She Needs a Soldier

Chapter 1

Vivienne

The morning sun beats down on my shoulders as I guide the old tractor through another row. Dirt kicks up, coating my work boots and the hem of my jeans. The engine sputters - again - and I slam my palm against the dashboard.

"Come on, don't die on me now." My voice cracks from thirst, and I swallow hard against my dry throat. I've been out here since dawn, trying to prep this section for planting before the forecast rain hits. The weatherman swears we're due for a downpour by nightfall, and I can't afford to waste a single day.

The Davis family farm stretches out around me - one hundred and twenty acres that my great-grandfather purchased back when Black farmers could finally own land here. Every inch of this soil tells our story, holds our sweat and tears. My parents poured their lives into these fields, working sunrise to sunset to make something lasting. Now it's just me, trying to keep their dream alive while banks and bigger operations circle like vultures.

I park the tractor and hop down, my boots hitting packed earth with a solid thud. My curls have mostly escaped their tie, forming a wild halo around my face that catches the breeze. I catch my reflection in the tractor's side mirror - hazel eyes squinting against the sun, full lips pressed together in determination, dirt smudged across my left cheek. Mom always said I got her height and Dad's stubborn chin. Looking at myself now, I can see them both so clearly it makes my chest ache. It's during days like this when I miss them the most.

The eastern fields showcase what this land can do when everything aligns - rows of corn reaching toward the sky, their leaves a vibrant green in the morning light. But the western acres tell a different story. Weeds creep through fallow soil. The irrigation system there broke down last season, and the replacement parts cost more than my current bank balance.

I press my palm against the sun-warmed metal of the tractor. "Just a few more rows, old girl." The machine's been here longer than I have, but like everything else, it's showing its age. The engine makes a concerning rattle that wasn't there last season, and I'm praying it'll hold out until harvest. The property taxes are due next month, and the numbers in my ledger keep sliding deeper into red.

The farmhouse needs a new roof - I've got three buckets catching leaks upstairs to prove it. The barn's paint peels in long strips, curling away like old wallpaper. But this land runs in my blood, as much a part of me as my own heartbeat. Generations of Davis farmers have worked these fields, and I won't be the generation that loses it. I can't be.

The breeze picks up, carrying the sweet scent of freshly turned earth. I pause to wipe sweat from my forehead, letting memories wash over me like summer rain. Dad used to walk these fields with me perched on his shoulders, pointing out which crops went where and teaching me to read the land like others read books.

"The soil tells stories, baby girl," he'd say, crouching down to scoop up a handful of dark earth. "See how it crumbles? That's good tilth. Our ancestors knew what they were doing when they chose this spot."

I kneel down now, running my fingers through the same rich soil. Great-grandaddy Davis bought this land in 1945, after returning from World War II. The bank tried to deny him the loan - they always did with Black farmers back then - but he'd saved every penny from his military service. He paid cash, walked in with a briefcase full of carefully counted bills, and walked out a landowner.

Mom used to tend her vegetable garden near the old oak tree, singing gospel hymns while she worked. The tomatoes she grew were legendary - folks would drive from three counties over just to buy them. I still use her growing methods, still plant the seeds in neat rows like she taught me. Sometimes, when I'm working that patch, I swear I can hear her voice on the wind.

"This land raised us," she'd tell me. "Fed us, sheltered us, gave us purpose. You take care of it, and it'll take care of you right back."

Every season leaves its mark. There's the lightning-struck pine where Dad proposed to Mom during a spring storm. The crooked fence post where I learned to ride my first horse. The corner of the north field where we buried Thunder, my childhood dog, under his favorite sunflower patch.

I press my palm flat against the ground, feeling its steady presence beneath me. This isn't just dirt and crops - it's my family's legacy written in acre-long rows. Every harvest, every drought, every triumph and setback - they're all recorded here in the language of growing things. The Davis blood runs as deep as the roots of our oldest trees, and just as strong.

I drag myself up the worn porch steps, screen door creaking as I enter the farmhouse kitchen. Bills carpet the oak table - red stamps and final notices screaming for attention. I drop into a chair, my muscles protesting the morning's work.

