Chapter Text
Henry Fox sat on the porch bench with his elbows braced on his knees, his face buried in his hands. The nine-dollar bills tucked in the inner pocket of his coat pressed coldly against his chest like a piece of ice. A gust of wind swept through, stirring up a curl of dust, and he squinted, suddenly pulled back to that damp, gray morning three months ago on the docks at Southampton.
He was the second son of the Fox family. In England, that meant many things—and very little. It meant he bore a respectable surname, held a small share of a country property, had an Oxford education, and could read Latin and Greek fluently. It meant he held views on European history and politics befitting someone of his station. It also meant that his grandparents’ attention, the family’s resources, and the future’s center of gravity had never once been his.
That spring, his grandmother had summoned him into her study and handed him a folder containing a few land deeds and a brief report. “Texas, near Austin. Forty acres, with a house and some basic structures. Purchased last year—it’s an investment.” Her gaze rested on the world map spread across the desk. “You can go there and see what you can make of it. Manage the place.”
It was not a discussion. It was an instruction. And Henry understood exactly what she meant: There is no place for you here. Go there. Don’t get in the way.
He tried to object. “I know nothing about agriculture, Grandmother. Perhaps someone more—”
“Hollis will go with you,” she cut in. “He has a small farm in Ireland. He has experience. He’ll help you. What you need, Henry, is to learn. To put your feet on the ground. Book knowledge is of limited use in the real world.”
His mother quietly gave him some savings; his elder brother Philip clapped him on the shoulder and wished him “new discoveries in the New World.” He brought a few crates of books, some clothes, and the pocket watch his father had given him. And just like that, he set out across the Atlantic.
The voyage was long and dull. Hollis was a gray-haired, soft-spoken man, always unfailingly polite, addressing him as “sir” or “young master.”
“Yes, sir, the land near Austin is said to be fertile.”
“The house is timber-built. Quite sturdy.”
“Initial investment is necessary, sir, but it will yield returns soon enough.”
Henry leaned against the ship’s rail, staring at the endless stretch of water, trying to picture Texas. He had read travel journals; in his mind it was a place of sweeping plains, roaming bison, cowboys on horseback with rifles at their sides. And he allowed himself one last, fragile hope—that perhaps there, far from his family and the path laid out for him, he might finally become himself.
But reality turned out to be dry dust, blistering sun, and a desolation nothing like what he’d imagined.
By the time the wagon delivered him and Hollis to the farm, dusk was falling. The house looked older and more isolated than described, its white paint peeling in long strips. The barn and the livestock shed leaned precariously, and the so-called “forty acres” stretched into a horizon of tough, yellowing wild grass he could not name. Only the well at the front, creaking as it drew water, offered anything clean or sweet.
In those first few days, Hollis showed him around. But whenever Henry asked about actual crop plans, livestock purchases, or tools they needed, Hollis’s answers grew vague.
“We’ll need to clear the land first, young master.”
“Seeds are an expense.”
“Some tools still have use.”
According to his grandmother’s instructions, most of the funds Henry brought were placed in Hollis’s care for “necessary initial costs.”
A week passed. One morning, Hollis didn’t appear in the kitchen, and Henry’s breakfast was nothing but a piece of dry bread. By noon, uneasy, he knocked on Hollis’s door.
No answer.
He pushed it open. The room was empty. Hollis’s belongings were gone; the drawers hung open. Gone with them were the envelope containing most of Henry’s cash—and the farm’s only horse.
On the table lay a hastily penciled note:
Young master, forgive me for leaving without notice. There is no hope here. I’ve taken my share. I wish you luck.
No signature.
Henry stood there for a long time, the slip of paper crumpling in his fist. What he felt was not anger but a cold numbness, followed by a sharp, searing shame. He had been fooled—so easily, so completely. The “experienced” man his grandmother trusted had walked away with his money, leaving him with an empty house and a barren stretch of land.
He ran outside to the stable. The horse was indeed gone. He checked the barn—only a few rusted, half-broken tools remained. The pantry held little more than a bit of flour and some beans. The house itself was still untouched by any repairs, furnished with things falling apart or too old to be of use.
He felt despair—and something worse than despair: the realization that from here on, survival depended entirely on him.
In the days that followed, Henry tried to do things on his own. He nearly crushed himself attempting to fix the collapsed corner of the livestock shed. He calculated seeding quantities and planting schedules for wheat from the books he brought, but when he stepped into that endless prairie of wild grass, those neat numbers and theories felt laughably flimsy. He had no idea where to even begin.
