Creak-crick…creak-crick…creak-crick…

Kurt rocked in his mother's old rocking chair, back and forth, back and forth, wearing the porch boards beneath it. Kurt didn't have much that belonged to his mother. He'd been given her sewing machine, a wood chest, and a pair of shears. He'd held on to a coat she'd made him when he was about three, as well as this ancient rocking chair. It was already an heirloom when she'd gotten it from her grandmother, on her wedding day. She and Kurt's dad had brought it over from their home town in Iowa when they spread their wings to find a place to settle down and start a family. That flight only extended as far as Ohio, apparently, to a spit water town called Defiance. Why, Kurt didn't know, except his mother claimed that something about the land felt right. There wasn't much to be said about the town when his parents built their home there. Eighteen years later and there wasn't much more to its claim. It was flat, grassy land, and grey dust for miles, plenty for their cattle and their horses to graze on, fertile for the handful of apple trees in their small orchard and his mother's garden (now his stepmother's garden).

But for Kurt, the land was stagnant. Other things might thrive there, but he had started to atrophy.

Kurt stopped his rocking to watch a crow fly overhead, wondering where it was headed. So many times he watched the ducks and crows and ravens cut their paths across the sky, going this way and that, rarely landing, beating their wings hard to get where they were going. Kurt had never been outside of Defiance in his life. He nearly got the chance a few years back when he came down ill really bad. The man practicing medicine in their tiny town wasn't much of a doctor. Carl Howell was a man who cared for people's teeth by trade, and in Defiance, he didn't see a lot of business. He knew how to pull a breech calf, and sew up all manner of wound. The ladies around town managed most everything else, but they weren't knowledgeable in handling what turned out to be an infected appendix. As luck would have it, while Kurt's father was making plans to take Kurt to Columbus, a bona fide surgeon happened through, left for dead a few miles outside of town after an attack on his coach. He had been wandering for days, and landed right on their porch. Kurt's stepmother Carole fed him and fixed him up, and he fixed up Kurt in return, as a thank you for their aid.

Kurt's father said it was a good thing the man come along, or he would have had to take Kurt to Columbus for sure.

So Kurt loathed that man with every fiber of his being. Kurt was more than willing to risk one ruptured appendix if it meant getting to see Columbus. Kurt had yet to lay eyes on whatever was outside of Defiance's immediate borders, but that didn't matter to him since there wasn't a big city for miles. Not one big enough to suit Kurt's needs, anyway. He'd take any city at the moment, but the city of his dreams was New York.

The man who ran the saloon in town hailed from New York, and told Kurt fascinating stories about life there. He told Kurt about the fancy dress shops and the shows, and the people coming in from everywhere on huge ocean liners, even from London and Paris. Kurt knew his father wouldn't approve of him talking to this man, but he was the only person Kurt knew who had seen his dream first hand, who had lived within it and walked around, who had been a part of it. Kurt talked with that man every afternoon after school, as he walked through town on his way home. Having him to talk to was a nice stopgap while Kurt tried to figure out a way to get himself there.

Kurt was tired of small town life. He wanted to spread his own wings and fly as far away from Defiance as he could go.

This bird overhead, flapping its wings as if its life depended on it, could be headed to New York right now.

Wherever it's headed, it's smart as long as it doesn't stop here, Kurt thought, and began to rock the chair again.

Creak-crick…creak-crick…creak-crick…slam!

The door to the house flew open. Kurt didn't have to turn around to know who it was.

“Oh, Kurt!” Rachel cried. She hurried out the front door on bare feet, the sound of his father's raspy cough accompanying her steps. “This dress is perfect! Absolutely perfect!” She turned left and right in front of him, then twirled in a complete circle, hands holding her swollen belly. Even at six months pregnant, she had more energy than the lot of them living in the Hummel household. It was easy for her to be cheerful, even with swelled ankles and a morning sickness that had lingered way too long.

She, at least, had a future.

Kurt smiled as he watched her, her face glowing, her joy the only happiness he had so far to look forward to. He fought hard to keep his smile from dimming, but he couldn't quite douse the pain in his eyes. He was happy for her, truly, for the wonderful things that were falling into place in her life, but on the outskirts, Kurt felt stymied.

Kurt considered himself a visionary, but even if that were conceit on his part, there was no denying that he had a gift for fashion – a gift that wouldn't be appreciated in a horrid cow town like Defiance, Ohio. He had an ambition to level mountains, and a drive to succeed that could fuel a railroad, but lately, it was a dream that, day by day, seemed like it would never be realized.

