothing wrong with any of that, but it wasn’t Ford’s thing.

His only younger sibling, Mara, didn’t have a single interest in the family business. As the only female in the house, and the youngest, she’d gone out of her way to find something else to be interested in. Baking. Which had made the rest of them happy.

Ford had joined the army in a search to findhisown place as well. He’d found his way into special forces and had enjoyed doing good around the world. But the army was a young man’s game and after a couple of tours, Ford had figured it was time to go home.

But that hadn’t fit. The family business was firmly established. With so many brothers, there hadn’t been a lot of open space in the company, and nothing Ford enjoyed. He’d been not much more than an errand boy and odd-job doer. Boring as hell.

So, here he was in Vermont. On an apple farm.

Not something that he’d ever thought about before. But his best buddy from the army, Knox Malssum, had inherited one. Then he’d talked Ford into taking a chance on working with him. Knox wanted Ford to be in charge of the buildings, the fences, and whatever else needed doing.

Like the Worminator. The name still made him laugh. Knox’s woman, Thea, was into regenerative farming. Something else Ford had known nothing about.

After building the Worminator, Ford knew more about compost, regenerative farming principles, and the vision Knox and Thea had for the farm. It was fascinating, and he looked forward to being part of the team, bringing this farm back to life in an environmentally healthy way.

Today, he’d start with a farm-wide tour and evaluation of all the structures. Once he had a prioritized list and inventory, he could make some decisions, figure out what needed his attention first.

The apple farm sat along a quiet secondary highway in Vermont. He figured he could stand there for a couple of hours before a single vehicle passed. The road led to a town with the ridiculous name of Phail in one direction and a bunch of even smaller towns in the other.

For a kid from a big city, it was bizarre. Quiet. So many trees and so much green. As different as Kansas was from Oz. He nearly groaned aloud. His sister’s loud love of musicals had drilled dozens of the songs and the storylines into his head.

Mara would love to know she had him thinking in musical terms, so he never planned to share that with her.

Ford shook his head at himself and pulled his mind back to the task. Inventory and evaluation. With the property being so large, it was going to take a while. Certainly more than a day.

He pulled up the first spreadsheet and wroteRoadside Fenceon the first tab. The wooden fence bordering the property looked to be at least fifty years old, maybe closer to a hundred. It was worn and matched the feel of the farm. The typical triple-rail fence was in fairly good shape. He paced along both sides to the property line, looking for sections in need of repair.

He took pictures and added notes about those sections to his spreadsheet. Then he added the color-code. Green. This project could wait.

From the road, where not a single vehicle had passed, he could only see glimpses of the first farmhouse. The property had two, but the second wasn’t visible from here. Neither were any of the huge barns.

Apple trees dominated the landscape, popping up everywhere. Before he’d arrived, he’d imagined the farm as an orderly march of trees in rows. Some of the orchard was like that, but Knox had told him many of the sections had been planted in the 1800s. No modern machinery for harvesting meant the owners had scattered the trees in a friendlier manner. This space had originated as a small family venture and had grown over more than a dozen decades.