At night, the empty house echoed with small, uncanny sounds—the wind keening, mice skittering behind the walls. He didn’t dare sleep upstairs in the large, cold bedroom. Instead, he curled up on the old sofa in the parlor near the fireplace, lighting the fire again and again as it sputtered out.
His money dwindled. He began selling the things he’d brought from England. He no longer felt like Henry Fox—a gentleman of a respectable family, an Oxford-educated young man. He felt like a foreigner stranded in the Texas wilderness, someone slowly being stripped of everything, someone who struggled even to light a fire, someone pitied by the stagecoach station keeper and eyed curiously—or mockingly—by passing rough men.
A few more days passed, and he was down to nine dollars in his pocket. Maybe enough for another month. But then what?
Sell the table? The chairs? Eventually the house itself?
But if he sold the house, where would he go? Back to England? He couldn’t afford the fare.
He lifted his head; the sun was sinking behind the distant hills. The wind cut sharper, threading into his coat. Autumn was near. Winter would follow. How was he supposed to survive it?
Henry shivered. Not from the cold, but from the sudden clarity—cold, hunger, solitude, helplessness were closing in on him. All the hardships of frontier settlers he had once read in romanticized tales were revealing themselves without a hint of romance, only their raw, unforgiving truth.
Slowly, he stood and touched the few bills in his inner pocket.
Night gathered around him from all sides. Henry drew a long breath and stepped into the house. He needed something to eat. He needed to make it through one more night.
Tomorrow—maybe tomorrow—he would decide what to do.
***
The crossroads where the stagecoach stop stood was the only cluster of buildings in the entire area—a two–story wooden house that served as an inn and tavern, with a long shed tacked on behind it for storage. In the late afternoon, three freight wagons rested in the yard, their horses lazily flicking their tails by the troughs. The storage shed was piled high with burlap sacks, wooden crates, and all manner of odds and ends. The air smelled of hay, leather, and dust.
Henry stood beside a wooden table where his belongings were laid out in tidy rows: six leather–bound books, two silk shirts with delicate embroidery at the collar and cuffs, and a dark blue wool coat. Matthew, the owner of the stage stop, wiped a tin cup with a gray cloth. He glanced at the items on the table, then at the young man standing stiffly in front of them.
“Books,” Matthew said. “No one around here reads those.”
“They’re good editions,” Henry replied. His English carried a crisp London accent, each word fully formed—a sound far too polished for a storeroom crammed with freight and farm tools.
“This isn’t London,” Matthew cut in.
Henry lowered his eyes. He wore a well–fitted gray coat, his blond hair neatly combed, but his face was pale and drawn, with faint shadows under his eyes. He looked very much like someone who had wandered into the wrong place—and in truth, he had.
“What about these shirts?” Henry asked, brushing a finger lightly over the silk. “The fabric is excellent. They’re barely worn.”
Matthew held one up to the light. “They’re interesting. But not much use out here.”
“I can sell them for less—”
“It’s not the price, boy.” Matthew set the cup down. “Look at the kind of folks who pass through here. Teamsters, ranch hands, farm laborers, the occasional peddler. They want sturdy wool trousers, tough boots, coats that keep the rain out. Your things… they’re no use to them.”
Henry fell silent. At the far end of the warehouse, two men were inspecting a bundle of newly arrived tack. Their voices and laughter echoed across the open space. Henry could feel their glances flicking toward him now and then—curious, faintly mocking.
By noon, he hadn’t sold anything. His stomach grumbled, but he couldn’t bring himself to leave. So he sat down and stared at his books as though they might offer an answer.
Footsteps approached. Henry looked up to see Matthew carrying a cup of water.
“Here,” Matthew said, handing it to him before settling on the bench beside him.
“Thank you.” Henry drank a sip.
“Listen, kid,” Matthew said, “this isn’t going to work. Selling a few things little by little—what happens when the money’s gone?”
Henry said nothing. He had no idea what to say.
“That farm of yours,” Matthew went on, “the house is solid, and there’s forty acres. If you run it right, it can feed a family.”
“I don’t know how to run a farm,” Henry murmured. “I don’t know how to grow anything…”
Matthew snorted. “Not much use, sure. But you can learn.”