He had been well on his way – they all had. Rachel, Kurt's best friend, and Finn, Kurt's stepbrother, had gotten married right out of school, and would soon be raising the baby who had laid claim to Rachel's body (by divine miracle, if you asked Rachel, which no one did any more). His father had remarried a while back, and was making the transition from farmer to rancher, with a handful of government contracts and an in on a store a few townships over.

Which meant they would be leaving, traveling further east, inching Kurt closer and closer to his goal.

That was until his father got sick – an illness of the heart and stomach that no doctor around seemed able to cure. Then their debts, bills Kurt and his stepmom didn't realize the family had, suddenly came due. In the blink of an eye, money started flying through their fingers faster than they could gather it together. Burt gave up his interest in the store. He sold most of his cattle. Then he started dividing out his land. The house would be next, and after that, not a one of them knew, except that Burt Hummel wouldn't live to see it.

Kurt scrambled to do what he could, taking odd jobs, working fields, tutoring, playing the piano at the saloon and at church on Sunday mornings, but mainly sewing - mending, making day clothes, and fashioning fancy dresses. It brought in some, but not nearly enough, especially since most of his repeat clients ran a tab. They couldn't help it. Hell hit the town in droves, not just the Hummels, and Kurt couldn't say no to anyone, even though he knew he should learn.

Sitting on the porch in his mother's rocking chair, he was working overtime, busy creating a wedding ensemble and trousseau for Sugar Motta, the daughter of one of the wealthiest men in town.

Rachel hated the girl with a passion. Sugar had everything, and what she didn't have, she bought, which included most of the things Rachel wanted – fancy clothes, a genuine ebony piano with ivory keys, tutors to instruct her in all manner of music. Rachel had a real talent for singing, the kind that didn't need to be taught, but required cultivation to reach its full potential. What Sugar did was caterwaul, even with the help of the finest music teachers in the country. Sugar Motta's voice could draw amorous strays out of hiding for miles.

Sugar tried to use her money to buy Finn, but Finn wouldn't have her. Finn loved Rachel. He was all Rachel ever needed, so in the end, she was the true victor.

That didn't cool Rachel's spleen for the spoiled girl any.

Rachel looked from the generous swing of her skirt to the pillow in Kurt's hands and sneered. She harried him mercilessly about being a traitor for designing Sugar's things, but it was an empty jest. She knew they needed the money, and with the baby coming, she worried the same as the rest of them over having a place to live.

“Oh, Kurt.” She stood still a moment and watched him toil over the delicate embroidery. “What a magnificent pillow,” she pouted. “It's far too pretty for her.”

“The one I made for you was much prettier, if you recall,” Kurt said, lifting his eyes and flashing her a smile.

“Yes, it was,” Rachel gloated, grinning as she thought about the pillow resting upstairs on her bed, made of gold satin, embroidered with crystal beads and silver thread to look like the night sky, far too precious to use.

“So you see, dear sister, you come out on top again,” Kurt said with a wink.

“I know, I know,” she said, searching for a place on the porch to sit. She didn't dare sit on the dusty floor in her beautiful new dress that Kurt made for her, sewing it on the sneak between his other projects. He had taken pity on her when he caught her trying to squeeze into one of her old house dresses, and then bawling her eyes out when the seams along the sides tore. There were two other chairs, but they looked hard and uncomfortable. After a brief debate, she decided to stay standing. “Too bad we can't sheep shift the darned thing.”

“You bite your tongue, young lady!” Kurt laughed. “That's disgusting! I am not sheep shifting imported silk.”

“Well, she deserves it,” Rachel remarked.

“I'm not entirely sure that the girl deserves to have her pillow filled with dung over the crime of being wealthy,” Kurt argued. “Besides, she'd know it was me, and my name would be mud in this town forever.” Kurt finished his row of embroidery with a locking stitch, and carefully cut the end with his sewing shears. He laid the pillow out on his lap, smoothing down the fabric so the stitches lay flat, to examine his work. It wasn't a simple pillow by any means. Rubbing his fingertips together, feeling how rough they'd become from constant work with his needle, he knew he hadn't charged half of what it was worth. But he couldn't have the Mottas balking at his price and ordering a readymade ensemble from the mercantile. Mr. Motta was a shrewd businessman. He demanded the best for his daughter, and claimed that price was no object, but it always was. Kurt suspected that's how the Mottas stayed wealthy – they found ways to get poor people to do stuff for them for next to nothing.

“Oh, Kurt,” Rachel sighed, looking at it over his shoulder. She eyed the intricate swirls of color that made up the garden of roses against blush pink silk that he had sewn. “That is truly exceptional. Why I…” Rachel stopped as a flurry of game birds passed overhead. They weren't traveling thru like the crow Kurt had seen. These birds had been startled up into the sky, and suddenly, Rachel's face became pale.

