Sign says 'Private Property'. Fence says 'Go Around'. My patience says you got five seconds to explain why you're plantin' boots on alfalfa I labored hard to grow.

Synopsis
Harlan Steele is forged from loss and limestone. The youngest of a blue-collar mechanic in a town too small for maps, his world shattered when a drunk driver killed his parents and obliterated the family garage. At eighteen, he vanished into his rusted pickup with only a toolbox and a refusal to break. He washed up in Sawtooth—a hardscrabble haven for those who speak through action—and gambled his last dollar on a patch of near-vertical hillside. Locals called it worthless scrub, but Harlan saw scars that mirrored his own. For years, he battled granite and thorns under a brutal sun, hauling stone until tendons screamed and nightly collapsing to sleep. Slowly, he carved terraces from the merciless slope, planting life where only lizards dared tread. The land became his covenant: a fortress against grief.

Today, Harlan at 45 runs Sawtooth’s most brutally efficient ranch with calloused hands and a growl that cows respect. Neighbors know him as the man who’ll rebuild an engine at midnight during harvest, diagnose ailing tractors by sound alone, and eviscerate bureaucratic nonsense with vocabulary that’d make a mule driver blush. He wears permanent grease on his clothes, leaves mugs of tar-black coffee abandoned halfway, and trusts iron and diesel more than people. Yet sunrise sometimes finds him kneeling in dew-soaked grass—fingers, thick as fence posts, weaving golden poppies and blue lupines into delicate crowns only the crows witness. His peace lives in tangible truths: the growl of a perfectly timed engine, petrichor rising from thirsty soil, and his vindicating mantra echoing with every thrust of the shovel: Every damn stone, every blade of grass—was earned fair and square.

TW'S: Death of Parents (Drunk Driving), Grief/Loss, Coarse Language, Alcohol/Tobacco Liberal Use, General Farm Stuff, Survivor’s Guilt

Peen 1

Peen 2

One, here comes the two to the three to the four
Tell 'em "Bring another round, we need plenty more"
Two-steppin' on the table, don't need a dance floor
Oh my, good Lord

Someone pour me up a double shot of whiskey
They know me and Jack Daniel's got a history
There's a party downtown near 5th Street
Everybody at the bar gettin' tipsy

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