“Learn from who? I don’t have money to hire anyone. And it’s already September. I don’t even know what I’m supposed to prepare before winter.” Henry shook his head. “I thought—my grandmother said it was a property, an investment. I thought there’d be a foundation to build on.”
“There could’ve been, and it still would’ve gone bad if no one worked it.” Matthew hesitated. “More importantly, land is valuable. If you’re not using it, someone else will start looking at it.”
Henry’s head snapped up.
“You need livestock—if you even have livestock left. You need to patch the roof, fix the fences, stock food for winter. One person can’t do all that. Especially someone who’s never held a hoe.” Matthew rose. “You can keep selling your things. When the money’s gone, you’ll sell the house. Then what? Go to the city and work as a servant? Starve? Think about it, Henry. You need help.”
He gave Henry’s shoulder a firm pat and headed back inside.
Henry remained on the bench, watching the sun crawl toward the western ridge.
Deep in the warehouse, behind a stack of grain sacks, Alex Claremont-Diaz sat on the ground with his back against the wall, one leg stretched out, the other bent, chewing slowly on a piece of hard bread.
He had heard every word.
Alex was twenty–eight, with warm brown skin and dark, loosely curled hair. His beard was several days past neat. His brown coat was worn at the elbows, his trousers patched at the knees, and his boots caked with dry mud. Even so, he looked strong—broad–shouldered and solid. His eyes were deep brown and always half–watchful, half–resting.
He ate the last bite of bread and brushed the crumbs from his hands. He’d been staying here twelve days now, owing Matthew more money by the day. Matthew was kind enough not to throw him out, but that wouldn’t last forever. Winter was coming. He needed somewhere to go.
Cautiously, he leaned around the sacks and looked toward the porch. The Englishman still sat there, back very straight, head bowed, his blond hair glowing in the sunset like something fragile. Like a lost prince, Alex thought. Fine clothes, a fine face, a fine life tossed into the Texas wilderness. And now he sat there, not knowing what to do.
Alex had seen plenty of men like him—easterners, Europeans, men who came with money and dreams, thinking the land would grow crops all by itself. Then reality gave them their first lesson: the land only answered to sweat and time. Most failed, sold their plots, and slunk back home. Some stayed and grew hard as the land itself.
But this Englishman… he didn’t even seem to have the luxury of failing. He had nothing but an empty house and a barren forty acres.
Alex lay back again, hands behind his head, eyes on the rafters. A spider was spinning a web in the corner; a fly trapped inside buzzed helplessly. Matthew’s words circled in his mind.
A farm. Forty acres. A house.
He could run a farm. His parents had owned a small one; he’d worked the soil since boyhood. Later he’d opened a tiny bar in town—clean place, decent whiskey, someone strumming a guitar on weekends. He’d thought that life would go on unchanged.
Then the sheriff decided he wanted the bar’s location for his nephew. One night, “stolen goods” mysteriously appeared inside. The sheriff stormed in, smashed the place up. Alex fought back and earned two broken ribs and stitches across his forehead for it. He had to watch everything he owned be taken from him on a lie.
He fled because the sheriff promised jail if he ever showed his face again. After days of walking, he ended up here, and Matthew let him stay.
A farm. Forty acres. A house.
He could plant winter wheat—sow before October, harvest in May. Raise a few sheep for milk and wool. Repair the fences, grow vegetables, hunt for meat. Sell the spring harvest for a little money. Not much, but enough to start over somewhere new.
And the Englishman… Alex had watched him all day. The man probably couldn’t lift a hoe. But that didn’t matter. Alex could teach him—if he was willing to learn. More importantly, the Englishman needed him just as much as he needed that farm. It was an even trade. No debts.
Alex stood, dusting off his trousers.
At dawn the next morning, he set out. Matthew pointed him west—four miles until an old oak tree, then left for another mile. The farm would be by the creek.
The morning air was cool and sharp. Alex walked quickly, a worn canvas bag over his shoulder with a waterskin and a little bread—Matthew’s gift. After an hour, he reached the oak. It was tall, half its branches dead, half stubbornly green. Alex turned left onto a path almost swallowed by weeds.
Another twenty minutes brought him to the fence—or what had once been a fence. Posts listing sideways, wires sagging, whole sections collapsed into gaps. Inside, wild grass and brush rose to his waist. In the distance stood a wooden house on a small rise, with a barn and livestock shed leaning beside it.