“Rachel?” Kurt asked, concerned that her stricken expression might mean something was wrong with the baby. With her constant morning sickness, her vomiting as violently as she did, the baby kept everyone on edge. But in the pause left after the birds disappeared into the sky, Kurt heard it, too – the steady clomping of horse's hooves coming their way.

“Kurt!” she hissed, smacking him on the shoulder to get his attention. “It must be five o'clock!”

“Dammit!” Kurt said, gathering up his sewing in a hurry. “With the days getting long and the sun taking its sweet time setting, I completely forgot!”

Rachel's hand on his shoulder tightened as the horse's hooves became louder, coming at them at a gallop.

“Well, you might have to forget running this time,” Rachel said. “I don't think you'll be able to avoid him. And it looks like he's brought a chaperone.”

Kurt peered past his sister-in-law to see not one, but two horses headed their way – one large, muscular, muddy brown horse that he'd seen so often he could recognize it by the sound of its hooves alone, and the other a sleek, black stallion that he'd seen far less, but still too often for his taste. Neither horse nor rider were welcome here.

Kurt would have cursed if he wasn't five inches from Rachel's belly. Of course, he could have. He was sure the baby wouldn't have minded. It just didn't seem right to him.

“Alright,” Kurt said, handing over his sewing things to Rachel as a hint for her to get herself inside. “Let's get this over with.” Rachel hurried back the way she'd come, with Kurt's magnificent pillow clutched to her chest, and his sewing box in the crook of one arm, while Kurt settled into the wooden rocking chair, eying their visitors like a soldier guarding a stronghold, ready to defend it with his life, if necessary.

Both horses came to a stop at the foot of the porch, having galloped the whole way, which irritated Kurt because the horses' hooves kicked up dust something terrible, making the already dirty porch filthy with an additional layer of it. Both horseback men stared at Kurt, father and son waiting for Kurt to greet them with a biting remark, which he had a habit of doing, since neither man deserved an ounce of his respect no matter how much his family was in debt to theirs.

“Mr. Karofsky,” Kurt said, addressing the elder first. “David. How abysmal it is to see you both on this otherwise pleasant evening.”

Kurt only spoke this way out of earshot of his father. Burt Hummel had no respect for the Karofskys either, but he didn't believe in stirring up the shit pot and making it stink any worse than it already did.

“Kurt,” David said, taking off his hat and offering Kurt a nod, which, for David Karofsky, was the height of manners and gentility. “I've come here on this fine evening to call on you, if you don't mind.”

Kurt tutted disapprovingly and shook his head, completely unconcerned that beside the man he openly chided sat another man, an older man, a vastly more powerful man, glaring daggers fit to tear apart Kurt's skull. But the Karofskys already had him and his father on the ropes, so to speak. By the end of Burt Hummel's life, David and his father would probably end up owning everything the Hummels had. They had proven time and again that they weren't open to compromise. In Kurt's opinion, he didn't have much to lose.

“David Karofsky,” Kurt said, “nearly every evening since we were children, you have come to my house.”

“Yes, I have,” David agreed.

“You used to run your horse by and shout foul names at me,” Kurt continued. “You threw rocks at my window. You broke it twice. You even tried to pull me off the porch and fight me. Do you remember that?”

“I do,” David said, looking appropriately ashamed, which was the only benefit Kurt would grant him.

“But now you show up every evening asking me to be yours, and every single time I say no.” Kurt sighed overdramatically, hoping that if he couldn't make his point to David, then maybe it would ring with Paul, who might tell his son to stop wasting their time. After the Karofskys take over, Kurt wouldn't own anything of value anyhow. An end to this constant badgering had to be near. “Now don't you think it's best to stop ruining your evenings picking through the heather and find someone else to hang your heart on?”

David didn't answer Kurt, but his father did, wearing a wicked smile that turned Kurt's stomach to frost.

“This time,” Paul said, dismounting his horse, “you might want to reconsider.”

Kurt was confused, and appalled that Paul Karofsky would climb off his saddle and assume an invitation when one hadn't been offered.

But moreover, he was suddenly scared out of his wits.

An aura of doom surrounded Paul Karofsky, and Kurt knew that it wasn't likely to leave when he did.

***

Of all the debts the Hummel family had accrued, the bulk of the money they owed was to the Karofsky family.

