Chapter 4: The Timber Barn on the Scioto
Lucas drove forty miles south of Columbus, following the meandering course of the Scioto River into the rolling glacial hills of Ross County.
There, situated on a thirty-acre parcel of burr oak timber and old pastureland outside the town of Chillicothe, sat *The Scioto Valley Timber & Framing Mill*—a historic 19th-century water-powered sawmill and timber farm that had belonged to his maternal uncle, Arthur Cole.
Arthur was sixty-four years old, a master timber framer, historical restoration contractor, and veteran sawyer who had severed ties with Thomas and Janice twenty years earlier over their endless family financial manipulations.
Arthur was standing on the gravel apron outside the main framing shed, wearing a heavy denim apron, thick wool work shirt, and steel-toed boots, holding an antique framing chisel against an oil stone.
When the truck rumbled across the timber bridge over the millrace, Arthur laid the chisel down, his weathered, sun-browned face breaking into a slow, knowing smile.
""Heard the door slam all the way down the river, Luke,"" Arthur said, his deep, gravelly voice cutting through the sweet, resinous scent of fresh-cut white pine and damp earth.
Lucas stepped down from the cab, taking a deep, shuddering breath of the clean river air. The knot of chronic tension that had lived in his shoulders for five years seemed to loosen its grip.
""The lease expired, Uncle Arthur,"" Lucas said with a faint, tired smile.
Arthur walked over, clapping a massive, calloused hand onto his nephew’s shoulder with an iron grip.
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""A man isn't meant to live in a cellar, boy,"" Arthur said softly. ""The loft above the joinery shop has heart-pine floors, a woodstove that burns sweet cherry, and three big windows looking right out over the water. Unload your tools. We’ve got an 1840 bank barn in Pickaway County that needs twenty new oak bents before the first frost.""
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