After Harold’s final words—”I don’t agree”—the room fell silent.
A log cracked softly in the fireplace, sending a few tiny sparks up from the blackened wood before they disappeared back into the flames.
A draft slipped through the gap beneath the door, making the oil lamp on the table flicker and stretching everyone’s shadows across the gray-brown stone walls.
Martha’s already pale face lost what little color it had left.
She said nothing, but her fingers tightened around Elena’s hand.
George sat at the far end of the long wooden table, staring at his second son.
“You don’t agree?”
“No.”
Harold’s answer was immediate.
Unlike Edmund, he did not spend time choosing his words.
He pushed his earthenware cup aside and met his father’s eyes.
“Thomas is my brother.
He’s badly hurt, and if Dr.
Brown needs to come, then we call him.
If Thomas needs medicine, we buy it.
If he needs his dressings changed, time to recover, or someone to help look after him for a while, I have no objection to any of that.”
“But if you’re talking about taking him all the way to a large city and spending most of what this family has saved on something even the doctors can’t promise will work…”
Harold paused.
“Then no.
I don’t agree.”
George’s fingers tightened around his pipe.
“So what are you saying?
That we leave him lying there and do nothing?”
“I didn’t say that.”
Harold frowned.
“Dr.
Brown has already treated his wounds and stabilized both of his legs.
We’ve done everything we can for him here so far.”
“What I’m against is spending everything we’ve saved when we don’t even know what we’re getting into.”
“Everything?”
George’s expression darkened.
“When did I say I was going to spend every penny we have?”
“You haven’t.
Not yet.”
Harold’s voice remained calm.
“But we don’t even know what a doctor in the city would charge.”
“We’d need a better wagon to take Thomas all that way.
Once we got there, we couldn’t simply have a doctor look at him and turn around for home the same day.
Someone would have to stay with him.
We’d have to pay for lodging, the doctor’s fee, medicine, food, and whatever else came after.”
“And what if the doctor said Thomas had to remain there for treatment?”
“A week?”
“A month?”
“Longer?”
He glanced around the table.
“Who can say?”
No one answered.
That was exactly what made the decision so difficult.
If Dr.
Brown had been able to tell them exactly how much it would cost and what chance Thomas had of recovering, they would at least have had something definite to consider.
But they knew nothing.
The only thing they could be certain of was that taking Thomas to a larger city would cost far more than having Dr.
Brown visit the farm.
Harold continued.
“Father, you know better than any of us how much this farm brings in every year.”
“We haven’t even finished bringing in this year’s wheat, but we already have to set aside seed for spring.”
“The boards on the north side of the barn have gone damp again.
They’ll need replacing before winter.
That old wagon has been in use for years, and none of us knows how much longer the axle and wheels will hold.”
“And then there’s the old horse.”
Harold glanced toward the darkened barn beyond the window.
“He’s worked this farm for years, but he’s getting old.
If the day comes when he can’t pull a wagon anymore, we can’t exactly carry sacks of grain on our backs.”
“Which one of those things doesn’t cost money?”
George remained silent.
Harold went on.
“Most of what the family eats still comes from Miller Farm, so sometimes it feels as if we don’t spend much.
But there are several branches depending on the same land and shared income, and there are things we have to buy every year.”
“Salt, lamp oil, cloth, medicine, iron tools, parts for repairs—none of those things grow in the fields.”
“And none of us knows what next year’s harvest will be like.”
“What if the weather turns bad?”
“What if one of the animals gets sick or dies?”
Everyone who had lived on a farm for long enough understood what he meant.
The Millers were not destitute.
George and Agnes owned the main farmhouse, the fields, the barn, and livestock.
Their grown sons had their own living arrangements around Miller Farm, but the family still worked much of the land together and shared many of the farm’s resources.
Although there was rarely money to spare, they had always managed to keep food on everyone’s tables.
But a life like theirs could be thrown off balance by a single serious misfortune.
A bad illness, a failed harvest, or the sudden loss of an important farm animal could turn a manageable year into a difficult one.
Thomas’s accident was exactly that kind of misfortune.
