Building up the foundation, one step at a time...

Chapter Thirty Four: Neighbors and Partners

I sat down with Gus on the porch of his place, a jug of chilled cider between us and two tin cups clinking lazy on the table. The sun might never set out here, but the shadows shifted just enough to give the feel of an afternoon slowin' down. We’d hauled in a good harvest, and now I was lookin’ to shift the weight of the next one.

“I been thinkin’,” I started, swirling my cup, “maybe I let you take the next hectare’s worth of corn.”

Gus raised an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? You finally gonna stop babyin’ those stalks yourself?”

I chuckled. “Not stoppin’, just movin’ it around. I got enough on my hands. Plus, the boys got this itch to try different things. More tubers, more berries. I figure corn’s still got a place—but maybe not all of it here.”

Gus leaned back, arms folded across his belly. “I could grow it easy enough. You want to work out a deal?”

“Yup. You grow, I buy. Fair market rate, maybe a little extra if it comes in clean and early. You still got that field on the south slope, don’t ya?”

“Sure do. Ain’t used it in two seasons. Could turn it over next week. Soil’s good.”

We clinked cups on it, but Gus didn’t lean forward this time. He tapped his fingers on the jug instead.

“There’s another thing I’ve been wonderin’,” he said. “I’ve seen how your still works. Heard the boys brag on it. You ever think about settin’ up another?”

I blinked. “Another still?”

“Yeah. You got the know-how, I got the copper stockpiled. There’s that slice of land between our two farms—rocky, but solid footing. We build there, co-own it. Share batches, split profit. You run the show; I lend the help.”

I scratched my beard, thinkin’ it over. “You’d really be in for that?”

“Ron,” he said, leaning in finally, “I’ve been tradin’ mash since before you knew which way to twist a spigot. But I never had the gear, and sure as hell never had the science behind it like you do. I’m good at growin’—you’re good at distillin’. We’d be fools not to try.”

I looked out at the field stretchin’ between us. Dusty now, but it could hold somethin’ real soon. A place where fire met grain. Where neighbors became partners.

“Alright,” I said. “We’ll need pipes, a good water line, ventilation—space for aging barrels too. I’ll draw up the specs.”

Gus grinned. “I’ll get the copper outta storage.”

We sat quiet for a minute, cups empty, air filled with the sound of bugs and breeze.

“Reckon this’ll make us the biggest mash producers in this whole quadrant,” I said.

“Reckon it will,” Gus said, “and maybe the happiest.”

I leaned back and studied the sky, still bright and cloudless. “It’s strange. Back home, it took a whole lifetime just to break even. Out here… feels like we’re writin’ our own rules.”

Gus nodded. “Things move faster on the fringe. Fewer folks in your way.”

“Still gotta be smart, though,” I said. “I figure we split the distillate fifty-fifty. Use our own branding, too. Maybe something local. ‘Twin Ridge Spirits,’ or somethin’.”

“Works for me,” Gus said. “I’ll bring the lumber, you handle the boiler specs.”

We sat there a while longer, talkin’ mash yields, yeast types, and how many barrels we’d need for a good first season. Turned out Gus had been holdin’ back a few tricks too—his gran used to flavor their mash with dried citrus and spruce tip. I told him we oughta try a run with honey and berries once the new batch of bushes took root.

He slapped his knee. “Now that’s thinkin’. Sweet mash sells best with the travelers, anyway.”

Before I left, we walked the patch of ground between our farms. Not much to look at—half rocks, half weeds—but I could picture it in my head. Pipes steaming, barrels lined in rows, the faint hiss of brew in the still.

“This’ll work,” I said, sticking my hands in my pockets.

“It will,” Gus agreed. “It already is.”

And just like that, another dream started settin’ roots. Not a lonely one this time. A shared one. Built from the sweat of two old fools too stubborn to quit, and maybe wise enough not to.

Chapter Thirty-Five: Brothers in the Build

The morning buzzed louder than usual. Not from the bees or the still, but from the new bodies movin' about. I stepped out to the porch with my coffee, halfway expecting the normal crew—but there they were, two fresh faces already unloadin’ crates of tools like they owned the place.

"You must be Once and Doce," I called out, giving them a nod.

Once—taller, lean, with a cocky sort of grin—tipped his hat. "That’s us. Ma sent word you needed extra muscle."

Doce, round-faced and quiet, just gave me a thumbs up while balancing a post hole digger on his shoulder like it was made of feathers.

I scratched my beard and sipped slow. “We got a stillhouse to build, and only so many hours in the day—even if that sun never goes down.”

Lu came around from the orchard, her braid tied up high and a roll of blueprints under her arm. She barely broke stride as she walked up to me.

"I told them to start clearing the patch near the eastern tree line. It’s got good drainage and space for deliveries."

“Taking charge, huh?” I said with a smirk.

She ignored that and called over the rest of the crew. Nueve and Dies fell in line next to Once and Doce, forming a rough row of shirtless determination.

“You listen up,” she said, hands on hips like a general. “This ain’t a vacation. We’ve got foundation to dig, stone to set, and gear to install. No slackin’. No complainin’. And Pa stays boss unless he says otherwise.”

“Yessir,” they all said, though a couple chuckled.

I watched her work, organizing everyone with calm precision. Lu had a way of speaking soft but carrying heavy weight behind every word. Once and Doce took to the job fast. Once drove the post digger with ease, while Doce figured out the leveling system on his own.

Later, while the boys hoisted beams under Gus’s watchful eye—he’d brought his leveler bot for assistance—Lu and I sat near the edge of the build site with lemonade in hand.

“I’ve been thinkin',” she said, brushing hair outta her eyes. “We could hire a couple of my brothers. Keep 'em here long-term.”

“You want more family underfoot?” I teased, but the smile was already there.

“I trust them. And they know what they’re doin’. We’ve got two stills now. Soon we'll have three. We need folk who know what yeast smells like when it’s gone bad.”

I swirled my drink, watching the boys measure planks. “Alright. If they prove themselves and don’t cause trouble, I’m all for it. This place is growing faster than I figured.”

She nodded and leaned back. “We’ll set a schedule. Once can run night batches. Doce can do morning. Dies and Nueve can rotate days on fermentation. Uno and Dos can focus on brewing unless there’s overflow. We’ll keep it clean.”

“And if they squabble?”

“I’ll handle it.”

We sat there in silence for a minute, the hammering in the background somehow comforting. The orchard swayed behind us. Bees buzzed around the distant hives. Out in space or not, this place was feeling more like home every hour.

That night, we ate on the back porch—ten boys, Gus, Lu, and me—passing cornbread and stew, laughing over the clink of mason jars and worn spoons.

And as I looked around that long, weather-worn table, I knew I wasn’t just buildin’ a still.

We were buildin’ a life.