The crunch of tires on frozen gravel cut through the stillness like a warning shot. I was standing in the kitchen of my Montana cabin, hands dusted with flour, a loaf of bread rising beside the window, when I heard it. Snow drifted past the glass, slow and quiet, the pine trees standing guard under a pale winter sky. The cabin smelled of yeast, wood smoke, and fresh coffee—peaceful, earned, mine……CONTINUE READING BELOW
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