Alex stepped over the fallen fence—he could’ve walked through a gap—and began his inspection. He knelt and scooped up a handful of soil. Dark brown. Dry from neglect, but workable with irrigation. He walked the land, noting its gentle slope toward the creek. The water was small but clear.
He checked the buildings next. The livestock shed had missing boards and thinning thatch, but the frame still held. Just rodents inside. The barn was larger, one door hanging crooked. Inside, dust billowed as he opened it. A few broken tools lay scattered: a rusted plow, cracked barrels, frayed rope. A spinning wheel missing parts.
Finally, he approached the house.
A typical wooden homestead—porch, wooden–shingle roof, grimy windows. Alex climbed onto the porch and stood before the window, looking out at the land, calculations running through his mind. Forty acres—if they managed twenty in winter wheat, and if the yield held, they could get fifteen to twenty bushels an acre. If spring prices were good, two dollars a bushel… two hundred bushels or more. Four hundred dollars. Split evenly—two hundred for him. Add wool, maybe another hundred.
Three hundred dollars. Enough to reach San Antonio or farther north, find a quiet town, rent a small place, start a business again. Or buy a little land. Enough to reclaim his life.
He needed that money. And the Englishman needed him—because without help, none of that wheat would be planted, and the man might not survive the winter at all.
Alex walked around the house, checking the structure. Good bones. Roof needed patching. Windows sealed. Door repaired. All doable. He knew how to mend walls, fix tools, tend livestock, break ground.
He studied everything until he was certain: he could bring this place back to life.
But would the Englishman want him? Would he let a stranger live in his house, work his land, share his food? Would he set aside his pride and take on work that would dirty his hands?
Alex didn’t know. But if he didn’t propose it, the Englishman would likely die out here. And Alex himself would wear out Matthew’s patience and end up wandering when winter fell.
He sat on the porch steps, watching wind ripple through the tall grass, waves in a pale gold sea.
A plan took shape in his mind—an even exchange. His labor, in return for food and shelter. Come spring, they’d sell the harvest, split the money, and go their separate ways.
Alex pulled the last bit of bread from his pocket and ate slowly, calculating seed costs, lumber, time. If they had to sow before October, they had less than a month to clear land, fix tools, prepare the fields. He’d need to buy seed, but neither of them had money—maybe something could be pawned.
He finished the bread and rose. Before leaving, he looked back at the farm one more time. In his mind, he already saw turned soil, green wheat shoots, repaired fences, smoke drifting from the chimney. A place that could survive the winter.
He stepped through the grass, returning the way he’d come. A rabbit bolted from the brush, startled, racing away. Alex watched it disappear, thinking of something his father once said: Out here, you either learn to run or you learn to hide. But it’s best to learn how the land itself can shelter you.
By dusk, Alex returned to the stage stop. Matthew was watering the horses. He nodded when he saw him.
“You came back from the Fox farm?” Matthew asked.
“Mhmm.” Alex hauled up a bucket from the well and drank deep.
“Think it’ll work?”
“It’ll work. But it needs seed, tools, and time.” He wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “He’ll be here tomorrow?”
“Should be. He comes most days, hoping someone will buy something.” Matthew paused. “You sure about this?”
“Yeah. I’ll offer him the plan. If he refuses…” Alex shrugged. “I’ll figure something else out.”
Matthew studied him with lingering worry. “Be careful, Alex. Henry… he’s not like you. He comes from another world.”
“I know,” Alex said. “But we’re both living in this one now, aren’t we?”
That night, Alex fell asleep imagining the farm’s night air around him. He dreamed of wheat fields—green shoots rising and swaying like an ocean. He stood at the center, watching the waves.
Spring had come.
He woke before dawn, the attic still pitch–dark. He lay there a while, listening to his own breathing. Then he rose, pulled on his coat, and went downstairs to help Matthew with the horses.
A new day had begun, and he had a plan to offer.
***
The rain started in the afternoon. At first it was only a scatter of drops, but it soon thickened into a sweeping curtain. Henry stood beneath the porch of the waystation, watching muddy droplets burst across the ground, a knot of worry tightening in his chest.
Matthew came out from inside and handed him a small parcel wrapped in oiled paper. “Here. Some bread, and a bit of cheese. Wait until the rain lets up before you go.”
Henry took it. “Thank you. But I should head out now—it doesn’t look like it’ll stop anytime soon.”
Matthew eyed his thin coat. “At least take a hat.”