After a long silence, George finally spoke.
“So after all that counting, what you’re really saying is that your brother’s legs aren’t worth the money?”
“It isn’t about whether he’s worth it.”
Harold shook his head at once.
“It’s about whether this family can afford it.”
He looked toward Edmund.
“Edmund’s children are getting older.”
“Sooner or later, some of them may want to find work in town.
Some may marry.
They’ll need to prepare for lives of their own.”
“I have a wife and children.”
“Victor and Laura are about to have another baby.”
“Daniel isn’t married yet, but he isn’t going to spend the rest of his life working for this farm either.”
“We all have lives of our own to think about.”
“We can’t put every future need aside because Thomas has been injured.”
George’s expression grew darker.
“Thomas is only in his thirties.”
“He has Martha and three children.”
“If we don’t do everything we can now and he never walks properly again, what are they supposed to do?”
Harold was silent for a moment.
“We’ll help them through this.”
“If the farm work needs another pair of hands, I’ll do more.”
“If Martha needs grain, she’ll have it.”
“When Dr.
Brown needs to come, we’ll call him.
If Thomas needs medicine, we’ll buy it.”
“But if Thomas truly can’t work the way he used to, then we’ll have to find another solution.”
“We can’t assume that because we’re brothers, the rest of us will support his entire household for the next ten or twenty years.”
The words landed heavily.
Martha stiffened.
Bertha, sitting a short distance away, lowered her eyes uncomfortably.
Laura said nothing, one hand resting instinctively over the swell of her belly.
Margaret remained beside her husband, her expression giving little away.
She did not immediately become angry at Harold.
On an emotional level, his words were hard to hear.
Thomas had only just been carried home.
They did not even know whether he was truly out of danger, and already one of his brothers was talking about what would happen if he could no longer work and who would be expected to support his family.
But Harold had a wife and children of his own.
So did Edmund.
So did Victor.
Brothers could help one another, but that did not mean one branch of the family could be expected to carry another indefinitely.
These were questions that might normally have been dealt with gradually over the years.
Thomas’s accident had simply forced all of them onto the table in a single night.
George clearly understood that too.
He simply did not like it.
“So what exactly do you want?” the old man asked at last.
Harold did not answer immediately.
He lowered his gaze, seeming to consider how best to say what came next.
After a moment, he looked up again.
“Father, there’s something Margaret and I have talked about before.”
George frowned.
“What?”
“Leaving Miller Farm.”
The room went still.
Edmund was the first to turn toward his brother.
Victor stared at him in surprise.
Even Agnes, who had remained near the fireplace without saying another word, suddenly lifted her head.
“Leaving?”
For a moment, she seemed certain she had misheard him.
Harold nodded.
“Margaret and I have talked about taking the children and establishing a completely independent home of our own once the time was right.”
“This isn’t something we decided tonight.”
“We just never settled on when we would do it.”
George did not lose his temper.
He only asked, “Where would you go?”
“We haven’t decided yet.”
Harold leaned back slightly.
“If we can rent a small farmhouse somewhere near Oakridge, we’ll stay in the area.
I can still take seasonal work during harvest or find other jobs when they’re available.”
“If there’s nothing suitable nearby, we could go to Clearwater.”
“They need men to load and unload goods there, and there is always work for drivers.
Some merchants need help keeping simple accounts too.
I’ve met enough people over the years that I should be able to find something steady if I keep asking.”
“Margaret can take in mending or laundry.”
“I can,” Margaret said quietly.
There was no hesitation in her voice.
It was obvious the couple had discussed this long before tonight.
Harold continued.
“Whatever I earn will support my wife and children.
What we eat and what we spend will be our responsibility.”
“We won’t expect to keep using the farm’s grain or shared income.”
“As for the main farmhouse, the fields, the barn, the horses, and the livestock—you and Mother built all of this over the years.”
“It belongs to you.”
“I have no right to demand that you give me any of it.”
George’s expression shifted slightly.
Harold was not trying to force his parents to hand over land or savings.
He simply wanted to leave Miller Farm entirely and establish a financially independent household with his wife and children.
