Ben jerked his head up in time to see a cart full of lumber barreling down
the incline, gaining speed as it veered directly toward him. One of the
younger workers, barely more than a kid, was chasing after it, his face pale.
Instinct kicked in. Ben shoved the letter into his pocket and lunged for the
cart, grabbing the side just before it could careen off into the tool shed. His
shoulder screamed in protest, the sharp pain shooting through him like a
live wire. He managed to stop the cart, but it took all his strength, and when
the worst of the momentum died down, he staggered back, clutching his
arm.
"Sorry, Mr. Nickels!" the kid called out, clearly flustered.
Ben waved him off with his good hand, trying to suppress the urge to swear.
"It's fine, Andy… you'll have to try harder than that to kill Old Ben
Nickels. Just keep a better grip next time."
The young worker nodded sheepishly and ran back to the site, leaving Ben
standing there, wincing as he massaged his shoulder. When the pain
subsided to a dull throb, he reached for the letter, only to feel his stomach
drop. It wasn't there.
Ben's gaze shot to the ground, scanning the area for the stack of strange
ivory papers.
There they were, lying in a fresh puddle of mud at his feet, smeared and
damp.
Ben cursed under his breath as he knelt down, gingerly picking it up. His
shoulders slumped with frustration, but as he inspected the letter, relief
washed over him. The damage was superficial—the ink hadn't bled, and the
writing was still legible, though the mud stains didn't help its already
ancient appearance.
He wiped off what he could and turned his attention back to the spidery
writing. The more he looked at it, the stranger it seemed. The paper felt
older in his hands, the ink looked like it belonged on one of the country's
founding documents, not on something he'd just received in the mail.
It's like holding a relic, he thought, a twinge of guilt prickling at him for
dropping it. The language was odd, too—not quite formal, but definitely
archaic, like someone had written it a century ago. Ben's eyes skimmed
over the salutation again, and the name leapt out at him.
Nicholas Nicholson. His great-uncle. But… how?
Ben hadn't thought about the man in years, though as a boy he'd found the
rumors and gossip about him fascinating—especially since the adults would
always wait for Ben to leave the room before talking about him. That had
made his great-uncle seem more like some kind of dirty family secret than a
real person, whom Ben had imagined variously as a robber, a pirate, or a
rum-running gangster throughout his childhood.
As best Ben could actually figure, Nicholas Nicholson had been some sort
of black sheep of the family. Eccentric, a hermit, strange but probably not
dangerous. Ben had no idea when he'd died, but he must have. If he was
still alive, he'd have to be well into his second century by now.
So, who had sent the letter?
That wasn't the strangest part, though. Ben flipped the envelope over,
inspecting it again. There was no return address, no estate agency or legal
firm. The stamp was unfamiliar, some kind of foreign crest, but not from
any country Ben recognized. And there was something else—a complete
lack of postal marks. No post office stamps, no sign that it had been
processed through any system Ben knew of.
His frown deepened. Where the hell did it come from?
The mysteries were piling up, and his curiosity only grew sharper.
Ben wiped the last bit of mud from the letter, his curiosity overpowering the
dull throb in his shoulder. He began to read again, more carefully this time.
Dear Benjamin,I hope this letter finds you in good health, though by the
time you read it, I may be long gone from this world. I write to inform you
that you are the sole heir to a property of significant value: Lucky Nickel
Acres, located in the foothills near your hometown of Fortune Springs—
Ben blinked, his mind racing. There it was, as if plucked from the foggiest
reaches of his childhood memories. Lucky Nickel Acres? He hadn't heard
that name in years. His mother used to mention the place occasionally,
completely out of the blue, as if she felt compelled to warn her young son
that being lucky didn't necessarily mean it was good luck.
Only kind of luck you'll find at Lucky Nickel Acres is the bad kind, she'd
say. Everyone who lives there goes crazy, my boy. Your father was fortunate
to escape when he did…
Ben frowned. He hadn't thought about it much as a kid, but now the name
had weight, sinking into him with unexpected significance, along with all
the questions he'd asked but never had answered as a child.
