Page 18 of Heartland

We roll past six greenhouses with solar panels on their roofs. Greenhouses are the only way to get a reliable tomato harvest in Vermont. Every time Isaac can save up enough money, he builds another greenhouse.

Leah and Isaac are amazing people. They ran away with nothing but huge plans. And the farm isn’t even the end of it. Leah is all fired up about starting a nonprofit to help other women and men who leave cults. They’ve helped me and Zach get on our feet, and now they want to help more people, too. So Leah spent the summer learning all she could about charitable fundraising.

If they get their nonprofit off the ground, I’ll be first in line to help. They say that the best revenge is living well. If I can help some other girl with scars on her butt get out of that hellscape where I grew up? That’s a double victory.

“Nice job,” Dylan says as I slow down to turn into the driveway. I pass the greenhouses and roll up to the farmhouse on the left.

On the right, there’s a small dairy barn, and also the state-certified Creamery Kitchen where Leah makes her cheeses.

“Oh, man,” Dylan grumbles.

“Did I do something wrong?”

“No way! You did great. But Griff is here.” He points at another truck parked beside Isaac’s greenhouses. “I’m sure he’ll find something to nag me about.”

It’s not very unusual for Griffin to stop by. Our two farms are intertwined in so many ways. The Shipleys sell cow’s milk to Leah for cheese. And when there’s a big job to do—like a sudden harvest or a greenhouse to raise—we barter our time. Dylan says he spent many of his teenage hours weeding peppers and lettuces for Isaac. And Isaac helps Griffin make cider after the veggie season is done.

I open the truck door and hop out just as Griffin comes out of the farmhouse. “I thought I heard the Ford,” he says. “The engine is still knocking?”

“I’ll get it looked at,” Dylan says gruffly, hopping out of the truck.

“You missed the afternoon milking,” Griffin says. “How convenient for you.”

“It’s my fault,” I say as I open the back door of Dylan’s truck to collect my stuff. “He had to wait for me to get out of class.”

“Likely story.” Griff bites into an apple he’s holding.

“Got more of those?” Dylan asks. It’s almost dinnertime, and he’s always starving.

Griffin reaches into his jacket pocket, pulls out two apples, and offers one to me before tossing one to Dylan. “You’re milking in the morning, right?”

“Of course I am. Sunday morning, too. But we head back around noon.” He bites the apple.

“Did you declare a major yet?” Griff asks.

Dylan actually grimaces. “Did you think I’d have a different answer than when you asked me ten minutes ago?”

His brother just shakes his head. “Drive the horses for me tomorrow, would you?”

“Sure,” Dylan grunts. “Whatever you need.” His words are helpful, but his expression is shuttered.

“Good deal. Your goat’s milk is in the creamery fridge,” Griff says, pointing. “I got dibs on the first batch of caramels.”

“A smarter man would put dibs on the third batch,” Dylan says.

“But if you get it right the first time, there won’t be a third batch,” Griff says. “Besides, how bad could a caramel be?”

“Curdled?” I suggest. “Burnt? Don’t jinx us.”

Griff makes a comical grimace. “Yikes, kids. I hope this doesn’t end badly.”

You and me both.

“Where’s the girlfriend? What’s her name—Kimberly?” Griff asks.

“Kaitlyn,” Dylan grumbles. “She’s going to a poetry reading, and she’s pissed I’m not there.” He reaches into the truck for his phone and then closes the door with a bang.

“Poetry?” Griffin pronounces the word as if it’s poison. “Bullet dodged, bro.” He hurls his apple core over the chicken fence, and the hens go running for it. Dylan does the same with his, and now there’s clucking and competition. “Thought maybe you were going to say you broke up.”