More importantly, even if Dwayne faced consequences, we would still be missing the feed our cattle needed.
Legal proceedings could drag on.
The temperature would keep dropping.
And the animals wouldn’t care who was responsible.
They would simply need to eat.
“I’ll handle it,” I told Ben.
“But Mom—”
“I promise you, I’m not letting him take the farm.”
Ben looked at me for a long moment before quietly returning to the workshop.
I walked toward the mudroom.
Tom’s brown canvas work jacket hung from its usual hook.
The sleeves were faded, and one pocket had a small tear I’d been meaning to repair.
I reached into that pocket.
My fingers touched something familiar.
His notebook.
Tom carried that little book everywhere.
He wrote down breeding dates, hay yields, fencing repairs, veterinary expenses, and reminders about work that needed doing.
I opened it.
The final page contained an entry written the day before he died.
