Winter in Kentbury (Kentbury Tales #6)

Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Holden

I jog along the trail, each step steady on the frozen ground, the crunch of dirt and ice filling the quiet around me. My breath comes out in small clouds, each one hanging in the air before vanishing into the cold. Every morning, rain or shine, snow or heat—it doesn’t matter, I run five miles, non-stop.

This is the routine. I push forward, mile after mile, letting the rhythm of my feet on the ground keep me grounded.

The cold seeps through my skin, chilling my muscles until each step feels heavier. Winter mornings in Kentbury have a way of making the world feel paused, the landscape suspended in silence.

The lake lies still beneath a layer of ice. As if waiting for something to break the calm. The air carries a bite, laced with the scent of pine and woodsmoke, clear and refreshing as if everything was scrubbed clean while we slept.

Out here on the outskirts of town, where the thirty acres of Miller Vineyard stretch out before me, it’s just me, the snow-dusted vines, and the crunch of my steps. No neighbors to ask questions, no small-town gossip creeping in. Just open space, empty fields, and quiet mornings.

I slow as I reach the top of a small hill, hands on my hips, breath coming out in steady bursts that fog up the air. From here, I can see the vineyard stretching in neat rows, each vine bare and brittle in the cold, stripped down for the season. They’re waiting, just like everything else, for spring to arrive to decide if they’ll bloom again or wither away.

And somehow, staring out over those rows of vines, I feel a pang of recognition. My life, too, feels lined up neatly, laid bare, but completely out of my control. I tend to the vineyard, do everything I’m supposed to, but there’s no telling if all this work will amount to anything. The frost could hit too hard, the buds could die off, and then all that’s left is to start over again.

Winemaking, though—that’s a whole different challenge. For now, I’m learning from Bishop, one of my best friends. He’s got it all figured out. He runs the orchard, knows his way around cider-making, and he even went to school for chemistry to become a winemaker.

Who does that? Only Bishop Harris, who knows exactly what he’s doing with his life. Me? I knew a lifetime ago and never thought about what would happen if I had to retire. Everyone thinks I’m fine, that I’ve got everything sorted. But the truth? I’m no better off than I was the day I retired. Winemaking wasn’t the plan.

Hell, there isn’t a plan. That was always Landon’s thing. My younger brother’s the one with the plans, the one who kept saying, “Just try it until you figure out what you really want. Or if this isn’t it, we can sell the vineyard to the Harrises.”

Yet here I am, stuck in this waiting game, just like these vines. Settled, hoping that somehow the next season will give me something I can hold on to. It feels too much like the military. You train, you prepare, but in the end, the outcome is always uncertain.

I pull my gloves tighter, exhale hard into the cold, and start the jog back toward the farmhouse. The big, empty house looms ahead—a place built for more than one. But it’s just me, rattling around in the quiet.

For the past six months, I’ve kept myself busy with renovations—replacing the roof, sanding down old wood, patching walls that probably haven’t been touched in decades. Somehow, it helps. There’s a certain comfort in fixing things, in seeing solid results. A wall that won’t crumble. A roof that keeps the rain out. Furniture I’ve built with my own hands.

Maybe today, I’ll start on that end table. There’s not much else on the list, and the quiet of this place is starting to itch under my skin. Landon left a voicemail last night, something about stopping by the shop if I got bored. There was also a reminder about the Harris event. Or maybe it was someone’s birthday? I barely listened, already knowing I wouldn’t be attending.

Somehow, Landon seems to think we still have that easy rhythm we had as kids. But we don’t. I’m not that teenager who left home all those years ago. I almost called him back, but . . . what would I even say? That the silence here is creeping into my bones? That I have no idea how to ask for help without feeling like I’m coming apart?

At the porch, I brush the snow from my jacket and step inside, letting the door swing shut against the cold. The air indoors holds a faint scent of cedar, leftover from the coffee table I finished last Sunday. I shrug off my coat and toss it over a chair, peel off my gloves, and rub my hands together, trying to coax warmth back into my fingers. The dog tags around my neck jingle softly.

I reach for them, my fingers curling around the cool metal, feeling the familiar weight resting against my skin. I roll them between my fingers for a moment, almost absent-mindedly, before letting them fall back into place. I’ve thought about taking them off more times than I can count. But every time, it feels like slicing away a piece of myself, a piece I’m not ready to leave behind.

I pour myself a mug of black coffee. No sugar, no cream. Leaning against the counter, I let my gaze drift out over the vineyard. Rows of vines stretch beneath a layer of fresh snow, stark and still. A quiet calm settles over everything. Each vine stands bare and brittle, lined up neatly, waiting for spring to decide their fate.

On the table, my notebook sits open, filled with messy scribbles: soil acidity levels, pruning schedules, notes on frost protection. Some days, I almost convince myself I’m getting the hang of this. Other days, it feels like I’m just a kid playing dress-up, going through the motions, waiting for reality to catch up and knock everything down.

Landon keeps telling me it’s fine if the first few batches aren’t perfect. Part of the process, he says, like it’s no big deal. Easy for him to say. He works with engines. They either run, or they don’t. And if they don’t, he can just tweak them until they do. But wine? Wine demands patience, waiting, and a kind of faith I’ve never been good at summoning.

I drag a hand down my arm, fingers brushing over the scar that cuts across my forearm. It’s faded, but the memory is sharp. I remember how one wrong jump can change everything in an instant. That’s the thing about pararescue—you prepare for the worst but hope you never live through it. I survived more worst-case scenarios than I can count.

The quiet here is supposed to be peaceful. Instead, it leaves too much space for thoughts I’d rather not revisit—memories that stick around, questions that go unanswered. Like whether this new life is really what I want, or if I’m just trying to convince myself it’s safer than clinging to the past.

I take a sip of coffee, feeling its warmth spread through me, but it barely makes a dent in the cold that seems to follow me everywhere these days. Outside, the wind picks up, howling as it rattles the windows, while snowflakes drift slowly through the dim afternoon light.

This place was supposed to be a fresh start. A chance to build something real, something that lasts. But most days, it feels like I’m still waiting. Waiting for things to click into place, for life to make sense again.

I glance at the clock. It’s still early, but there’s work to do. And if not I have homework from the winemaking master—Bishop. There is always something to keep me busy. I grab the notebook, flipping through pages of scribbled notes, trying to make sense of what I still don’t understand. Winemaking is a lot of trial and error, and I can live with that. What I can’t shake is the thought that I might never figure out what comes next.

For now, I keep moving forward. One day at a time. One vine at a time. Maybe, eventually, things will fall into place. People talk about finding peace in the simple things, and I’m trying to believe that. Trying to let these small routines pull me along until something shifts. It’s almost like I’m in some kind of rehab, one with no clear goals and no timeline, and I’m not even sure what I’m supposed to be getting over. Is it the past? The uncertainty? Or just this hollow feeling that I’ve been carrying for longer than I’d like to admit?

Still, I do what I can. I show up. Tending the vines, fixing the house, filling each day with enough work to keep the silence from creeping in.

And if things never fall into place? If this life stays as raw and uncertain as it feels right now? Well, I’ve been through worse.