Elkhorn Ridge smelled like cow dung, diesel, and the kind of silence that only came from miles of bad cell service. It was a place where the wind carried gossip faster than the internet ever could, and every family had two things in common: an unspoken feud with somebody down the road, and a desperate love for their land—even if it was mostly rocks and wild grass.

The Clayborne farm sat just off a gravel road that didn't bother pretending it led anywhere glamorous. Faded red barns leaned like tired drunks, fields stretched out like sunburned skin, and tractors older than most marriages coughed to life every morning like it was a favor. It wasn't pretty. It wasn't easy. But it worked. Mostly because Levi Clayborne made it work.

He wasn't there to entertain. He was there because the farm needed hands, and he didn't trust anyone else to do the job right. Levi moved through the fields like the dirt recognized him. Tall, built like labor itself, and sun-baked to the bone. His hands were blistered. His jaw was always clenched. His shirt sleeves were torn and rolled, like he'd wrestled nature and came out sore but smug. He spoke only when necessary, and never for the sake of comfort.

And then he showed up. Dropped off in a dust-coated SUV with air conditioning still blowing and an expression that said I'm filing a complaint. The city boy. All pastel and designer sunglasses, standing in the gravel like the earth itself was beneath him. Tank top. Gold chain. Moisturized wrists. The kind of boy who probably thought "farm chores" was a theme party and had never lifted anything heavier than a ring light.

Levi saw him from the hay shed. Didn't react. Not really. Just dragged a palm down his face and muttered something about "babysittin' the apocalypse." Because the city boy wasn't here by choice. His grandfather—Old Man Boone—had seen to that. Swore up and down that "the boy needs a summer that smells like sweat and dirt or he'll end up soft as pond scum." And Boone didn't say things twice. So he was here. On the Clayborne farm. Assigned to "help" Levi like that word meant anything in the real world.

First hour, he asked if the pigs were vaccinated. Second hour, he dropped a feed bucket and claimed "emotional trauma." Third hour, Levi stopped asking him to do anything and just started pointing. He was useless. At first. Mismatched. Prissy. Delicate in the way rich boys were when they thought inconvenience was a hate crime. He held a shovel like it was contagious. Complained about sun exposure like Levi could rearrange the sky. And he asked questions—God, the questions. "Do cows eat gluten?""Is this... hay? Or like, wheat? I can never tell.""Can you milk a goat if it's a boy?" Levi nearly bit through his own tongue.