Chapter 3: The Departure to the Western Ridge
The following week, the financial house of cards that Ryan had constructed in Richmond collapsed with ruthless speed.
Without the ancestral estate as collateral, the commercial development syndicate terminated his consulting retainer. The investment bank initiated foreclosure proceedings on their luxury four-bedroom townhouse in the suburbs, and the leasing company repossessed their imported European sports sedans.
Stripped of their performative lifestyle, their fair-weather society acquaintances vanishing overnight, Ryan and Courtney were left with their personal belongings packed into a used 2012 pickup truck.
On a cold, misty afternoon in early November, the truck climbed the steep, rutted logging road leading to the western ridge of the Blue Ridge foothills.
There, situated in an overgrown clearing surrounded by dense briars and rock-strewn pasture, sat *The Sawyer’s Cottage*—a modest two-story hand-hewn oak and stone cabin built in 1920.
The roof was covered in moss, the front porch steps sagged, and the chimney was cold.
Courtney sat in the passenger seat, holding her swollen belly, weeping quietly into a handkerchief as the autumn wind rattled the bare chestnut branches against the tin roof.
Ryan stepped out into the mud. He wore an old flannel shirt and work boots he had purchased at a hardware store in town. His manicured hands trembled as he pushed open the squeaking wooden gate.
Waiting on the porch was Thomas Cole, seventy-two, a veteran forestry sawyer and lifelong friend of Arthur Vance. Thomas wore a heavy canvas coat and leather gloves, leaning on an iron splitting maul.
""Your father said you'd arrive before the first snow, Ryan,"" Thomas said, his deep, gravelly voice cutting through the damp mountain air.
Ryan looked down at his boots, the last vestiges of his executive arrogance dissolving into the cold mountain mud.
""Where do I start, Thomas?"" Ryan rasped, his voice cracking with exhaustion.
Thomas tossed a steel spade and a pair of leather work gloves onto the porch bench.
May you like
""The woodpile is empty, the spring house needs clean gravel, and the winter rye has to be sown before the ground freezes,"" Thomas said calmly. ""Put your gloves on, boy. The soil doesn't care about your resume.""
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