Henry didn’t have one. He tucked the parcel carefully into his inner pocket, making sure it was sealed tight, then nodded and stepped off the porch. The rain immediately soaked his hair and shoulders. He drew a steadying breath, told himself not to be afraid, and walked into the mud-churned road.
At first he managed a brisk pace, feeling only the damp creeping into his boots. But he had barely gone half a mile when the rain suddenly intensified—no longer falling but pouring. A relentless deluge, cutting visibility down to only a few yards. The road grew uneven and treacherous. With every step, Henry’s boots sank deep into the mire, making wet, sucking sounds as he pulled them free. The wind shoved at him, nearly knocking him off balance. Rain slid past his collar, icy as it traced down his skin.
He strained to keep his bearings, but all he could see was the gray murk of water. After a long struggle forward, he finally spotted the familiar oak tree and turned onto the path that led to the farm. He hadn’t expected the path to be worse—entirely flooded. He relied only on memory and the faint impressions of wagon ruts.
Suddenly his right foot plunged into a pit hidden beneath weeds. He pitched forward and crashed full-length into the mud. It splattered across his face and clothes. When he tried to push himself up, his hands slipped.
Then he felt the parcel slide from his coat.
“No—” Henry lunged, groping through the muddy puddle until his fingers brushed the wet oiled paper. It was soaked through but intact. He clutched it to his chest, wiped the mud from his eyes with a trembling sleeve, and forced himself upright. Pain shot through his right knee. His trousers had torn on a sharp stone, exposing scraped, bleeding skin.
He didn’t stop to inspect it. He held the parcel tight and pushed forward. Rain washed over the wound again and again, stinging sharply. He gritted his teeth, limping, his mind fixed on one thought: Get home. Get back to that empty house where the roof will at least keep the rain off.
The rain eased a little, but the sky grew darker. When he finally saw the outline of the farm’s fence, he nearly cried—not from joy, but from exhaustion and wretchedness. The fence looked even more run-down in the rain, its posts crooked, water streaming off them.
He stepped toward the gap in the fence.
And then he saw a man.
The figure stood with his back to Henry, beside the fence. A dark, worn coat clung to his body, drenched through. A cowboy hat dripped steadily at the brim, sending rivulets down his neck. Damp black hair stuck to his skin.
Hearing Henry’s steps, the man turned. He was just as soaked, his dark eyes expressionless as they met Henry’s.
They stared at each other in the rain. Henry stood there, clutching the soggy parcel, clothes smeared with mud, hair plastered across his forehead, blood seeping through torn fabric at his knee. He looked an absolute mess.
“Do you need help?” the man asked first.
Henry shook his head, trying to keep his voice steady. “No. Thank you.”
He glanced at the parcel, then at Henry’s bleeding knee. “You’re hurt.”
“I slipped, that’s all.” Rain trickled coldly down the back of Henry’s neck, making him shiver. “What are you doing here?”
“Passing by,” the man said. “Your fence is in bad shape. If you get wild animals in winter, your sheep won’t survive—if you have sheep.”
“I don’t have sheep,” Henry said.
A brief, awkward silence.
Then Henry asked, “Do you want to come in out of the rain?”
The man studied him, as though weighing the sincerity of the invitation. After a moment, he nodded.
Henry stepped through the gap in the fence; the man followed. They crossed the muddy yard at a near hurry as the rain thickened again. Henry pushed open the door and let him in, then closed it behind them.
The house was scarcely warmer than outside, but at least it was dry. The dim light came from the gray sky through the windows. The fireplace was cold, last night’s ashes still piled within. A damp, dusty smell lingered in the air.
Henry set the parcel on the table. The bread and cheese were streaked with mud. His chest tightened—this was all he had managed today.
“I’ll start a fire,” Henry said.
“Do you have dry wood?” the man asked. He had already shrugged off his soaked coat and hung it over a chair. His gray shirt beneath was wet through, clinging to him.
Henry realized with a sinking feeling that he had used the last of the firewood yesterday. Only a few damp scraps remained beside the hearth.
“I… don’t think so.”
The man didn’t respond. He inspected the fireplace, then the window. Rain seeped through cracks in the frame, pooling on the sill. He touched the wall, then looked up at the beams overhead.
“There are leaks in the roof,” he said. “The corners are damp, but structurally the house is sound. Does the chimney draw?”
“What?” Henry asked.
The man half-lifted a hand to explain, then let it fall. He stepped back to the middle of the room, water dripping off him onto the floor. Henry stayed where he was, standing several feet away.
