Dawn broke over the Green River with a soft, golden radiance that gold-trimmed the willow leaves. Then he turned the morning mist over the water into drifting ribbons of pale amber.
In the center of Parcel Number One, right beneath the high bluff where Caleb Thorne’s Milestone Fourteen stood guard, a crowd of five hundred settlers had gathered in silent, respectful assembly.
In the furrow stood four amazing red draft oxen. Their brass-tipped horns shone, their breath pluming warm and sweet in the cool river air. Hitched to their heavy oak yoke by a forged iron chain was a massive turning plow. Its beam carved from three-year-seasoned white oak, its moldboard cast from hardened northern iron, polished until it shone like a mirror.
Old Kaelen Brant held the ox goad in his calloused right hand. He looked back over his shoulder at Tomas Reed, who stood behind the plow handles.
Tomas had rolled his linen sleeves to the elbow. His left forearm, scarred by nine years of struggle and hardened by thirty seals of relentless duty, rested firmly against the oiled oak handle. His left hand gripped the wood with easy, balanced strength. He felt the weight and potential of the iron share resting against the earth.
