The gravel road crunched under the tires of Ben's old truck as he wound his
way up the hill. He hadn't wasted any time getting out of the city, stopping
only to grab some clothes and odds and ends from his apartment and a box
of tools from his storage locker. Fortune Springs was about a four-hour
drive away, but it was summer and the sun liked to linger.
It was setting now, illuminating the dust that kicked up behind him in an
orange-tinged cloud that stretched back toward the town he hadn't visited in
nearly twenty years. Fortune Springs had looked the same as it had the last
he'd seen it—quaint, quiet, and entirely too small for a young man with big
dreams, trying to make something of himself.
Ben hadn't intended to come ever back, not after his mother passed away
more than twenty years ago, leaving the house and the town he'd grown up
in as little more than distant memories. Since Ben's father had died when he
was just a toddler, he hadn't had anything else to bring him back to the
town he'd once called home.
Lucky Nickel Acres? That had been little more than a fairy tale by the time
Ben was a grown man. Crazy old uncle Nicholas, with his reclusive
lifestyle and eccentric ways might has well have been a local cryptid, like
Montana's enigmatic wolf-hyena, the Shunka Warak'in.
Ben had forgotten about the man entirely—until that letter arrived.
Apparently, though, his uncle hadn't forgotten about him.
He shook his head at the thought, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter
as the house came into view. Or at least, what was left of it.
The place was a sight, no doubt about that. The farmhouse was old,
weathered by years of neglect, with peeling paint and sagging beams that
made it look like it might collapse if Ben breathed too hard on it. The roof
had a few holes, the windows were clouded with dirt, and the porch leaned
to one side like it was contemplating giving up altogether.
Ben blew out a long breath.
Disappointment threatened to creep in, but he pushed it down. He hadn't
expected a mansion—hell, he wasn't even sure what he had expected. But it
didn't matter. Because unlike his rented apartment in the city, this place was
his.
He'd called Fortune Spring's town office as he'd left the city to get the deed
to Lucky Nickel Acres checked out, and sure enough, their records also
showed one Benjamin Nickels, himself, as the owner. He'd updated his
contact info for the county files and tried not to wince when the perky
administrator had wished him good luck like he'd need it by the dump-truck
full.
Now he saw with his own eyes what she must have known by the property
evaluation. But there was something about the land that tugged at him.
Something deeper than the rundown house and outbuildings.
Ben parked the truck in front of the house and stepped out, boots crunching
on the gravel. As he stretched, his shoulder twinged again, another reminder
of the years he'd spent working jobs that left him aching at the end of every
day.
But this was different.
This place belonged to him.
All that hard work, all that sweat—here, it would benefit him and no one
else.
Ben popped the truck's tailgate and grabbed his tool belt from the back,
glancing at the pile of fast-food wrappers scattered on the passenger seat.
He snorted, kicking one of the bags aside. That's another thing I'll be glad
to leave behind.
He could already picture it: fresh vegetables, fruit trees, chickens in the
yard. No more greasy drive-thru meals. He'd grow his own food, cook real
meals—hell, he'd even started thinking about preserving things, making his
own jams and pickles. He'd never been afraid of hard work, and now, every
bit of it would pay off directly.
Ben ran a hand through his thinning hair, surveying the property. The house
might need work, but the land? The land was alive with potential. He could
almost see the garden beds taking shape, the rows of vegetables sprouting
up, the pens for livestock coming together. A couple of cows, maybe some
chickens, a few pigs. With this much space, there was nothing he couldn't
do.
His mind raced with ideas. He imagined himself planting seeds in the
spring, harvesting in the fall. Maybe even selling a little extra at the local
farmers market, if he could get things going. He reached into the truck's cab
and pulled out an old, worn cookbook—his mother's recipe book, one of
the few things he'd kept from her after she passed.
The cover was faded and dog-eared, but the inside was filled with her neat
handwriting, marking pages where she'd added her own twists to old family
recipes. Holding it in his hands now, he felt a quiet comfort wash over him.
A piece of her—and with the mysterious property, maybe even a piece of
his father—would live on here, in the food he grew, in the meals he'd make.
This farm was more than just a chance at retirement. It was a chance to
connect to a past that had slipped away from him over the years.