For one thing, if his father had lived there, how had he escaped? And why
had he needed to escape, for another? His father had died when Ben was
young, and his mother had never wanted to talk about the Nickels side of
the family more than she had to, so Ben never got the answers he sought. As
he grew older other interests took over, and Ben had put his crazy reclusive
relatives out of his mind for good.
Now, according to the letter, Lucky Nickel Acres was his.
And not just a house on an old, overgrown farm lot. The letter described "a
sprawling property, including the old family farmhouse, outbuildings, and a
significant portion of land."
This can't be real, he thought, his pulse quickening. Even if the buildings
were falling apart, the land itself could be worth a fortune…
Ben's hands trembled slightly as he read on, skimming the rest. It was
personal, written in the strange, old-fashioned scrawl presumably of his
great-uncle Nicholas. But the farther he got in the letter, the more surreal it
felt.
The property appeared to be enormous. A chunk of land in the foothills that
Ben could parcel out and sell in smaller chunks if he needed to, and he'd
still have more than enough left to repair the old house or build a new one
—hell, enough to live out the rest of his days without having to work
another second for someone else.
I could finally quit, he thought, pulling himself from the dreamlike haze
with a start. I could retire, after all!
For a moment, he let the thought settle over him, heavy but liberating. He
could retire. His aching shoulder, the long, grueling hours, the endless grind
—he could leave all of it behind. The idea of working land that he owned,
of feeling the fruits of his labor directly, not just for some pompous jerk like
Westin, was too sweet to ignore.
His heart raced with excitement. It seemed too good to be true, and yet… it
felt right. It felt like he'd been waiting for this moment his entire life
without knowing exactly what it was he was waiting for.
Ben exhaled slowly, trying to keep control of his racing thoughts. It was the
weight of the envelope in his hand that finally brought him back to the
present, grounding him with its unexpected heft.
There was something else inside.
Frowning, he reached in and pulled out a small, slim volume. It had a
strange title embossed on the worn leather cover: Animal Husbandry for
Fun and Profit.
He chuckled, flipping it open. The pages were rough, almost like they'd
been hand-pressed on an old-fashioned printing machine. The illustrations
were simple but precise, and the entire book was written in the same archaic
tone as the letter.
It didn't take long for him to realize it wasn't just a quirky title. The book
was a genuine handbook on running a cost-effective, self-sustaining hobby
farm. And to his surprise, it was signed by none other than his great-uncle
Nicholas Nicholson.
No way this is the same man, Ben thought. The book looked ancient, older
than his great-uncle could possibly have been. But the name was the same.
Did he have another ancestor by the same name? The mystery only
deepened, but Ben couldn't help grinning.
He turned a few more pages, quickly glancing over the advice on farming.
The more he read, the more the idea of it took root in his mind. He could
picture it: a life away from the noise, the constant pain, the endless hours
spent working for someone else. It was tempting—so tempting he almost
felt light-headed with it.
That's when he heard the familiar clatter of shoes on the boardwalk again.
Westin's voice cut through the air, sharp and grating as usual. "Nickels! You
slacking off again?"
Ben glanced up, quickly tucking the letter and book under his arm. Oh, for
the love of... Not now.
Westin strutted over, wearing that same smug grin, his eyes squinting as he
approached.
"You know, Nickels, I thought we had a conversation about your subpar
work ethic already today. I thought we'd come to an understanding." He
folded his arms, tilting his head. "Or maybe you don't want this job after
all?"
Ben stared at him, the words settling in. Maybe he didn't want this job
anymore. Maybe, for once in his life, he didn't need to swallow the
condescending nonsense that dripped from Westin's mouth.
"You know what?" Ben's voice was calm, almost too calm. "You're right."
The shiny haired prick smirked, opening his mouth to cut Ben down again.
"Of course I'm right. That's why I'm the boss and you're the guy swinging
the hammer, Nickels. The sooner you realize I'm always right, the sooner
you'll—"
"I don't want this job," Ben cut him off.
Westin blinked. "Excuse me?"
Ben slipped the letter and book into his pocket, standing up straighter. "I
quit."
There was a moment of stunned silence from the other nearby workers as
they stopped what they were doing to listen to the conversation.
Westin's smirk faltered, and his mouth opened, closed, then opened again.
"You... you what?"