“Why did you come here?” Henry finally asked.
The man met his gaze and answered, in a formal tone, “My name is Alex. I’m staying at Matthew’s.”
“Matthew?”
“Or more accurately—I’m homeless.” Alex’s voice was flat, matter-of-fact. “My bar was smashed up, so I came out here. I need somewhere to spend the winter.”
“Then… why are you at my farm?” Henry asked warily.
Alex’s eyes swept the room—the bare living area, the rickety furniture—before settling on Henry again. “I came to propose a partnership.”
“Partnership?”
“You need help. You won’t survive the winter alone.”
Henry felt a flare of offense. “How would you know?”
“The land is all overgrown—never tilled, never planted. The barn has nothing but rusty tools. The livestock shed roof is collapsing. The house leaks. You have no firewood, no stores, and you don’t even know how to start a fire properly.” Alex paused. “Am I wrong?”
Henry stayed silent. He had no rebuttal. Every word was true. He looked down at his mud-caked boots, at the blood seeping through torn fabric, at the soaked clothes clinging coldly to him. He felt like a fool.
“I can help,” Alex said. “I know farming. I can fix the house, mend the sheds, raise animals. I can make this land live again, and get everything ready before winter hits. I don’t need wages—just a place to stay. When spring comes and the crops sell, we split the profit. I take my share and leave. Simple.”
Henry looked up at him. Alex’s eyes were earnest, steady.
“Why help me?” Henry asked. “You could go anywhere. Get work on a farm.”
“I don’t want to be a hired hand,” Alex said. “And most farms have finished their work for the season. Even if they needed help, they wouldn’t hire someone who’s… being watched by the sheriff.”
“The sheriff?”
“Sheriff of Austin. He wanted my bar. I didn’t sell, so he made up charges and smashed the place.” Alex shrugged. “I can’t go back to town, and I can’t work anywhere public. I need somewhere remote. Somewhere no one will look.”
“So you want to use my farm as a hideout,” Henry said.
Alex shook his head. “Not a hideout. A fair trade. My labor, your food and shelter. We part ways in spring. What do you say?”
Henry didn’t answer. Water dripped from the leaking roof—slow, rhythmic—echoing in the quiet.
“How do I know you’re not another Hollis?” Henry asked softly.
“Hollis?”
“My steward. He took all my money and left me here to fend for myself,” Henry said.
Alex’s expression flickered with surprise before he straightened. “I’m not Hollis. You don’t have to trust me. But if I wanted to rob you, I would’ve done it already.”
“I don’t need—” Henry began, but the lie died halfway. He did need help. Desperately. Without it, he might truly die here this winter—alone, unnoticed until spring.
“You can think about it,” Alex said. He glanced outside; the rain had eased. “I’ll come back tomorrow. If you agree, I’ll bring my things. If not, I won’t bother you again.”
He went to the door and picked up his dripping coat from the chair. With his hand on the doorknob, he turned back.
“But if you don’t agree,” he added quietly, “I suggest you sell this place and buy a train ticket east. No one survives out here alone. You’ll starve, freeze, or both.”
Then he opened the door and stepped into the rain.
Henry stood there, listening to the sounds of Alex’s footsteps across the porch, then down the steps, fading into the storm. Only the dripping remained, louder now in the hushed room.
He walked to the fireplace and crouched, staring at the cold ashes. He wanted to start a fire, but he had no dry wood. He stood, went to the table, and picked up the sodden bread. It was swollen with rainwater, collapsing between his fingers. He took a bite anyway. It tasted like nothing—cold, heavy, mushy. He swallowed.
He washed his wound with a dampened cloth, then wrapped it with a dry bandage.
When he finished, he went to the window. Dusk was gathering. The yard was a mire of water and mud, the fence tilting crookedly.
Alex’s words echoed in his mind: You won’t survive alone.
He thought of his last winter in England. The crackling fire in the hearth, endless tea and pastries, the orderly garden outside the window. Reading Keats by lamplight. He had believed life would always be that way.
Now it felt impossibly distant, like a memory from another lifetime.
The rain fell through the night. Henry drifted in and out of sleep, waking each time to the drumming of water on the roof. The house grew colder. His clothes, still damp, clung to him like ice.
He felt like crying, but his eyes stayed dry. So he just sat there, listening to the rain, waiting for morning.
