Whiskey Moon

Left with two options: walk away with nothing or work like hell until it belonged to us again, we chose the latter. Cash, myself, and our older brothers, Tripp and Hart, have poured more blood, sweat, and tears into this ranch than we should have, but we’ve done it all for her.

Only it hasn’t been so easy. Corn and soybeans don’t get the rate they used to anymore, and large dairy corporations have all but put every local dairy farmer out of business over the past few years. We sold off that portion of our operation, barely breaking even, before selling off a thousand-acre portion of the ranch at fire sale pricing.

While things have gotten better the last couple of years, our heads are barely above water.

I’m hopeful that someday soon, Mama will be willing to fold and walk away with some semblance of a true retirement, but she’s proud of what we’ve built so far, how we bounced back after tragedy. She’s all guts and all glory, and she wouldn’t know what to do with herself if she had nothing but time on her hands. That and she’s become somewhat of a local celebrity in the area—everyone around here knows the story of the former beauty queen turned widow who saved the family farm with the help of her sons.

I have to say, though, it’s been years since I’ve seen her shine like this.

“Why don’t you finish up here then come to the house,” Mama says. “I’ll make you some bacon and eggs.”

She makes her way back up the hill toward the wraparound porch.

When I was younger, I always thought I’d marry Blaire one day and we’d make my family home ours. My brothers and I all agreed that out of the four of us, I was the one who’d take over the family farm when the time came. I loved it more than they did, and my work ethic was second to none.

But this kind of living isn’t for the faint of heart.

Deep down, I know that I never could’ve given Blaire the life she deserved. After all, I don’t even think I’d be able to buy her a proper ring. I’m still driving the same old beater, and I’ve taken to living at the old line shack we used to frequent when we were kids. I’ve made a few updates since then—running a gas line for a propane tank, adding a new bed, and a handful of other personal touches, but it’s still a glorified studio apartment in the middle of nowhere.

I finish sharpening the last blade and head in for a quick bite, following the scent of frying bacon as I take in the sunrise.

Tires crunch over gravel in the distance, and I glance over my shoulder to spot Cash headed down the drive in his shiny new F-150. Petty Cash is doing well, and I couldn’t be happier for him. Maybe one of these days he can start paying an actual sitter instead of using Mama for free daycare. Not that she minds. After raising four boys, it’s not her first rodeo. But the kid can be a handful at times.

I step inside, take a seat at the table, and stare at the empty place my father once occupied.

I’d be lying if I said his death wasn’t the best—and simultaneously the worst—thing to happen to this family.

Mama plates the food just in time for Cash to mosey in, bags under his eyes and the stench of spilt liquor and cigarettes wafting off last night’s clothes.

“Morning, Cash,” Mama says.

“Morning, Mama.” He slumps into his chair, raking his fingers through his disheveled mop before shooting me an amused look across the table.

“What?” I mouth.

He smirks, rolling his eyes. “Late night?”

I shake my head. “The hell are you talking about?”

“You ran into Blaire Abbott last night and then the two of you left together. Now you’re sitting here looking like you didn’t sleep a wink.” He shrugs. “Must’ve been a late night for you is all I’m saying.”

“Wyatt, you ran into Blaire?” Mama struts toward us with a frying pan filled with scrambled eggs.

Mama loved Blaire more than anyone any of my brothers have ever brought home combined. She considered her “the daughter she never had,” and especially loved to take her under her wing. I can’t recall how many times I found the two of them giggling in the kitchen, Mama teaching Blaire how to make her famous country apple pie, or Blaire nearly missing her curfew because they were too caught up talking about old movies and local folklore. Plus, Mama knew all about Blaire’s less-than-matronly stepmother. She was more than happy to be a much-needed mother figure.

Only recently did I find out Blaire’s father and my mother dated all throughout high school. Mama’s version of events is that Oliver Abbott was absolutely smitten and obsessed with her. They had plans to marry after high school—until my father rode into town and swept her off her feet.