Ben smiled faintly, the corners of his mouth twitching. "I quit. I'm done.
Finished. No more hammer-swinging for me, Brock. You've got better
things to do than to sort my mail, and I've got better things to do than listen
to your empty-headed lectures."
Westin's face began to turn red, and a few of the nearby workers glanced
over, leaning forward eagerly to listen to the exchange. Ben caught a few
grins spreading across their dirt-smudged faces.
"You can't just walk off the job!" Westin sputtered, his voice climbing an
octave. "You've got to put in a notice. That's how this works, Nickels.
We've got deadlines to meet. You're my foreman. You can't just—"
Ben held up his hand. "I'm pretty sure I just did."
The workers around them snickered, and Ben's lips curled into a slow,
satisfied grin. He crossed his arms, taking a moment to savor Westin's
mounting irritation before delivering his retort.
"You want to know the difference between you and me, Westin?" Ben's
voice was calm, but there was an edge to it now. "Since you're so fond of
bringing it up."
Westin's face twitched, that smug smile faltering as he glanced around. The
crew had gone quiet, eyes flicking between the two men. Westin cleared his
throat, trying to regain control, but Ben wasn't done.
"You think everyone here respects you because of that title you were
handed," Ben said, tilting his head. "You waltz in here every day in your
designer loafers and your perfectly pressed shirts, acting like you know
about hard work. But let me tell you something, kid—real work doesn't
come with safety nets and daddy's checkbook."
The laughter around them grew louder, a few muffled snorts coming from
disbelieving men who were just tuning in. Westin's face was reddening, but
Ben didn't let up.
"You ever wonder why no one takes you seriously?" Ben continued, his
voice dripping with sarcasm. "It's because we all know you don't have a
damn clue what you're doing. You're out here pretending to run a
construction site like it's a hedge fund, spouting off about productivity and
efficiency like we're all impressed by your Ivy League vocabulary."
Ben leaned in slightly, lowering his voice just enough that only Westin—
and the closest workers—could hear. "But the truth is, you don't get respect
because you don't deserve it. Hell, I'd rather break my back slinging lumber
for the rest of my life than spend a single day in those over-polished shoes
of yours, strutting around like a khaki-colored peacock knowing I hadn't
earned a damn thing."
A ripple of applause broke out from the crew, some of them clapping
openly now, others whistling under their breath. Westin's mouth opened and
closed like a fish out of water, his face growing redder by the second.
"You think you can run this place because you've got a title and a bank
account, but here's the difference between you and me, Westin." Ben's grin
widened. "I'm respected for what I do. You're tolerated because of who
your daddy is."
The laughter was louder now, full-bodied, and Westin's face twisted in a
mix of outrage and humiliation. Before he could spit out a retort, Ben
clapped him on the shoulder—lightly, but enough to make Westin flinch.
"So good luck with all that," Ben added, straightening up. "I'm done taking
orders from someone who couldn't tell a nail gun from a hole in his head.
Enjoy your little empire, Westin. You've earned it. Or, well... someone did."
And with that, Ben turned and walked away, raising his hand in one final,
middle-fingered salute.
The cheers behind him were deafening. For the first time since he'd started
at Westin Construction, Ben felt a sense of true accomplishment as he left
the worksite. He doubted his words would have any lasting effect on young
Brock, but he hoped, if nothing else, his crew might derive some joy from
the fleeting moment.
It wasn't often one of the little guys took a shot on the big schmuck in
charge. They'd probably be talking about that dressing down for years to
come, and that thought gave Ben a bit of a thrill.
He tried not to think too hard about what would happen to him if the letter
ended up being a fraud. Old Joe would give him a reference if he had to
apply to a different company, if it came to that.
Somehow, though, Ben didn't think that was going to be an issue.
It might be strange, but there was something about the letter that just felt
right.
Ben had a feeling, as he crunched across the parking lot to his rusty pickup,
that he was taking the last steps in his old life. As he opened the door and
slid into the driver's seat, he patted his jacket pocket, where the letter and
the book sat like a promise next to his heart.
Good riddance, he thought as he cranked the ignition. Good riddance to
bad rubbish.
And with that, he peeled out of the parking lot, not even giving a final
glance to the life he was leaving behind.