Burt Hummel, like many ranchers in Defiance, didn't believe in banks. He didn't believe in accountants or lawyers or anyone outside the family managing the family's affairs. He didn't keep a competent ledger, didn't run a tab at the mercantile, and he didn't accept credit. That was set to change as Burt's business expanded. But what Burt Hummel did believe in was neighbors helping neighbors. His entire life, he and his had been first in line to lend a hand where needed – building houses, raising barns, plowing crops, sharing firewood and game and jarred goods during the disastrous Ohio winters. Burt Hummel never let a family go without if he could help it. Many people in town said that Burt Hummel was a breed apart, that the Lord didn't build men like him anymore.

And with good reason, that even a Godless heathen like Kurt understood.

The more a person gave away, the less that person had for himself, and there's just so much a person can give before they discover they have nothing left to live on.

But Burt Hummel refused to be swayed. He believed so highly in the unwritten arrangement between neighbors that when he became ill and debt collectors threatened to take his land, he didn't hesitate to take Paul Karofsky up on his offer for help. Burt hadn't asked, Paul just offered, seeming more than willing to lend his ailing neighbor a hand.

As soon as news got out that Burt Hummel was dying, and that there was no changing that fact, the Karofsky family jumped in line on the Hummels' doorstep, hands out, expecting to be paid back in full, plus interest. Since Burt didn't see his debt to the Karofskys as a priority, he focused on paying off the other bill collectors who showed up at their door.

By the time Paul and his son David came calling, Burt Hummel had no money left.

“Paul Karofsky,” Burt said, not bothering to stand when the man stormed past his sentry and entered the house, “you offered me a loan, I thought, in the spirit of neighborly kindness. But the minute things became dire, you came calling. You've been calling almost every day. My situation ain't changed none today from yesterday, Paul, and I'm sorry to say, it ain't gonna.”

Kurt normally wouldn't interfere at this point. He'd let his father handle things from here on out. But something about that grin on Paul Karofsky's face, the way his eyes darted from Burt Hummel, hunched over his twisted stomach, a blood-stained handkerchief pressed to his lips, to Kurt's face, as if ensuring the boy stayed where he was to hear the goings on, caused Kurt to panic. It added an urgency to these proceedings.

It made Kurt believe that he had to come up with a solution to this problem, like his life depended on it.

Kurt ran to his room and fetched his wallet out of hiding, rushing in with it before Paul could put any more pressure on his father.

“Yes,” Kurt said. “Yes, it has. Mr. Motta” – Kurt dropped the name to add credence to his claim – “just paid me for the work I've done on Sugar's wedding ensemble so far.” He thumbed through the coins, but lost count as he spoke, and thrust the pouch Paul's way. “And Sugar, she's talking of adding linens and curtains and…”

“Kurt…” Paul interjected, the thread of triumph in his voice making Kurt desperate.

“I know it's not the full amount, but…”

“Kurt,” Paul repeated with a condescending smile, pushing the pouch of coins away, “that's not even near half.”

“But it's something,” Kurt said, his desperation turning to anger. “You'd be a fool not to take it.”

“And you, young man, would be a fool not to accept my son's proposal.”

Paul's comment to Kurt silenced the whole Hummel household. Even Burt's coughing ceased as the four of them tried to make sense of Paul's remark. Kurt, brow drawn, looked at David, standing sheepishly behind his father, his own face a combination of unreadable looks, leading Kurt to one inconceivable, nightmarish conclusion.

“No,” Kurt breathed, unsteady on his feet. The world started to spin, the wallet of coins in his hand becoming heavy, too cumbersome to hold. “David,” Kurt beseeched in a trembling voice, “no, I…”

Paul Karofsky tutted and shook his head, in the same mocking way Kurt had when they arrived, and the frost that had taken hold in Kurt's stomach grew.

Kurt had counted the Karofskys out, considered their constant harassing visits meaningless. His family had nothing left to give. They couldn't bleed water from a stone. Paul Karofsky knew that. He had considered bringing the law into this, but the likelihood of getting anything that way wouldn't outweigh the expense he would pay. There were other people with claims on the Hummel's assets miles ahead of his. Knowing Burt's days were numbered, they'd already begun to back down, out of respect. But Paul Karofsky wasn't bound by the kinds of social conventions that would persuade him to let Burt bow out of a debt simply because his life was nearing its end.

Paul had talked the matter over with his son, hoping that, for once, David would come up with an intelligent solution. As it turned out, the Hummels had the one thing that Paul's son wanted.

Kurt Hummel.

His son's infatuation with Kurt meant nothing to Paul really, but the idea tickled him something fierce, and this way, they wouldn't have to say they walked away with nothing.

