Chapter 1: A Hand to Hold, A Home to Lose

Grandpa always used to say looks didn’t matter much. Real charm came from the inside.

He’d be out on the porch, leaning back in his old rocking chair, pipe in hand. Those eyes of his would twinkle, and he’d grin as he said it. Sometimes I’d catch myself watching him, thinking about his words—folks might forget your face, but never your heart. That was his favorite. Those words stuck with me. They echoed in the quiet moments, especially when I was trying to figure out what kind of person I wanted to be.

Clayton Reed? He was just the kind of guy Grandpa meant. The kind whose strength ran deep.

He wasn’t flashy. No expensive boots. No tailored shirts. Just plain jeans and a faded flannel. But there was a weight to the way he carried himself, like he’d been through the wringer and come out stronger. You could tell just by his handshake—firm, but never showy.

He looked pretty average. But his eyes—steady, sincere.

There was a quiet honesty in his eyes. The kind of look that made you want to trust him, you know? Even before you knew why. He didn’t shift or fidget, just stood there, solid as a rock.

He said he had doubts.

His voice was low and rough, like gravel under boots. "The Whitaker family’s been running this county for decades. They’ve got the heart of Silver Hollow in their hands. Are you really okay just handing it all over to someone else?" Clayton didn’t sugarcoat it.

There was no point in pretending, not here. The air between us was thick with unspoken history. I was already here—so what was the point of hiding anything?

“Mr. Reed.” I met his eyes without flinching. “Power’s just smoke—it fades fast.”

I let the words hang in the air, to show I meant it. “All my family wants is peace and stability for everyone.”

Didn’t expect him to trust me right away. He was sizing me up, and, honestly, I was doing the same.

The room was quiet, save for the ticking of the old clock on the wall. Not everyone here was on his side.

Trust takes time.

So, Marcus Hayes and I stayed. Clayton always made sure we felt welcome.

The hospitality was genuine—coffee always brewing, a place at the table, a blanket if the nights got cold. He was always busy, out with the volunteer fire crew or county guard. Sometimes gone for days, only coming back late at night.

Jack Reed didn’t get to go with him, though he wanted to. Clayton was strict about his schooling, keeping him close and making him practice his handwriting.

“I used to join the drills, but now I’m not allowed,” Jack grumbled, lying on the grass. He let out a sigh. “Big brother says I gotta focus on my studies, but all I want is to go out there with him.”

His voice had that whiny edge only a younger brother can muster. Marcus and I were bored too, honestly. Even though we knew Jack still had work to do, we came to hang out anyway.

“You got a late start, so it’s tougher, that’s all,” I said gently, trying to make him feel better.

I knew how dull it was—who likes memorizing dead words? Still, it’s worth it. “Jack, your brother’s just looking out for you. Even in a fight, you can’t just muscle your way through.”

I shot him a look. Hoped he’d see reason. The breeze rustled the grass around us, and for a moment, it felt like the world was holding its breath.

“I know.” Jack suddenly sat up, brushing grass off his jeans. “Fine, in a few days, big brother and Mr. Sanford will be back.”

He sounded a little more hopeful, glancing toward the dirt road as if he expected them to roll up any minute. “Eli and Noah are still inside working. As their uncle, I can’t fall behind…”

With that, he ducked into the trailer to catch up on his homework.

Marcus followed him in, maybe to help. Mostly to tease Jack.

Funny thing is, Jack, a grown man, writes just as messily as the two little kids, Eli and Noah Reed.

Sometimes I’d go in too. Whenever they got stuck, I could always lend a hand.

Marcus felt pretty accomplished—after all, Jack’s handwriting was even worse than his own back in the day… That was about the only thing he had over him.

I finished up. Carefully wiped down my hunting knife and slid it back into its sheath.

There’s something meditative about cleaning a blade, the way the metal catches the light. Looking up, I suddenly spotted a woman in the distance, struggling to carry a bucket of water. I straightened up and hurried over.

“Hey, Missus!”

I took the bucket from her and headed toward the kitchen behind the trailer. I glanced at her—she shouldn’t be hauling this. “You really shouldn’t be doing heavy chores right now.”

This woman was Clayton’s wife. She’d gotten to know Jack well lately, so Marcus and I started calling her “Missus” too.

After pouring the water into the big pot in the kitchen, a few women spotted me and grinned. “Young Mr. Whitaker, here to help again today?”

Their voices were warm and teasing, like the aunts at a church potluck who never let you forget your manners. Honestly, I grinned back. “I saw Missus struggling with the water,” I said, pouring and chatting with them. “I couldn’t just stand by, so I gave her a hand.”

