The Weight of Care (chapter)

Late spring pressed down on the ridge, warm enough to sweat but not yet thick with summer. The land was greening fast—hedgerows filling out, fence posts shading over, weeds growing where the rows hadn’t been turned yet. It was the kind of season that didn’t wait for anyone.

Joel ran the farm alone that week. Jed’s shoulder and ribs were still too tender for anything more than slow steps and short sentences. He spent most days on the porch, sorting tools with his good hand or whittling pieces of cedar from the scrap pile. He didn’t complain, didn’t moan—just stayed still. Which, for Jed, said plenty.

Joel hauled feed. Turned compost. Replaced a post near the creek where the frost had split it too deep. Every day ended with him bone-tired and half-drenched in sweat.

Some days, he thought of his uncle’s land back in Georgia—how he’d spent one summer there as a boy, swinging a hoe he was too small for, trying to earn a man’s nod. He remembered the ache in his arms, the blistered palms, the way no one told him he’d done well—just let him keep coming back. Maybe that’s when it started, the belief that staying was the only way to be seen.

He didn’t mind the work. But it felt different without Jed beside him—no rhythm to match, no shared silence to lean into. The quiet felt more hollow when you were the only one moving.

That afternoon, after dumping the last load of hay, Joel stepped inside and dropped the keys on the counter. Jed sat in his chair by the window, knife in hand, shaping a piece of cedar into something small and simple.

“Fence holdin’?” Jed asked.

Joel nodded, wiping his neck with a dish towel. “For now.”

Jed didn’t press further.

Joel poured water into the kettle and set it to boil.

Jed watched him a moment, then looked back at the piece in his hand.

“I ever tell you about the time my dad got pinned under the tractor?”

Joel raised a brow. “No.”

Jed nodded slowly. “I was twelve. He was clearin’ brush down near the creek. Wet ground, bad angle, wheel caught and tipped the whole rig sideways. Pinned his leg under the axle.”

Joel leaned against the counter. “How’d he get out?”

“He didn’t. Not by himself.” Jed paused. “I found him an hour later, yellin’ so hoarse he couldn’t get words out. Thought he was done for. But he didn’t cry. Didn’t beg. Just looked at me and said, ‘You better figure it out.’”

Joel’s face twitched in something like a smile. “Sounds about right.”

“I rigged a jack under the back axle and used fence boards to wedge it. Took me twenty minutes to get him loose. My hands were shaking the whole time.”

He paused again. The knife rested still against the wood.

“After that, he never told me I wasn’t strong enough to handle things.”

Joel watched him, the kettle beginning to hiss behind him.

Jed looked up. “Point is, sometimes grit ain’t loud. Sometimes it’s just not leavin’.”

Joel turned and poured two mugs, brought one over, set it in front of Jed.

“You’re sayin’ I’m not leavin’.”

Jed met his eyes. “I’m sayin’ you don’t need to carry it like you’re proving something.”

Joel sat, the mug warm in his hands. He stared down at it for a long moment.

“I think part of me’s still scared it could all break,” he said finally. “Not just the farm. Us.”

Jed didn’t flinch. “I know.”

Joel’s voice dropped. “It’s not that I don’t trust you. It’s that I don’t trust what the world does to things like this.”

Jed nodded once. “Yeah.”

They sat with it.

Outside, a breeze kicked up, pushing warm air through the open screen.

Joel stood, crossed the room, and switched on the old radio that sat on the shelf beside the stove. The dial was touchy, but he worked it slow. Static gave way to faint harmony. A familiar tune—slow, faithful.

“I’ll fly away…”

Jed smiled faintly. “Your mama used to sing that, didn’t she?”

Joel nodded. “Every Saturday morning, whether we wanted her to or not.”

Jed closed his eyes, the smile still there.

They let the song play through. Didn’t sing. Just listened.

When it ended, Joel turned the dial off again. The room settled back into the hush of late evening.

Jed’s knife returned to the cedar. The rhythm of the carving resumed—soft, patient, steady.

Joel sipped his tea, the warmth working slow into his chest.

He was tired. But not running.

Not tonight. 

Something in him had shifted. Not loudly, not all at once—but like a stone set in place. He wasn’t owed a promise. But maybe he’d stay long enough to offer one.

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