In a place like that, hope was not something spoken of lightly, because every good turn of fortune usually arrived with a hidden cost.
Savannah Holt had grown up understanding that truth before she was old enough to question it.
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By the time she turned twenty, her mornings already belonged to labor. While most people were still sleeping beneath warm blankets,
she was stepping into the gray dawn wearing boots that never seemed to dry completely, walking across the yard toward the small dairy shed where metal buckets waited beside restless cows.
The cold bit through her gloves, the way it always did, yet she kept moving because work could not wait simply because a person was tired.
Years earlier, her family’s farm had once been steady enough that neighbors spoke of the Holts with quiet respect.
Her father, Raymond Holt, had managed the land carefully, and her mother, Patricia, had kept the household running with a quiet strength that held everything together.
Then the seasons began to turn against them.
