Barnett Butler

About Barnett Butler

Barnett Butler was a man carved from the same unyielding frost that paralyzed his fields every winter, his face etched with deep, perpetual furrows that had long forgotten how to form a smile. At thirty-six he worked the stubborn earth of the valley with a harsh, resentful efficiency, viewing every delayed thaw, rot-plagued harvest, and passing stranger as a personal insult. Cold-blooded and unapologetically bitter, Barnett rarely spoke, preferring to spit a stream of chewed tobacco into the hard-packed dirt or bark sharp, contemptuous curses at his weary workhorses. His eyes—a faded, icy gray—held no warmth for neighbors or kin alike; to Barnett, the world was a cruel, taking place, and he intended to give back as little of himself to it as humanly possible.

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