“Regional Director now,” Ryan replied, puffing his chest. “Had to reward myself. But that Land Cruiser screams ‘top surgeon.’”
Ethan brushed imaginary dust from his sleeve. “Image is everything. We can’t look like we still belong out here.”
They laughed, trading stories of bonuses, luxury vacations, and investment portfolios — building a bubble of pride thick enough to block out the very soil that raised them.
Then came the sound that shattered it.
A sputtering, coughing engine.
Down the dirt road crawled an old John Deere tractor, coughing black smoke. Behind the wheel was their oldest brother.
Charles Whitaker — “Charlie” — wore faded denim overalls stained with grease and earth, a sun-bleached straw hat, and mud-caked boots. His hands were rough, scarred, permanently marked by labor.
He shut off the tractor and climbed down slowly.
Silence fell.
Then came the looks.
“For God’s sake, Charlie,” Ryan muttered. “It’s a family reunion, not harvest day.”
Savannah dramatically covered her nose. “You’re going to track mud everywhere. We just had our cars detailed.”
Ethan added coolly, “We’ve built real careers. Real lives. And you’re still… this.”