Chapter Text
The earth is swallowed by a blanket of white.
The thought makes me giggle in my seat like a child on Christmas morning. My breath ghosts across the airplane window, fogging it up until the world outside turns into a blur of silver clouds and snow.
It’s early-December, and the university has finally granted us overworked students a break- almost two months to spend with family and friends. And really, what better way to spend it than at my father’s farm?
I’ve never quite understood why my old, almost entirely grey, ex-marine father decided to pour his life savings into a farm of all things. Sure, it prospered, but even now, the logic behind it still baffles me.
It all started when he retired from service. A war injury had left him unfit for duty, so he turned to the next dream on his list: marry, buy a farm in the countryside, and live far from anyone who might interfere with his family.
I do love that farm—truly. It’s where I spent my childhood running through overgrown grass, gazing at distant mountains, feeding animals, and riding horses until sunset. It was magical. But as I grew older, the city began to call my name. My dad was disheartened at first, though he never stopped his little girl from dreaming. He paid for my studies and sent me to live with my aunt when I turned sixteen.
Since then, I only came back for summer breaks and Christmas—to the place that would always be home.
⸻
Outside the airport, I exhale clouds of white air into the frosty morning. One hand grips the handle of my suitcase, the other hooks onto the strap of my backpack as I wait for my dad’s battered red pickup to appear.
I rock on my heels, tugging my puffer jacket tighter around my slimmer frame. My dad always teased me about losing weight over the years, claiming my aunt wasn’t feeding me nearly as well as he did. And honestly, he might’ve been right. His food was unbeatable—fresh venison, handpicked fruit, and homemade pies that could outshine any city meal.
A shout cuts through the cold air.
I spin toward the sound, and a grin spreads across my face faster than I can stop it. There he is—exactly as I remember him: broad-shouldered, hair streaked salt and pepper, that familiar limp still marking each step.
I rush forward, arms outstretched. He catches me in a hug that squeezes the breath out of my lungs. I wheeze, then laugh into his chest. “I missed you so much, Dad.”
He chuckles, ruffling my hair before grabbing my suitcase. “Missed you too, princess.” His voice is deep and rough but warm. “How’s the studying going? Aunt Daisy feeding you well?” He lowers his voice, like we’re sharing a secret. “They treating you right over there?”
That’s my dad—always protective, always asking.
He loads my suitcase into the back and opens the passenger door for me. Once we’re both inside, I buckle in and smile. “My studies are going great. And yes, Aunt Daisy feeds me too well.” I laugh softly, then glance at him. “What about you, Dad? How’ve you been holding up?”
We talk the entire drive—about university, the farm, random memories. My bond with my father has always been strong. He’s the one who taught me about life, who lifted me up when I fell. I love my mom dearly, but Dad will always hold that special place.
As we near the farm, the old wooden gate comes into view. A weathered sign hangs crookedly, held up by rusted wires:
“Welcome to Wild Pursuits Livestock and Game Farm.”
Beneath it, the emblem—a proud antelope framed by two spears.
Normally, the fields would be alive with animals grazing in the sun. But winter’s bite has driven them into the barns. Only a few deer and antelope linger near the fence line—wild, untamed, and free.
Besides livestock sales to butcheries, my dad rents cabins to hunters and travelers seeking a quiet escape. The place has always been more than just a farm—it’s a small world of its own.
We roll the truck beneath a shaded awning, and I grab my bag as Dad leads the way to the main cabin. Thick log walls and a thatched roof greet me with familiarity, keeping out the cold just as they always did.
The moment I step inside, nostalgia hits me hard—the scent of home-cooked meals, firewood, and something sweet. I can almost hear my childhood laughter echoing as I begged for more apple pie while Mom watched, smiling softly.
From the kitchen, she appears, her face framed by silver hair and a shy, tender smile. She wraps me in a hug—not as tight as Dad’s, but just as warm.
“How have you been, sweetie?” Her voice is soft and calm, soothing my homesick heart.
“I’m fine, Ma,” I grin. “Just the usual university stress—not that it’s anything to worry about. Aunt Daisy’s treating me great.”
She laughs and turns back toward the kitchen. “Tell us all about it later. For now, go unpack. Your room’s untouched.” She pauses, her tone dipping. “Like always.”
The words sting a little, but I only nod, smile faintly, and head upstairs.
⸻
She wasn’t kidding. My room looks exactly the same.
The pink cupboard I begged for at six still stands proudly in the corner—Dad built it himself, and I’d helped him paint it, splashing more paint on myself than the wood. I run my hand along its surface until my fingers brush over the carved initials—mine, Dad’s, and Mom’s—etched into the center.
A smile tugs at my lips.
Opposite the cupboard sits a dusty wooden desk with drawers overflowing with old books. Near the window is my bed, and beside it, the towering bookshelf filled from floor to ceiling—picture books, fairy tales, and sappy teenage romances.
The room is a clash of colors and textures, yet somehow it feels… right. Comforting. Home.
⸻
I leave my suitcase untouched—typical me—and wander out for a walk before lunch, which Mom promised would be soon.
The snow crunches beneath my boots, the air crisp and bright. A few farmhands spot me and wave; I wave back, greeting them by name. They’d been my playmates growing up, the big brothers I never had.
Ahead stands the stable—dark polished wood dusted with snow. The gate is open, so I step inside, drawn by the familiar warmth and scent of hay.
But I stop short.
There’s someone there—an unfamiliar figure, pitchfork in hand, cleaning the stalls. He’s not one of the farmhands I know, and definitely not a guest. Guests don’t shovel muck.
I step closer, a twig snapping beneath my boot. He spins around instantly, muscles tense, eyes alert. A black balaclava covers most of his face, revealing only pale skin and sharp, whiskey-colored eyes—eyes that look like they’ve seen too much.
When he realizes I’m not a threat, his shoulders relax slightly, though tension still clings to him.
Clearing my throat, I call out, “And you are?”
He glances at me, eyes cool and unreadable. “Does it matter?” His voice is deep, rough, and coated in a thick British accent.
I blink, then shrug. “Okay.”
I move to pet one of the horses, trying to act casual as silence stretches between us, heavy and taut. I want to ask more, but it’s clear he doesn’t share the same curiosity.
Still, I try. “Are you a farmhand?”
He stops working and straightens, facing me fully. His gaze is steady—intense.
“Why do you ask?” His tone is defensive, his grip on the pitchfork tightening.
“I just—” I raise my hands slightly. “Didn’t mean anything by it.”
He studies me for a moment longer, then says flatly, “Guests aren’t supposed to be in the stables.”
“I’m no guest,” I say quickly, offering a nervous laugh. “I’m the owner’s daughter.”
That earns me a skeptical look, but after a second, he gives a small nod and returns to work.
I linger a bit longer. “So… are you a farmhand?”
He nods once.
“And what’s your name?”
This time, he doesn’t even glance up. “My name doesn’t concern you.”
His voice is gruff, final.
I take the hint. With one last look, I turn and make my way out of the stables, the crunch of snow following me back toward the cabin—just in time for lunch with my parents.