“Oh my!” An older woman looked surprised. Then she scolded the Missus, “You’re so far along, how can you still be sneaking around doing heavy work?”

Missus was seven or eight months pregnant. The creek was far, and the dirt road back was bumpy—not safe at all.

She had that stubborn streak common in country women, the kind who won’t let a little thing like pregnancy slow them down. “Alright, alright.” Missus was gentle but quick with her hands. As she picked green beans, she turned and smiled at the woman. “I’m not that fragile. When I was pregnant with Eli and Noah, I was still chopping firewood the day before I gave birth!”

She spoke lightly, like childbirth was nothing to worry about.

Her laughter filled the kitchen, and a couple of the women shook their heads—half-admiring, half-exasperated. I felt a little envious. If only my mom had been as healthy as Clayton’s wife.

If my mom were still alive, she’d be about the same age as Missus now. She was five years older than Clayton, who was thirty-three this year.

I’d learned all this from Jack.

He deeply respected his brother and sister-in-law. His big brother was like a father, his sister-in-law like a mom. Even without blood ties, Clayton and his wife truly treated Jack like family.

Unlike Clayton’s strict, fatherly discipline, Missus was more like a loving mother.

Once, Jack had snuck some homemade cider his brother brought home. I barely had any, but he and Marcus got completely wasted.

He’d let his guard down around us. When drunk, he just wouldn’t stop talking.

“When I was three, I was begging for food. Big brother gave me a biscuit, and I just wouldn’t leave him.” Jack looked like he might cry, mumbling, “Later I found out, that was the only biscuit he had… just one… but he gave it all to me.”

The memory seemed to sting. His voice went soft. “After that, he raised me by himself. Our house leaked everywhere, sometimes we didn’t even have food. For my sake, big brother stayed single till he was twenty-four—only a widow like Missus was willing to marry him.”

“For the first time, I wore clothes without holes. I was eleven that year. Big brother was chopping wood by the fence, and I thought, having a sister-in-law is wonderful.”

I thought, Jack really was lucky.

Clayton’s wife was an amazing person, and so was Clayton. The way they cared for Jack—it was less like a younger brother and more like a son.

In a lifetime, meeting good people is rare. Makes you realize how lucky you are.

For me, for Jack—

Guess we just got lucky.

“Missus.” I put down the bucket, setting it out of the way. “If there’s nothing else, I’ll head out.”

After all, it wasn’t exactly proper for me to hang around here alone. Wouldn’t look right.

“Hey—” Missus called after me. “Young Mr. Whitaker!”

I watched as she ran behind the stove, dug something blackened out of the ashes, brushed it off, and brought it over. Up close, I saw it was a baked potato.

She handed it to me, her voice gentle. “Go on, have some fun.”

Then she turned back to her work.

I froze, just for a second, looking at the ash-smudged potato in my hand, a little stunned.

The smell of earth and smoke hit me, and suddenly I was a kid again, watching my grandma pull sweet potatoes from the coals behind our old house. The memory made me smile. I took a big bite. “Mmm… delicious!”

“Thank you, Missus!”

With that, I ran off, munching happily.

I always felt a special warmth from her. Couldn’t help but think how rare that was.

Jack had fallen far behind in his studies. Lately, he’d just been rushing to catch up, barely remembering to eat. Missus would bring him meals in the trailer. Today, seeing his frayed sleeve, she just sat down to mend it.

The light through the trailer window caught the silver thread in her hair. Marcus and I went to see Jack and happened to run into her.

With nothing better to do, I squatted next to Jack. Watched Missus sew.

I didn’t know why, but even back at home, I loved watching Aunt Carol do needlework. Now, watching Missus sew gave me that same comfort.

It wasn’t the embroidery itself. I just liked watching them work. It made me feel at peace.

Maybe my mom used to sew clothes in just this way.

Dad said my mom was very skilled with her hands.

I believed it. The old house in Maple Heights still held plenty of her handmade clothes and shoes.

Small, but beautifully made. I wondered what her hands looked like, working the needle.

In my mind, my mom was always a beautiful, mysterious shadow.

Grandpa, Grandma, and Dad never shied away from talking about her in front of me. In fact, they loved to tell me what she was like.

So I learned a lot about her past.

Even as a gentle young woman, she was frail. She loved to sit by the west window and sew. Kept a cat. Filled the yard with lilacs.

She later married her childhood sweetheart. Their marriage was loving, but the wars kept them apart more than together.

Two years after the wedding, she became pregnant. She picked a nickname for the baby—Ellie.

She wrote to her husband, saying Ellie would always be her most cherished child. She made lots of new clothes, wondering if the baby would like them or not.

