Twin Pines – The Smell of Pine and Diesel

First thing he noticed? The smell. Pine. Machine oil. And dust. Familiar smells, a mixture of home and deployment and maybe what he needed. The past and the distant past. Rian closed the truck door and stood still for a moment, breathing in, cataloguing air and land like he did every new place. Diesel and rust, sweet sap seeping from freshly cut logs – and something faintly rodent-like beneath it all. Horses … that tracked, there was a small herd out in the paddocks, watching him with polite disinterest. Familiar, but strange.

That was the idea, wasn’t it?

The gravel crunched underfoot—blue-gray, flecks of rust and tan – as he shifted weight onto his prosthetic leg. He bit back a small wince. Neither dramatic nor new. Just part of him now.

Rian hefted his old army duffel bag onto his left shoulder, the weight pulling slightly at the old scarring there. He locked the truck behind him out of habit. The dark grey 2011 Ford F-250 Super Duty with the extended cab and the slight lift – function, not flashy – was the fortress and the base of a man like him. Toolboxes mounted firmly in the bed, every wrench and socket accounted for. Inside, sterile and neat, nothing extraneous minus the adaptations that allowed him to drive despite the prosthetic that anchored just above where his right knee had once been.

And, of course, a good sound system. He did have standards.

He scanned the farm ahead. Twin Pines Farm looked exactly like its name suggested. The gate down at the entrance flanked by two massive pines, their branches stretching wide like arms open in welcome or warning. Beyond stood a scattering of outbuildings nestled against a backdrop of dense Pacific Northwest woods. Calm, quiet. Almost alien.

The screen door of the farmhouse opened with a whiny creak, revealing two people. Marianne „Mare“ Latham already moved towards him, wiping flour-covered hands on her flowery apron. Her smile was clearly genuine, kind even. Her husband, Joel, followed behind, steps heavy and careful, bright blue eyes sharp beneath the brim of a weathered baseball cap.

„You found us okay?“ Mare asked, voice deep and rough and yet gentle, her eyes crinkling with her smile. She reached out warmly, gripped Rian’s hand briefly.

„Yes, ma’am,“ Rian answered with a slight nod. „Directions were clear.“

Joel gave a soft grunt in greeting, eyes scanning Rian with quiet assessment, while Mare muttered something about „none of this ‚ma’am-nonsense‘ here, son. Call me Mare!“

„Nice rig. Looks solid,“ Joel said finally in lieu of a proper hello.

Rian glanced back briefly at his truck. „She gets me where I need to go.“

Mare gestured lively toward the main house. „Come on in, come on in. I baked some muffins – you must be hungry after the drive.“

Rian hesitated, then nodded when he realized that resistance would be futile, and followed them up the porch steps. He marked each tread’s height, bracing subtly, knowing exactly how to angle his weight.

Inside, the kitchen smelled sweet and rich, like cinnamon and warm butter. And coffee. It looked like it smelled.

Mare placed a plate of muffins before him and tried to wrestle his duffel from his shoulder. Rian raised an eyebrow, but let her. In the meantime, Joel poured coffee, steaming, black, Navy Strength.

„Cream? Sugar?“ Mare dropped his duffel off on an empty wooden chair.

„No, thank you.“ Rian sipped cautiously, eyes closing briefly in bliss. That was the real thing.

Joel stood by the window, gaze fixed beyond the porch. „You’ll be staying in the cabin out front, near the barn. Tools and equipment are in the shed right next to the barn. Tractor’s old, but she runs. Ask before using her.“

Rian nodded slowly. „Understood.“

Joel glanced back, mouth quirking slightly. „And try not to kill Doofus.“

„Doofus?“ Rian raised an eyebrow.

„Our rooster,“ Mare explained with a fond roll of her eyes. „He’s harmless. Thinks he runs the place. Screams a lot, though. Mostly at rocks, but also at people he doesn’t know. Scares off the tourists sometimes.“

Rian managed a faint, polite smile over the rim of his chipped mug, and catalogued the information along with everything else. Cabin. Shed. Barn. Exits clear, defensible spaces.

Joel motioned towards the back door. „Let’s give you a quick tour.“

Rian followed swiftly, muscles protesting mildly at the quick movement, and grabbed his duffel on the go. Gravel again crunched underfoot as they stepped out, each uneven step echoing through his bones. The air still clear and smelling faintly of rodent.

The three of them walked slowly through the property. Joel pointed out landmarks – water pumps, old fence lines needing repair, a patch of wild blackberry bushes overtaking a corner but yielding the sweetest harvest. Mare followed quietly, occasionally adding details of less relevance but more warmth, like the tree where she and Joel had first kissed, and about the second cabin being rented out long-term.

Near the barn, a flash of movement caught Rian’s eye and he straightened. Dark hair tangled wildly, boots scuffed and mud-stained – a woman darting out of the chicken coop, laughing brightly as she got charged by and dodged a goat angrily bleating after her. „Sorry Nancy Reagan!“

Mare waved lightly and gave a fond chuckle. „And that would be Nora. The girl, I mean, not the goat. The goats are named after First Ladies.“

That got an honest chuckle out of Rian, even as he filed the woman’s presence away with everything else. Boots, small, fast, wild laughter, weird hair.

Joel smirked but said nothing, gaze lingering a moment before turning back to Rian.

The tour ended quietly at the cabin – a small, sturdy structure with worn wooden steps (three of them, fuck it) and a door that stuck slightly as he opened it. Joel and Mare left him there, the soft sound of their footsteps fading as they returned to their chores.

Alone now, Rian set down the duffel bag, shoulders easing marginally as its weight left him. He knelt carefully, prosthetic leg out to the side, unzipped the bag, and quickly re-inventoried his gear: medical supplies, silicone liners, charging cords, skin creams, painkillers, fresh underwear and a ratty old shirt from the BeforeTimes. Everything orderly, precise. Soldier’s habits, embedded deeply.

He tested the water pressure, noting it was strong enough. Checked outlets, flicked switches, listened to the faint hum of electricity, satisfied. Quiet hung around the cabin, oppressive in its unfamiliarity.

Twin Pines was quiet, mostly. But Rian didn’t trust quiet. Not yet.