Storm Front (chapter)

Late spring clung wet to the ridge, the kind of heavy that settled in your boots and worked its way up your spine. The storm had passed sometime after midnight—wind roaring down the holler like a freight train, tearing shingles from the barn, snapping fence rails like kindling. Morning came slow, bruised and gray, the ground steaming where sunlight pressed through.

Jed stood at the edge of the yard, one boot half-buried in mud. His eyes followed the damage: fence posts leaning like drunks, the barn roof torn open in places, loose tin curled back like bark after a burn. A shingle flapped from a nail above the loft door, tapping slow in the breeze. He rolled his shoulder once. It caught near the top—stiff from sleep or age, maybe both. His jaw flexed like he meant to speak—just a word, maybe two—but it passed. Nothing came. Not yet.

He reached for the hammer left on the porch rail. Handle worn smooth. Grip familiar. He held it a moment before stepping into the yard.

Behind him, the screen door creaked.

Joel stepped out, sleeves rolled high, flannel loose over a damp T-shirt. The same one they’d shared through the colder months, passed between hooks and hands without ever naming it. He carried a length of cedar under one arm.

“Gate’s worse than the roof,” he said.

His voice was quiet—not cautious, just tired.

Jed nodded and took the board. Their fingers brushed—barely—but Joel pulled back quick, like the touch startled something. Jed noticed. Didn’t speak on it. Just turned and set the cedar against the busted frame. The hammer landed hard. The wood gave, splintering slightly at the edge. He didn’t bother smoothing it.

Joel crouched by the next post, working a bent nail loose. His movements were fast, sharper than usual. He didn’t say a word. Neither did Jed.

They worked like men who knew the steps but had forgotten the rhythm. Jed climbed the roof to secure the loose tin while Joel kept to the fence line, hammering slats back into place. They passed tools without eye contact. Spoke only when they had to.

Sweat beaded on Jed’s neck despite the chill. The air carried the tang of wet soil and iron. Their breath mixed with the clink of nails and the groan of wood. Somewhere nearby, a bird called once and went quiet.

He found himself whispering, more reflex than thought.

“Create in me a clean heart, O God…”

Psalm 51. Always that one. He’d prayed it more times than he could count—at night when Joel was asleep, or when the weight of something unseen pressed in on his chest. It surfaced easy this morning, unasked.

He glanced down.

Joel stood at the far end of the fence, back slightly hunched, sleeves damp at the cuffs. He was solid. Steady. But something about the curve of his shoulders said he’d been holding more than wood lately.

He kept his eyes down, but for a split second, Jed caught something flicker there. A memory, maybe—a flash of water and want, that creekside silence neither of them had spoken of. Or maybe just a prayer Joel hadn’t dared put to words.

The storm hadn’t just torn shingles and rails.

It had stirred something loose beneath the surface.

By midday, the fence stood again. Crooked in places, but upright. The roof was patched. Enough to hold.

They walked back to the house without speaking. Mud caked their boots. Their hands were scraped, fingernails dark with grit.

Jed poured coffee from the pot left warming on the back eye of the stove. Joel sat on the porch steps, elbows on his knees, tapping the rim of a tin mug with his thumb.

Then he hummed—soft, unsure.

“I’ll… fly away…”

The line broke off. He didn’t finish it.

Jed handed him a cup and sat beside him. The wood creaked beneath them. Their shoulders didn’t touch, but the air between them felt different now—thinner.

Steam curled from their mugs. Neither reached for words.

Near the porch rail, something pale stuck out beneath the mat. Jed leaned forward and pulled it free.

Caleb Ward.

Sharp handwriting. Church letterhead. “A Gathering for Men of Conviction.” Jed didn’t open it. He didn’t need to.

Inside, he crossed to the mantle and slid the envelope between the pages of the Bible. Somewhere around Psalm 51. He didn’t look to see where it landed.

The next morning, the sun showed up late and soft, streaking long light across the pasture. The wind had settled. The barn stood quiet. Jed stopped at the mailbox out of habit. Nothing inside. Just the still hum of a day returning to normal.

Back in the kitchen, Joel stood at the stove, stirring coffee in a chipped mug. The spoon clicked gently against ceramic.

“Mail?” he asked, not looking up.

Jed paused. “Nothin’ worth readin’.”

He poured himself a cup and sat across from him. The warmth spread slow through his hands.

The Bible stayed shut on the table between them.

The storm hadn’t broken them. Not yet.

But the ground was still soft. And the air still held weight.

(Chapter from Weathered Fields in the Jed and Joel series. Contact me if you’d like to read the full chapter!)