A few days later, her husband wrote back, telling her not to worry—anything Mom made, Ellie would love.

She trusted him completely, and waited peacefully for the baby to grow.

Ten months pregnant, one day in labor.

She gave birth to a little boy, took one last lingering look at the world, and died late one night at twenty, before her husband could return.

I’ve read the letters she wrote.

After I learned a few big words, I once found a thick stack under Dad’s pillow.

She was my mom.

In her letters, she called the baby her most cherished “Ellie.”

Grandpa, Grandma, and Dad—they all told me how much my mom loved me.

But I always felt that my love for her lasted longer than hers for me.

She loved me for ten months, but my longing for her would last my whole life.

Maybe only when I close my eyes for the last time will this longing finally end.

“What are you daydreaming about—”

Missus’s voice snapped me out of it. She rubbed the needle on her hair, half-laughing, half-crying. “Mending clothes is boring work. How come you’re so fascinated, young man?”

Her voice had a teasing lilt, the kind that made you feel like you belonged. “Missus, just call me Ben—no need to be so formal.” I liked her. She had the special warmth only a mother has.

“Heh… alright!”

Hearing her agree so readily, I cheered up and kept watching her sew.

Watching, I remembered Dad making me padded pants, and couldn’t help but laugh.

“Missus, my dad can sew, too.”

“Really?” She looked up, surprised. “Your dad does women’s work?”

Her eyebrows shot up, half in disbelief, half in amusement. “Yeah!” I nodded hard. “Though he’s not very good at it.”

“Once, he made me a pair of padded pants… That was the first time I went hunting with him.”

Marcus suddenly chimed in, “I remember! You were thirteen!”

He was excited too.

“That year, your dad and you came to meet us at the county fair after your win. You were all bloodied in your jacket, looking so tough.”

“But when we got home, everyone saw you were wearing a pair of patched-up padded pants under your coat. The legs weren’t even the same width—you looked like a little ragamuffin.”

He shot me a look.

“Then you wore those pants back to Maple Heights, refused to take them off no matter what. When Old Mr. Whitaker asked, he found out your dad made them himself. You got teased for days.”

I laughed too, but still defended Dad: “It was his first time sewing—just being wearable was impressive.”

“That year, heading north, the mountains were dry and cold. Dad saw my legs all frostbitten and felt awful. After I fell asleep, he whittled a wooden needle and sewed all night by lantern. But the needle was too thick—after just a few hours the next day, the pants tore.”

I shrugged. “Dad had to patch them again and again. By the end, those pants were nothing but patches.”

Marcus couldn’t stop laughing—and honestly, those pants really were an eyesore.

I meant to tell the story to make Missus laugh.

But when I looked at her, she wasn’t smiling at all.

“Thirteen…” She bowed her head, her sewing slowing. “Still just a child. Your mom must’ve worried herself sick.”

But my mom never had the chance. I said quietly, “…Mom died giving birth to me.”

Missus suddenly started crying.

She lowered her head, wiping her face with her sleeve.

I panicked, fumbling for something to say. I really hadn’t meant to make her cry!

Jack and Marcus were no help, just staring at each other. After a long, awkward pause, I finally stammered, “Missus, please don’t cry…”

Thunder rumbled, and suddenly it started to rain.

In these backwoods, the weather comes without warning—one minute clear, the next pouring.

The rain drummed on the metal roof, drowning out our voices. “Poor kid… you’ve had a hard life.” Missus wiped her tears, pointing at the sky. “Even the sky’s crying with you.”

I’d seen looks of pity on Grandpa and Grandma’s faces, and on Dad’s and Aunt Carol’s. But the pain on Missus’s face was different.

I couldn’t say how, but I just knew it was.

“Missus, I’m really alright!”

I didn’t want others to feel bad for me. Missus was a good person, so I told her, “Grandpa and Grandma treat me so well, Dad loves me, and there’s someone waiting for me to come home and get married! Her name’s Jenny Carter—she’s my fiancée. When the world calms down, we’ll have a kid, teach him to read and hunt.”

I smiled at her. “Missus, really, I’m fine.”

“Yeah, Missus!” Jack chimed in. “He’s about to get married.”

“You boys are all eager to run off,” Missus finished her sewing, bit off the thread, and folded the clothes, suddenly a little sad. “Leaving us women at home, worrying day and night.”

With that, she got up, put on her raincoat, and left.

The screen door banged behind her, echoing her mood. “She’s feeling down,” Jack said, sitting cross-legged with his pencil in hand.

“If her first child hadn’t died, he’d be your age now.”

So, eighteen years ago, Missus had also known the pain of losing a husband and child.

Missus, the heavens aren’t crying for me—they’re crying for you.