The ache in his shoulder seemed less important now. Sure, the house might
be a fixer-upper, but Ben had his tools, his hands, and all the time in the
world—or as much time as a fifty-six year old man could expect to have
left. Besides, he thought with a small smile, there's no Brock Westin and his
polished loafers to give me grief here.
For a moment, his mind drifted back to Cheryl—his ex-wife, and the life
they'd tried to build together. It hadn't worked out, obviously, with him
always working and her always demanding more. He had no kids, no legacy
left behind. Just a string of disappointments and arguments.
But here, at Lucky Nickel Acres, he could build something from the ground
up. Something that would last.
Ben inhaled deeply, taking in the smell of the countryside. The air was
cleaner here, free of the smog and noise he'd grown used to. It felt like a
fresh start.
With his tool belt slung over his shoulder, he stepped toward the sagging
porch, eyes already scanning the property for the first project. The house
might need work, but he wasn't daunted. He'd spent his whole life working
on other people's projects—now it was time to work on his own.
Ben stood in front of the house, hands on his hips, eyeing the sagging
roofline with suspicion. The porch creaked ominously as a light breeze
swept through the property. He could already imagine the ceiling caving in
the moment he stepped through the front door.
"Well, I'd rather not be crushed to death on my first day," he muttered to
himself. "Maybe I'll take a look around outside first."
He set the tool belt and cookbook down on the stoop and moved around the
back of the house.
The outbuildings weren't much better, but at least they didn't look like they
were seconds away from collapsing. Ben wandered past the barn and an old
chicken coop, both showing their age. The entire property screamed for a
renovation, but he wasn't intimidated. It was a fixer-upper, sure, but it was
his fixer-upper.
Eventually, he found his way to the well, a stone structure that seemed
sturdy enough from a distance. Up close, though, it was clear that time
hadn't been kind to it. The stones were loose, moss creeping between the
cracks, and the rope that once held a bucket had long since rotted away.
Ben frowned, rubbing his chin as he approached. He'd need water to get
this place going, and he wasn't keen on hauling it from town. The well
would need fixing. As he reached the edge, he peered down into the
darkness, wondering just how deep it went.
Maybe the book has something about maintaining a well, he thought,
patting the pocket where the little volume was tucked. He hadn't read much
of it yet—just skimmed a few pages—but it seemed to be full of practical
advice. Maybe there was a chapter on how to test the water, how to fix an
old well, or how to dig a new one? After all, if you were going to run a
hobby farm, water was pretty essential.
As he leaned in a little further to see if he could spot any glimmer of water
at the bottom, he felt the book begin to slip from his coat pocket. His hand
darted up instinctively, grabbing the book just as it was about to fall.
He let out a breath of relief. That would have been a problem. Ben sagged
back, momentarily forgetting himself as he leaned against the well. Don't
want to lose the instruction manual before you start the game.
A soft, crumbling noise startled him from his thoughts, just as he felt the
stones shift under the pressure of his leaning bulk.
Oh, hell.
Before he could react, the stones gave way entirely. For one brief,
horrifying second, he was weightless, his body plunging forward into the
dark, cold shaft of the well.
"Ben, you fool," he muttered, his voice slipping away above him as he
plummeted into the darkness.
The fall seemed to go on forever. He felt his body spinning, twisting as the
walls of the well blurred around him. It took a moment for his mind to catch
up, for the shock to fade enough for thoughts to form.
Is the well dry? he wondered, his brain grasping for something—anything
—to make sense of the situation. Maybe if there's water, I won't die on
impact. The thought offered a sliver of hope, but it was quickly dashed by
the reality of his situation.
Even if there is water, you're dead, dumbass. No one knows you're here.
You'll drown or freeze to death before anyone finds you.
Ben couldn't help but laugh at the absurdity of it. He'd just caught the break
of a lifetime, inherited a property that could have set him up for the rest of
his days, and now, here he was—falling to his death on day one.
Falling, apparently indefinitely, he thought as he continued to tumble, the
sense of absurdity growing even stronger. How deep is this well, anyway?
His mother's words echoed in his head: Only luck up there is bad luck,
Benjamin. Stay away from Lucky Nickel Acres, you hear me?
Maybe I should've listened to her, he thought, just as the air around him
changed.
There was a sudden, violent rush of lights and sounds, like the world itself
was collapsing in on him. Pressure built up in his chest, squeezing the
breath from his lungs as the darkness closed in.
This is it, Ben thought. I guess this is what it feels like to die.
And then, silence.