George could hardly claim there was anything wrong with that.
When he was young, he too had left Oakridge and gone elsewhere to earn a living.
He knew perfectly well that a married man wanting to build a life of his own was nothing unusual.
But Harold’s next words made his face harden again.
“If the family decides that Thomas should be sent to the city no matter what it costs, then I’d like us to leave sooner.”
George stared at him.
“So it does come back to Thomas.”
“Partly.”
Harold did not deny it.
“As long as most of our earnings continue going into the same family funds, then while Thomas needs treatment, this argument is going to happen again.”
“I don’t want everyone sitting around this table fighting every time we need to pay a doctor, buy medicine, or spend money on something else.”
“If Margaret and I are going to establish an independent household eventually, it may be better to do it sooner.”
“Then the money I earn will be mine to manage, and you and Mother can decide what to do with Miller Farm’s income and your savings.”
“It would be simpler for everyone.”
George listened without interrupting.
Agnes, however, could no longer remain quiet.
She straightened in her high-backed wooden chair, gripping one armrest.
Her eyes were already red.
“Have you really decided?”
Harold looked at her.
“Mother…”
“I asked whether you’ve decided.”
Agnes did not raise her voice as she usually might have, nor did she strike the table.
She simply stared at her second son.
Harold hesitated.
Then he nodded.
“Yes.”
Agnes’s lips moved, but for several seconds no words came.
Finally, she spoke in a low voice.
“You’re all grown now.”
“You have wives.
You have children.
You have your own ideas about how you want to live.”
“Your father and I can’t keep every one of you tied to Miller Farm forever.”
“If you want to work in town, rent a place of your own, and build a life with your wife and children, we can’t stop you.
And perhaps we shouldn’t.”
She paused, and when she continued, her voice was quieter.
“I just never thought the first one to tell us he was leaving the farm would do it after Thomas was hurt.”
Harold did not answer.
There was nothing he could say that would change the timing.
Agnes leaned back in her chair, the anger in her face gradually giving way to exhaustion.
“Your brother was carried home from the roadside today.”
“He’s lying in that room right now, and we don’t even know whether he’ll ever walk properly again.”
“And tonight you’re telling us you want to take your wife and children and leave Miller Farm.”
“What do you expect me to feel?”
Harold opened his mouth.
“Mother, I’m not abandoning Thomas.”
“I know.”
Agnes closed her eyes briefly.
“You’ve made yourself very clear.”
“You’ll help where you think you should.”
“But from now on, you want your household to be completely separate from the rest of the family.”
Harold fell silent.
For a while, the only sound in the room came from the fire.
George said nothing.
When he was young, he too had left Oakridge.
His family had owned little then, and there had been almost nothing for them to give him, so he had gone out to earn his own way.
He loaded goods, cared for horses, and traveled with merchants’ wagons.
Later, because he could read and manage simple figures, he found steadier employment keeping watch over a warehouse and recording goods as they came and went.
Those years had not been easy.
But little by little, he saved enough money to return to Oakridge with Agnes and buy a few fields of his own.
The small house they acquired had been in poor condition.
Over the years, they repaired it and gradually turned it into the stone main farmhouse they lived in now.
The barn came later.
So did the livestock shed.
Even the low stone wall outside had been built piece by piece, with his sons helping carry stones when they were still boys.
Then the children grew up.
Some married.
Some had children of their own.
As the family expanded, the farm changed with it.
The grown sons gradually established their own living spaces around Miller Farm, while everyone continued to work much of the same land and depend on many of the same stores and resources.
At busy times such as harvest, the whole family still gathered to work and eat together, and the long table in the main farmhouse was often full.
George had never minded.
During harvest, the brothers worked the fields together and loaded sheaves of wheat onto the wagon.
The women prepared meals and managed the stores, while the older children were expected to help with whatever work they could manage.
To George, that was simply what a farm family looked like.
But somewhere inside, he had always known it could not last forever.
Grown children eventually establishing fully independent households of their own was perfectly ordinary.
What hurt him was not that Harold wanted to leave.
It was that he had chosen the moment when Thomas needed his family most to say it.
