Total pages in book: 43
Estimated words: 40275 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 201(@200wpm)___ 161(@250wpm)___ 134(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 40275 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 201(@200wpm)___ 161(@250wpm)___ 134(@300wpm)
Here in North Carolina, lumber and tobacco are the currency of generational wealth, yet there’s nothing old Callahan hates more than handing over his money, no matter how many zeros he’s got in his bank account.
So, he can fucking wait like he’s making me wait. I’m not a greedy bastard, but you sign a contract, shake a hand? Then you keep your word. I’ve done some fucked up shit in my life, but I keep my promises. Even the ones I shouldn’t.
I honor my obligations. No matter what. All a man really has is his word.
Low TV chatter from my brother Stevie’s bedroom down the hall drifts into the kitchen. He’s not awake; I poked my head in before I made the coffee. He keeps that fucking thing on almost twenty-four hours a day but I can’t blame him.
At least once a day I wheel him out onto the deck, or put him on the lift I installed and push his chair on the paved paths around the perimeter of the house when the weather allows. Janie, his caregiver, does the same, but it’s exhausting for him. He lives in constant pain and there’s nothing I can fucking do to fix it.
Guilt is my closest friend, along with Stevie and Janie who both make busting my balls an extreme sport.
Even with Janie’s help, Stevie is a full-time occupation. One I will do with zero complaints for the rest of my life. Without me, he’d end up in some facility and I will never, ever let that happen.
I’m ashamed of myself pissing and moaning about not sleeping while my little brother lies in his room, probably wishing he wouldn’t wake up. Not that he’s ever said that. He’s the most positive and cheerful fucking person I know, even though he has every reason to be a total bastard.
The sound of Stevie groaning in his sleep pierces a jagged blade through my heart. I don’t think most people understand how much it hurts to be paralyzed. He can’t get away from the pain, even in his sleep.
I have to get out of here.
I dump my coffee into the stainless-steel sink and rinse my mug, hanging it back on the first hook as I do every morning. Since Janie’s still asleep, I unplug the coffee maker, and work my way to the back door where my heavy flannel hangs at the end of a row of hooks with coats and straps for helping move Stevie as well as a couple bridles that need repair.
I need a walk. It’s four in the morning, but that’s the best time to be out on the mountain.
Janie’s here with the monitor on in the room I fixed up for her when she stays. She was hoping I would get some sleep with her taking the night shift.
No such luck.
I slip my arms into the shirt and take a last look around before I head outside. I rebuilt the kitchen soon after Stevie and I moved here. It’s mostly open shelves on the top with the original alder wood cabinets below, which I sanded and refinished when money wasn’t as abundant as it is now.
I’m not rich. Paying for Stevie’s care and medical bills takes a good chunk of what I make, but things are good. We’re more than comfortable and I have enough saved and invested to take care of him for the rest of his life. Everything I do is for him.
Stevie and I own almost a thousand acres of land here on Carson Mountain. We inherited it and it’s worth a bucket of money, but that doesn’t translate into cash. Not unless I sell it and that’s not happening as long as I draw breath.
This is our home and I think it’s this place that has kept Stevie going. He loves being in the mountains. I do too, for that matter. It suits me.
I’m never leaving unless I’m in a box.
I ease out the door into the chill and darkness. The soft beep of the security system isn’t loud enough to wake anyone and I’ll be back before they're up around seven. I just need some air and movement.
I stuff my hands into the front pockets of my jeans as my boots crunch on the damp leaves. I wind my way off the cleared part of our property toward my favorite path that leads around the original cabin, built by my grandfather and his father about eighty years ago.
It’s a couple miles up the trail, but the exercise is good for my head. I grab my Winchester from my truck as I pass, because I’m not the only one that likes this mountain at four in the morning.
There’s a freezing mist in the air, but I don’t feel the cold. I trudge along, pushing away the looming disaster my temper has caused me once again. I don’t want to entertain what ifs, but my short fuse could cost me the one thing in my life I vowed to never abandon.