Sunlight from a large, open window spilled across the text Martha studied at her desk while a subtle breeze flitted over the pages of her book. She rubbed at her eyes and looked harder, hoping somehow to force an answer to appear.

"Martha."

She didn't look up at her father's usual strong tone, but continued to keep her attention on the book in front of her. Mr. Clark moved a few steps closer and peered inquisitively over her shoulder.

"Well, I'm pleased to see you've gotten your priorities in order. It's good to see you so invested in your studies. I was beginning to worry."

He reached down and took the book in one hand, perusing its pages. "Personal Finance? I thought you took this course last semester."

Martha wilted a little in her chair. She could lie, make up some plausible excuse, but being less than honest was what had gotten her in trouble with her father before. There was no since in making the same mistake twice.

"I did. I was just hoping to find something that might help Jonathan," she admitted. After all, even though she'd agreed to leave her father out of it, she hadn't promised not to help at all, had she?

"Jonathan."

Judging from his disdain, she might as well have said she'd decided drop out of school and join a covent, though he'd have probably found that preferable. "He's exactly the reason I wanted to speak to you."

She sighed heavily, put her fingers to her temple, and closed her eyes, awaiting the inevitable barrage of criticisms and disapproval.

"Oh, don't be so dramatic," he muttered wearily as he set the book back down on the table. "Listening never hurt anyone, you know. Even the president of our United States has his own personal advisors. He listens to those around him who have a better understanding of given situations. Surely you don't purport to be above the same. As the saying goes: 'A wise man learns from the mistakes of others. A fool learns only from his own.'" The tone he used now reminded her of when she was seven and he would lecture her about the importance of eating all of her vegetables to grow up healthy.

"Jonathan isn't a mistake, dad."

Her father took a seat at the edge of the desk, folded his arms pensively, and gazed out the picture window behind him. "In and of himself? No, of course not. Every man has a purpose."

"I'm sure he'd be comforted to know that," she answered, not attempting to mask her distaste for the discussion.

"--But he is a mistake for you," he pressed, ignoring the comment and focusing again on her. "Martha, you're an educated girl with every advantage at your fingertips. Don't be so easily blinded by storybook fairytales that claim love conquers all. That's all well and good until the bills are past due and you're out on the street. If your involvement with this farm-boy is-- "

"I thought you were honestly going to give him a chance, but that really is all you see, isn't it? Just a farmer." She shook her head sadly. "All your talk when I was growing up about men being equal, there being innate greatness in the human spirit--about judging a man by his character, you never believed any of it."

Mr. Clark stood so quickly one would have thought he'd been burned . "Of course I did. I do. But we're not talking about the kind of man he is--"

"Isn't that what we -should- be talking about?" Her unexpected question coupled with its disappointment and hurt left her father at a loss, as Martha stood and picked up the book from her desk.

"I'm not a little girl, dad. I know how the real world works."

For a second, she thought he'd finally been rendered speechless on the subject, which suited her because as far as she was concerned the conversation was over. She was nearly out of the study door when he called from behind her.

"I don't want you seeing Jonathan Kent anymore."

She stopped and hugged the book close to her chest, a makeshift shield, but didn't face him. "I guess that's my mistake to make."

Xxxxxx

"Nell's been askin'about you."

Having finally finished unloading all the hay for the afternoon, Jonathan hopped up onto the back of the parked truck next to Ethan and caught his breath. "Has she? You can tell her I'm doing all right."

"Will do," the young man replied in the same off-handed manner, then cleared his throat. "Said she's sorry about not making it to the funeral…."

"I really hadn't thought about it."

Several cows mooed and the wind rustled through the nearby trees.

Nell. As teenage girlfriends went, Nell Potter had been decent enough. Pretty, outgoing, and fun. The problem was that it didn't matter who it was she had fun with, just so long as she could go along for the ride. A fact he'd learned the hard way. That she hadn't made someone else a priority was neither a surprise nor of any real consequence to him.

"Sooo, uh, speaking of the women in Jonathan Kent's life, how are things with Martha? You two seem to be getting pretty close."

"They're-- she's--they're good. "

If by good one meant she could ask him to move to Alaska to take up ice fishing and he'd at least learn the trade. But he wasn't about to admit that to Ethan. They were just social friends, buddies--that and the guy was about as deep as a mason jar. But he did make the effort to stop by.

"Thanks for all your help here, by the way," he said, stripping off his work gloves and setting them aside while changing the subject.

Ethan flinched at the friendly sarcasm and shrugged with a sheepish grin. "What can I say, I'm not built for hard labor like some people," he joked. "I'm more the spectator kind of guy."

The wind picked up some and Jonathan buttoned his shirt a few buttons higher, hiding more of the work-hardened physique underneath. "Ha-Ha," he grumbled, smiling more out of obligation than humor. "Working outdoors might do you some good, you know, give some color to that desk-job pale complexion of yours."

"Hey, I may be a pasty white boy, but I'm a pasty white boy with a pretty hefty checkbook. Money trumps muscle, pretty boy. You only wish you had it."

Ethan nearly laughed before realizing from the expression on his friend's face that those might not have been the best choice of words. "Hey, I--I didn't mean anything by that. I was just kiddin'around. Sometimes my mouth runs before my brain walks. I wouldn't have anything at all if my parents weren't paying my way through the academy. No offense. Really."

"None taken," Jonathan tried to say confidently, only managing a fraction of the bravado he'd intended as he hopped down from the truck, put his hands on his hips, and paced a few feet away. Ethan followed just behind him.

"Honest, buddy, I know times have been tough for you and your family, and now with your dad gone-- I'm sorry if…"

Jonathan stopped and turned to his friend with an empty smile and light clap on the shoulder. "I said it's fine. Listen, I've got more things to do so--but thanks for coming by. I appreciate it."

"I'm sorry, man," he heard again before heading up the front steps and going inside.

The front door clicked behind him.

"Jonathan? Is that you?"

Of course, it wouldn't be anyone else, but she still asked out of habit. "Yeah, mom," he sighed and headed upstairs toward her voice.

He stopped at the end of the hall and edged the bedroom door open.. It felt strange being there. As a child, he would often wake with nightmares in the middle of the night and climb in between his mother and father, claiming he he'd only missed them and disliked being alone. If they didn't believe him, they never said. But that had been a very long time ago.

Now, his mother sat on the floor next to a large box, folding clothes.

"What are you doing?" he asked uncertainly.

"I'm just going through some of your father's things. I'm sure there are people who could use them," she said quietly.

"Now?" He faltered for half a second then gathered himself. "I can do that. You don't have to."

"No, no. I'll do it. You might want to look through these, though. You're taller than he was., but there still may be some things that you can-" she trailed off.

Jonathan stepped closer, squatted on his heels, and picked up the shirt his mother had been folding. It was denim blue and heavy, unlike most of the thinner, cooler, white shirts Hiram often wore. His fingers touched reverently over the buttons down the left side as he recalled winter days past and clutched the fabric tighter if holding on to the memories themselves. Silently, he slipped the heavier shirt over the flannel plaid he already wore.

A single tear slipped down Jessica's face. Then another. And another. Until she couldn't hold them in any longer. The more she tried to stop them, the more of them fell. Jonathan got to his knees and hugged her to him, not knowing what else to do but hoping it would be enough.

There, on his mother's floor, he lost the little boy who had wandered in so many nights to be sheltered in his parents' arms, and found the man he needed to be.

TBC...