"Those developers called again." Maria leans against the counter, coffee mug in hand. She's been our farm manager for five years now, practically family. "Left another message about their 'generous offer.'"

"Delete it." I grab the nearest envelope, tearing it open with trembling fingers. Another past-due notice from the equipment company, the third one this month. "Sterling Development can kiss my-"

"Girl, you need to at least hear them out." Marcus strides in from the back door, his work boots leaving mud trails across the linoleum I'd just mopped yesterday. He's handled our irrigation systems since high school, back when Daddy was still running things. His weathered face shows the same worry I've been seeing in the mirror lately. "They're offering three times market value. That kind of money could set you up real nice somewhere else."

"This land isn't for sale. Not at any price." I crumple the notice into a tight ball, tossing it toward the overflowing recycling bin where it joins a dozen other rejected offers. The very thought of selling makes my stomach turn. "How's the western field looking?"

"System's hanging on by a thread." Marcus pours himself coffee, the ceramic mug chipped at the rim - another family heirloom showing its age. He takes a long sip, avoiding my eyes. "But I got it running for now. Might buy us another month. After that..." He leaves the sentence hanging, heavy with unspoken concerns.

Maria slides a plate of eggs in front of me - she's always trying to make sure I eat during a crisis. The eggs are perfectly scrambled, flecked with herbs from the garden. "Your daddy would be proud, Vivi. But he'd also want you taking care of yourself."

"I'm fine." The words come out sharper than intended, making me wince. "Sorry, I just... these property taxes are due soon, and the tractor's making that noise again." The same grinding sound that's going to cost us money we don't have.

"We'll figure it out." Marcus squeezes my shoulder as he passes, his calloused hand rough but comforting. "We always do."

"Sterling's buying up every farm in the county. God, why can't they leave Pinewood alone?" Maria settles across from me, pushing aside a stack of invoices that've been haunting my desk for weeks. Her usually cheerful face is tight with worry. "Turning good land into strip malls and condos. The Rodriguez place sold last month. Their tomatoes used to win ribbons at the county fair."

"Well, they can't have this one." I stare at the wall calendar, my neat handwriting marking payment deadlines in red ink. "I just need to make it to harvest. The corn's looking strong this year."

"So what are we going to do in the meantime?" Marcus asks, perking a brow. "Ignore the vultures circling over our heads? Sterling is on our asses."

I push back from the kitchen table, my chair scraping against the worn linoleum. "Call everyone. We're having a meeting tonight."

"Everyone?" Maria's eyebrows shoot up.

"The whole farming community. The Washingtons, the Patels, the Hendersons - anyone who's still holding out against Sterling." I grab my phone, fingers flying over the screen. "If they're picking us off one by one, then we need to stand together. We'll figure something out together. We have to."

By sunset, pickup trucks line my gravel driveway. The kitchen fills with the scent of Maria's coffee and the murmur of worried voices. Fifteen families crowd around my table, spilling into the living room - the last independent farmers in Pinewood.

"They offered the Washingtons double what they offered me," George Henderson says, his weathered hands wrapped around a coffee mug. "Playing us against each other."

"That's their game." I spread out a county map across the table, marking the farms Sterling's already bought with red X's. "They're creating pressure. Make us feel isolated, desperate. But look-" My finger traces the connecting properties. "Together, our lands form a barrier. They can't build their precious development without all of us selling."

"We could negotiate as a group," Sarah Patel suggests. "Better leverage."

"No." I plant my palms on the table, meeting each pair of eyes. "This isn't about getting a better price. This is about protecting what's ours. Our heritage, our way of life."

Marcus steps forward. "Vivi's right. My daddy worked these fields, too. His daddy before him. Some things are worth more than money."

"So what's your plan?" George asks.

"We form a coalition. Pool our resources, share equipment. The Patels have that new harvester - we could work out a schedule. The Washingtons' grain storage could help us all hold out for better market prices." Energy surges through me as the idea takes shape. "Sterling wants us to feel alone. Let's show them what happens when farmers stick together."

Heads nod around the room. The atmosphere shifts from defeat to determination. These are my people - stubborn as the soil we work, strong as the roots we tend. Sterling Development might have deep pockets, but we have something stronger: community.

I can only hope this will be enough when our purses run dry eventually.