Silas thornbush's Arc

Chapter 2 of 14

The wagon rolled into Prescott three days later. Silas had spent the miles thinking about Skull Valley's soil and what it could grow if someone stayed put. But staying wasn't the question now. He needed stock. The greenhouse sat at the edge of town, glass panels catching the morning sun. Inside, a woman was hanging roses upside down from a wooden rack, the blooms suspended in neat rows by their stems. Deep pink petals, some fresh, some half-dried. Silas explained what he needed—cultivated roses, reliable stock for his route. The woman listened, then shook her head. She had a customer named Lovelock who needed the same roses, she said, but wouldn't sell to her until Lovelock stopped taking plants from the wild. Rules were rules. She looked at Silas. "You harvest wild stock?" He did sometimes, when a settlement needed particular blooms. She crossed her arms. "Then we've got the same problem." Silas stood there, looking at those roses drying on the rack, knowing his route needed them and knowing what it would cost. He opened his ledger, found page forty-three, and drew a line through the wild harvest notes. "Not anymore," he said. The woman studied him, then nodded and began writing up his order. The decision closed something off—wild blooms had filled gaps when cultivated stock ran short. But it opened his route to reliable supply, the kind that didn't depend on weather or luck. He'd have to plan different now, think harder about what each settlement could sustain. The woman handed him the order slip. His wagon would carry only what could be grown again. Outside, Silas tied the slip to his wagon at the hitching post, the brass ring warm from the sun. He'd lost flexibility but gained certainty. The settlements on his route would get flowers he could promise, not flowers he had to hope for. He climbed up to the bench and released the brake. The wagon started forward, carrying one less method but one more guarantee.