“Burt,” Paul said, locking gazes with the man who looked murderous behind sickly, pale skin and clouded eyes, “Kurt, I'm being more than generous here.”

“No,” Kurt repeated, his eyes fixed on David, pleading quietly that he would step in and defy his father. But why would he? It'd been no secret to anyone that David Karofsky had his sights set on Kurt. Why would he turn back now, when he was so close to getting him?

To be a decent human being? David wasn't exactly known for that.

“I'm willing to absorb the entire debt,” Paul insisted, “and keep everyone else off your back, in exchange for a marriage between Kurt and David.”

“No!” Carole cried, rushing in where her husband couldn't, reaching out a protective arm for her stepson to take.

“Think about it, Kurt,” Paul continued, knowing that he could get to him, convince this boy despite his fire and bluster. David had told him how. “Safety. Protection. Not just for you, but for your stepmother and your sister-in-law…” Paul stepped forward, putting out a hand toward Rachel's stomach, touching lightly as she recoiled. “The new baby.”

“There's no need for that,” Burt said, standing, knees shaking, to pull Rachel out of Paul's reach. “We appreciate your offer, Paul, but we're not so helpless as we seem.”

“Aha, aha, I see.” Paul nodded. “Would that be because of Finn? Is that what you're referring to?” Paul turned his back to the Hummels, thoroughly delighting in the combined gasps of the family behind him. “Gone out to California to work the new railroad? Find his fortune? Save his family?”

Finn hadn't discussed his plan to travel out West with his family. He knew everyone would object, and that Rachel and Kurt would try to talk him out of it. And they would have succeeded. So he snuck off in the early morning, while it was dark, leaving a note behind. Burt toyed with the idea of sending someone after him. He couldn't ride himself. Kurt couldn't go since he was their only source of income, and Burt couldn't afford to hire someone to make the journey. All they could do was sit at home and wait, hoping they'd hear from Finn soon, and that he would have good news.

The first letter they received told them that he was on his way, and that he was fine. He roughly outlined his plan to live off a pittance, and send his wages home to help the family out. He had decided along the way that he would send for Rachel once he got settled, and for his mother when Burt passed away. He had even planned on helping get Kurt get started on his way to New York.

The Hummel family hadn't told a soul.

Burt didn't want any of his creditors to lay claim on Finn's futures.

“What's it to you?” Burt asked, wary of what Paul might know.

“Nothing,” Paul said. “Nothing at all. But just out of curiosity, when's the last time you got a message from him? He's been gone a while, hasn't he?”

Kurt had a sudden urge to go to Rachel and hold her, but he couldn't move until he heard Paul thru.

“What are you trying to say?” Burt asked. He hadn't worried about the lack of communication. It wasn't Finn's way to write letters, but he had been gone for a while. The family took for granted that everything was going alright. No news was good news.

“Just that a lot of things can happen building a railroad,” Paul said with a shrug. “Lots of dangers working with dynamite, cutting through the mountain. You might want to consider sending someone out to check on him before you pin your hopes on his wages to come to your rescue.”

Rachel cried out, and this time, dress or no, she slid to the floor, too stunned to speak. Kurt hurried to collect her, grabbing her by the shoulders to bring her to her feet, half-carrying her to her room.

“Come on,” he whispered in her ear, “don't listen to them. Finn's fine.” Kurt choked on those words. He had a feeling that Paul knew something, and that his stepbrother, whom he loved as much as anyone, definitely was not fine. “We'd know if he wasn't alright, Rach.”

“How?” she sobbed, step by step dragging herself to her room with Kurt's help. “How would we know?”

“You'd feel it,” Kurt assured her, though the frost in his stomach gripped tight around his heart. “In your gut. You know Finn. He's indestructible. He'd defy death to come home to you and the baby. You know he would. Now, come along. Let's get you and the baby away from that bastard.”

Paul watched them go, smirking when Kurt turned, fixing him with a hateful but horrified look.

“Well now,” Paul said, looking at his son, eyes glued on Kurt as well, his face still blank. “I think we've said all that we came here to say.” He pointed at Burt, who took a wobbly step forward with Carole holding him back. “You think on my offer,” he said. “Who knows? It may not last long. My son might come to his senses and change his mind.”

“Kurt will marry your son over my dead body,” Burt growled at the men walking toward the door. “Do you hear me, Paul Karofsky? Over my…dead…” Burt hacked into his handkerchief before he finished, spitting up a fair amount of blood.

Paul leaned over to his son and smiled in secret.

“Well, then, David,” he said, stepping through the threshold and out on to the porch, “it looks like you won't have long to wait.”