Chapter 4 - The Night at the Hearth
By nine o'clock, the black SUVs had long vanished into the dark pine corridor.
Inside the farmhouse, the air was cool, smelling of dried apple skin, woodsmoke, and cedar dust. A fire crackled in the river-stone hearth, casting long orange tongues of light across the high plaster ceiling. Eleanor sat in an oak rocking chair, wrapping a heavy grey wool shawl around her shoulders. She held two porcelain teacups, offering one to Jax and the other to Knox.
"I can't thank you boys enough," she murmured, her voice frail against the popping of the pine logs. "When I saw you at the diner... I was out of options. They've been coming here every week. Cutting the power lines. Scaring an old woman."
Jax sat on a low wooden bench, holding the tiny china cup between his thick, ink-covered fingers. He looked at the mantle above the fire. Resting in the center was a silver-framed photograph of a young man in a dark green military uniform. He had clear, sharp eyes and a gentle smile.
"Your real son?" Jax asked softly.
Eleanor’s gaze drifted to the frame. "Thomas. He was a sergeant in the 75th Ranger Regiment. Killed in Kandahar." She looked at Jax’s forearm, tracing the faded tattoo of a military unit crest visible beneath his sleeve. "He looked a bit like you. Strong shoulders."
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Jax looked away, taking a slow sip of tea. "He looks like he was a good soldier."
"He was," Eleanor whispered, her eyes shining in the firelight. "He died fighting for land he’d never see again."
