But he wasn’t cussing anymore. Nope. Instead, he was trying to focus on the good—as hard as that was. Like the fact that after the injury, Rusty hadn’t hit any of them again, including Ma. Like the fact that if he’d been able to go off to war, he would’ve been worrying about the kids the whole time, wondering where they were living and how they were making ends meet.

At the creaking of the barn door, Flynn tensed and grew silent, as did Brody and Dylan, waiting for Rusty to saunter in and tell them all to get back to work, that the corn wouldn’t harvest itself.

They all knew the reason Rusty was letting them stay on the farm was to help with the harvesting. Although he’d told them they had until spring, no doubt he was waiting to kick them out just as soon as the harvesting was done and he didn’t need their free labor. Ma was hardly in the grave two months, and he was already courting Widow Flores, who had a couple of strapping boys.

Flynn figured he had a few more weeks left before he needed to have a job lined up along with a place for them to live. But the thought of leaving the land was intimidating. All he knew was farming.

Just thinking about losing everything to Rusty made his whole world tilt, almost as if he’d gone lame in both legs instead of one. Didn’t matter that the McQuaid ancestors had owned and worked the land for generations. Rusty had the deed. It was legal. And there wasn’t a blamed thing that could change it.

As the barn door squealed open farther, a lithe girl slipped inside, and Flynn released a breath.

“Come on now, Ivy.” From his spot on the stall, Dylan paused in chewing a long piece of hay to scowl at her. “You’re supposed to do the secret knock so we know who’s a-comin’.”

Ivy closed the door, her dark hair unbound and flowing in wild tangles. At eleven, she was old enough to brush and plait her own hair, but ever since Ma’s passing, Ivy hadn’t bothered with the upkeep. And no amount of Flynn’s pestering had motivated the girl.

Even with her messy hair, Ivy was pretty. Trouble was, she’d much rather go hunting and climb trees than sew and cook like Ma had taught her. And in the weeks since Ma’s death, Ivy had taken to imitating him and the boys more, not less. She was in sore need of a womanly touch.