When dawn finally came, the rain had stopped, but the sky remained heavy and gray. The house was cold as a cellar. Henry forced himself up and limped to the window. The yard was a shallow pool.
He needed to do something. Fetch water, find wood, patch the roof—anything. But he stood still, staring outside, at a loss for where to begin.
Then he saw a man sitting on the porch.
Alex sat with his back against the wall, a worn canvas bag and a rolled-up bedroll beside him. He wore the same coat as yesterday, hair messy.
Henry stared. Alex, sensing it, turned his head. Their eyes met through the glass.
Henry went to the door and opened it. Cold air rushed in, making him shiver.
“You can stay,” he said. “In the guest room. But we need rules.”
Alex nodded quickly, relief and surprise flickering across his face.
“What rules?”
“First, you stay in the guest room. Don’t enter other rooms without my permission.”
“Fine.”
“Second, you handle the farm work—but major decisions, like what to plant, what to raise, how much to spend—we decide together.”
Alex considered this, then nodded.
“Third,” Henry continued, “we keep accounts. When the harvest sells, we subtract expenses and split the profit evenly.”
“Fair.”
“And fourth…”
“What’s the fourth?” Alex asked.
Henry looked straight at him.
“Fourth,” he said quietly, “don’t lie to me. If you leave, tell me. If you change your mind, tell me. Don’t disappear like Hollis.”
Alex was silent for several seconds. Then he nodded, solemn.
“I won’t leave without telling you,” he said. “If I go, you’ll know. If I change my mind, you’ll know.”
“Then that’s settled,” Henry said, stepping aside. “Come in. The guest room’s the first door on the left. It only has a bedframe—no mattress. My room’s upstairs.”
Alex crossed the threshold and stepped inside again. He stood in the center of the room, surveying it.
“Looks like you slept on the sofa,” Alex remarked.
“I…” Henry flushed. “It’s warmer by the fireplace.”
“But you didn’t make a fire last night.” Alex shook his head. He glanced at Henry—pale, shadows under his eyes, clothes rumpled, a dirty bandage around his knee already showing spots of blood.
“You’re hurt. And that’s how you bandaged it?” Alex asked.
“It’s nothing. Just a fall.”
Alex didn’t argue. He set down his belongings, crouched, and opened his bag. Henry watched, unsure what to do. Alex pulled out a small pouch—inside were odd items: a folding knife, a few nails, a length of rope, a roll of bandage, and a tin box. He opened the tin, revealing a dark, thick salve.
“Sit,” Alex said.
Henry froze. “What?”
“Sit. Roll up your trouser leg.” Alex was already approaching with the bandages and salve.
Henry hesitated, wanting to protest, to insist he didn’t need help. But Alex was looking up at him—steady, unyielding. Henry slowly moved to the chair and sat. Bending his knee sent pain shooting up his thigh; he hissed softly.
Alex carefully unwound the soaked cloth. It clung to the wound; he eased it free. Henry clenched his fists against the spike of pain. The injury was about two inches long—not deep, but edged with grit and pebbles, skin pale and swollen from water.
“Hit a stone?” Alex asked, scooping salve from the tin.
“Must have. There was a puddle—I didn’t see it.” Henry kept his eyes on Alex’s hands. It felt strange, someone touching him like this. Someone he barely knew.
“Hold still,” Alex murmured.
He used the knife to pick out the embedded grit, then wiped the skin clean and pressed the salve on. The burn was immediate—Henry gripped the chair. Alex wrapped it with clean bandages, quick and practiced, tying the final knot neatly.
“There,” Alex said, standing. “Keep it dry. Change the dressing daily. If the redness spreads or you start running a fever, tell me.”
“All right,” Henry said quietly.
Alex glanced up toward the leaking rafters. “I’ll fix the roof today. But first we need a fire. Otherwise we’ll freeze.”
“The wood’s all wet,” Henry said.
“There are some old boards in the barn. Damp, but usable. You have an axe?”
“One. In the barn. It’s dull.”
“That’s fine.” Alex headed for the door, then paused and looked back. “Change into dry clothes first.”
Henry watched the door close behind him. The house fell quiet. A moment later, he heard the sound of chopping wood—steady, rhythmic, sure.
He looked down at the neat bandage wrapped around his knee. He could still feel the rough warmth of Alex’s fingers on his skin.
He drew a long breath.
He had made his choice—perhaps a foolish one, but perhaps the only one that might keep him alive.