George lowered his eyes to his pipe.
A long time passed before he finally spoke.
“If you want to leave Miller Farm, I’m not going to chain you here.”
Harold looked up.
George did not look at him.
“You’re a grown man.”
“You have a wife and children.”
“How you choose to live your life is your decision.”
“But we’re not deciding tonight when you’re going to leave.”
He finally raised his head.
“Tonight we’re talking about Thomas.”
Harold gave a small nod.
“I understand.”
“Good.”
George let the matter end there.
Elena remained beside Martha without speaking.
Ever since Harold had mentioned leaving, Martha had kept her head lowered.
Perhaps what truly hurt her was not the thought of Harold moving away.
It was the question she had never seriously considered until today.
Thomas had always been one of the family’s strongest workers.
He could plow and harvest, carry grain, drive the wagon, and handle many of the smaller repairs around the farm.
But if he could no longer do those things, how would Martha and their three children live?
Having his brothers help for a while was one thing.
Expecting them to support Thomas’s family for years—or even decades—was something else entirely.
Elena did not intend to resent anyone simply for acknowledging that reality.
But neither would she leave her father’s chance of receiving better treatment entirely in their hands.
In her previous life, she had received proper training in first aid and trauma care.
She knew how to control bleeding, stabilize a fracture temporarily, and move an injured person without making things worse.
But those skills had been meant to keep someone alive in an emergency until proper medical care became available.
She was not a doctor.
She certainly was not a surgeon experienced in complicated bone injuries.
She would not undo Dr.
Brown’s work simply because she knew a little more than the people around her.
Not now, at least.
When Dr.
Brown returned to change the dressings or examine Thomas again, Elena would find a way to stay nearby and see for herself how badly his legs had been injured.
If there was still a real chance of treating them, then they needed to act as soon as they could.
As for the money…
Elena lowered her eyes.
She could not depend entirely on the Miller family’s savings.
That meant she would have to find another way.
She had only been in this world for a short time.
She knew little about Oakridge, Clearwater, Greenwood, or the towns and cities beyond them.
Expecting herself to suddenly come up with a way to earn a large sum of money would be unrealistic.
But she still had time.
As long as Thomas’s condition remained stable, she could begin looking for opportunities one by one.
With that thought, Elena raised her head again.
Edmund had already made his position clear.
Harold had also said exactly what he was and was not willing to accept.
There was only one person left at the table who had yet to give a real answer.
George seemed to realize the same thing.
After a moment, he turned toward the other side of the long table.
“Victor.”
Victor, who had been sitting there with a troubled expression, looked up.
George did not immediately ask how much money he was willing to contribute.
Instead, he studied his fourth son for a moment before asking an unexpected question.
“Do you remember the time you fell through the river ice when you were a boy?”
Victor froze.
Laura turned to look at her husband.
“That winter was bitterly cold,” George continued.
“The river had frozen over.
Your mother and I had warned all of you not to go out onto the ice, but you went anyway with some of the other children.”
“And the ice broke.”
“You fell straight into the water.”
Victor lowered his eyes.
“I remember.”
His voice was quiet.
George nodded.
“Thomas was nearby.”
“He saw you go through and ran over before he even had time to take off his coat.”
“He pulled you out.”
“You came home alive, and Thomas came home shaking so badly from the cold that he spent the next several days burning with fever.”
Victor said nothing.
It was obvious he had never forgotten.
Agnes, whose expression had remained strained ever since Harold spoke about leaving, slowly changed as she listened to the old story.
“You were still little then,” George continued.
“You sat beside Thomas’s bed crying and said that if your third brother ever needed you, you’d help him.”
George paused.
“But I’m not telling you this because I expect you to repay some old debt.”
“You’re brothers.”
“Thomas didn’t pull you out of that river because he expected you to owe him for the rest of your life.”
“Edmund has already told us what he thinks.”
“Harold has too.”
“Now it’s your turn.”
The room fell silent once more.
George looked directly at Victor and asked the question for the third time that night.
“Do we keep trying to find a way to treat Thomas’s legs?”
“Victor.”
“What do you think?”