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everyone in town thought had no heart. He stared for a full minute at the admission form, then tossed caution to the wind, filled out the boxes, and hit the Send key. Within seconds, he’d received his confirmation e-mail giving him a list of the scheduled class times. Once his fee was paid, he’d receive notification from the teacher about his first lesson.
    Wyatt raked a hand through his hair, badly in need of a good trim, or so his brothers had reminded him lately. They were bound to give him a bad time about taking a poetry class, but what the hell. He needed something more than television to stimulate his mind. He sat forward, completed the financial form, and sent it off with a quiet sigh. It occurred to him as an afterthought to ask if the class was live via chat or e-mail. He wasn’t comfortable talking in large groups of strangers, unless it was on his own terms. The solution if need be would be to create a bogus e-mail address and name to maintain his anonymity. Happy that he’d thought of everything, he logged off, stretched his arms over his head, and yawned.
    The sound pulled Sadie from her slumber and Wyatt chuckled at the dog’s selective hearing. “It’s only me, girl.” He switched off the old green banker’s lamp, got up, and wandered through the dining room to the kitchen. He paused, to look at the photo of Jed and the three boys holding a Fraser Fir like a trophy from the hunt. It was taken the first Christmas after Rein arrived to live with them. A few years later, in Rein’s senior year, he’d made a barn board frame in wood shop and they’d had the photo blown up to give to Jed for another Christmas. The day they’d chopped down the tree, and more importantly, the lessons they’d learned were still vivid in Wyatt’s memory.
    Wyatt hadn’t wanted to go, but Jed hadn’t given him a choice, pulling the “you’re the oldest” card on him. Dalton had no desire at first to partake in the adventure, stating he had to call his latest girlfriend, but when using an ax had become part of the topic, he’d agreed without hesitation, giving Wyatt cause for concern.
    Rein, steeped in a deep silence, his pain fresh from losing both parents, plodded along a few feet behind. It wasn’t a stellar day and in retrospect, Wyatt would realize Jed, as much as any of them, was keenly aware of the fact. They’d walked, it seemed, for miles, and then Jed handed the ax to Wyatt.
    “Make sure no one is behind you when you swing that thing.” He started to leave and Wyatt, barely nineteen at the time, stared after him, thinking the old man had truly flipped his cookies.
    “What the—” he said aloud, stymied by Jed’s departure.
    Jed tossed him a precautionary look about his language. Wyatt clamped his mouth shut before he found himself in trouble. “Where are you going?” he asked.
    “I forgot my coffee thermos.” Jed continued to walk away from the three, causing iridescent sprays of snow to filter through the bitter air.
    Dumbfounded, Wyatt called out to the old man. “Who’s supposed to show me how to swing this thing?” His frustration rose as Jed continued his sojourn back through the path they’d just made. Wyatt cut a glance to Rein, whose hands were jammed in his pockets and his focus on his boots.
    “Gimme that thing.” Dalton reached for the three-foot ax handle, and Wyatt held it from his reach.
    “Rein should know how to swing an ax,” Jed called over his shoulder. “Don’t come back until you find a good tree. And be damn sure before you chop it down, nothing is still living in it.”
    Wyatt looked over, meeting Rein’s steady, blue-eyed gaze. He’d never seen such sadness in the eyes of someone other than him before. “You know how to use one of these things?”
    “Maybe.” He shrugged and looked away.
    Though the sun was brilliant at midday, causing the powdery snow to sparkle, the temperature was well below freezing. Wyatt could barely feel the tip of his nose. He just