He leaned back against the wooden steps, at peace with his childhood home.

I looked down at my own hands.

The skin was rough and dry from packing boxes and scrubbing the farmhouse floors all morning.

Walt had spent years assuming I was just a woman from the city who wanted to carve his legacy into subdivisions.

He was wrong.

I was ready to pull weeds, fix wire fences, and run the heavy push mower until the ditch was clear.

I was going to work this land with my own hands.