The air was succulent; fresh with morning dew, crisp with the coming winter. Gable ushered the sheep into their pens, his ankles caked with mud.
“What’ll you do now?”
“Sell the farm. Move to the city.”
Barney frowned. “Your family’s been here for generations; your grandfather, your great grandfather. You’d give it up so easily?”
“I would.” Gable tied off the fence with a heavy rope. “This isn’t my place. I was meant for different things.”
“Different maybe, but not better.” Barney kicked the wall, loosening the muck from his boots.
“I am not my father.”
“Maybe that’s the problem.”