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“Yup,” was all his father said.

“Wouldn’t take much either,” I told him. “A crane. A couple of guys with hammers and spikes, to punch out the wood dowels holding them together…”

He turned to look at me, and his cerulean blue eyes sparkled in the morning sun. It was uncanny, how much he looked like Dakota in that moment.

“What would you do with them?”

I laughed. “Build another barn, of course. Maybe a workshop. Hell, you’d have enough here to build a lodge if you wanted.”

He nodded, and I could tell from his demeanor I’d mentioned at least one of the same ideas he’d been thinking of as well. Score one for me.

“It’s a shame,” I said, “but some people are just eager to rid themselves of history. They’d burn a place like this. Make room for something new and ugly.”

“Those people should be shot,” he actually laughed.

“Well… maybe not shot,” I grinned. “But yeah. Definitely tarred and feathered. Something along those lines.”

We walked some more, up a hill to where an old picket fence was practically falling in on itself. We were overlooking a great, reaching field. One that was apparently left fallow.

“Were you ever in the military?” I asked abruptly. “Like Dakota?”

“No.” The old farmer kept walking. “Wanted to be at one time, though.”

“What happened?”

“Failed the physical,” he said. “Bad eyes. Ironic, right? Dakota could spot a field mouse in a bramble patch from half a mile away. He’s got eagle eyes, that kid. But mine…”

He trailed off. I could tell by the number of flags and sheer amount of Americana around the house he was profoundly proud of his son. There were framed photos of Dakota dating all the way back to basic training. Some even included his commendations and medals.

“I wish I could’ve done my part,” said the old man. “My friends did. Some of them, anyway.”

I ran my hand along one of the sturdier fence posts. “Did you teach Dakota how to shoot?”

His father nodded proudly. “Hell yes I did. Started age five. He went competitive for a while — filled the whole house with ribbons and trophies.” His eyes flashed with fond remembrance. “I taught him everything he knew… up until the Army taught him more.”

“Well considering some of the things he’s done with his rifle,” I smiled, “I’d say you more than did your part then. Wouldn’t you?”

The old farmer stopped walking, and I stopped with him. He still had his hands in his pockets. His expression was the same, except now it held the hint of a wry smile.

“Listen,” I said abruptly. “I’m really, deeply in love with your son.”

He remained stoic. Motionless.

“You are, eh?”

“Yes.”

I stepped into his field of vision. Forced him to look at me.

“I know it’s weird. I know it’s unorthodox,” I said. “And I know it’s the very last thing you and your wife expected. Trust me, I know where you’re at. I didn’t expect it myself. If you would’ve told me three years ago—”

“What about the others?” he asked. “You love them too?”

There was no use in holding back. I nodded firmly. “Yes.”

“Same as Dakota?”

I searched my feelings. “Yes,” I said truthfully. “I love them all with the same heart, the same emotion and intensity. But I also love them for different reasons. They’re individuals, every one of them. I love them for their differences, too.”