LallyintheSims

It’s the dawn of a new chapter on the western frontier. Back East, the cities are crowded, the factories are smoky, and opportunities are hard to come by. But out west? There’s open land as far as the eye can see; a place to build a homestead, start a business, or strike it rich.

These Sims have packed up their wagons and left everything familiar behind. Out here, everyone has a role to play; the blacksmith, the farmer, the preacher, the schoolteacher. But they all share one thing in common: they hope to turn a lonely patch of wilderness into a thriving little town.

Welcome to Freedom Hollow, where hope, hard work, and a little bit of luck can build a future from the ground up. And who knows, maybe someday life will be just a little more...Pleasant.

Before the sun has fully climbed above the horizon, Peter Ottomas is already in the pasture, fresh milk splashing steadily into the pail, while Samantha hauls another basket of laundry into the washtub. 

David and Tommy, meanwhile, begin the morning arguing over whose turn it is to fetch firewood.

"I carried the last bundle!"

"You carried three logs!"

"It was cold!"

"So was I!" Samantha finally appears in the doorway, hands planted firmly on her hips.

"If you have enough energy to argue," she begins, "then you both have enough energy to carry two bundles." The boys exchange defeated glances.

Night falls early, and Peter sleeps soundly beside Samantha, until

Thump.

His eyes open. Despite a house full of children, they typically don’t make much noise at night. 

A floorboard creaks overhead, and Peter slowly pushes back the blankets.

Slowly he makes his way out of the bedroom to a dark hallway, and then, he hears footsteps from the staircase. 

A shadow appears at the top, descending one step at a time, clutching a burlap sack slung over one shoulder. The realization hits Peter all at once; there’s only one room where the man could have gone unnoticed: Dora’s, which has sat untouched since her passing. Peter's voice rings through the farmhouse.

"That doesn’t belong to you!" The burglar, Russ Bear, startles, nearly losing his footing on the stairs.For one brief moment, neither man moves, then Russ lunges for the front door, but Peter is too quick. The noise wakes the entire household, Samantha rushing from the bedroom and David appearing on the landing rubbing sleep from his eyes.

They throw punches wildly at one another, and finally, Peter grabs the thief by his collar, wrestles him to the floor, and lands one final blow. For a moment, Peter thinks he has him, but then, Russ twists free with surprising speed. He scrambles to his feet, abandoning the burlap sack, and bolts through the front door into the winter cold. For a moment, Peter considers going after him, but thinks better, instead picking up the burlap sack Russ dropped during the struggle. 

A few days before Yule, Ophelia bundles herself against the cold and makes the long walk into town. The General Store is bustling with last-minute holiday shoppers, its shelves picked over by families hoping to find a gift for someone they love.

Ophelia wanders the aisles with a few coins tucked into her pocket, pausing before bolts of ribbon, candles, a pair of knitted mittens. Nothing feels quite right. 

Then, behind the counter, she notices a neatly stacked collection of imported tea tins, and she smiles. Olive loves to indulge in a steaming cup of tea, a well-worn herbal journal in her lap. 

“I think she’ll like this,” Ophelia murmurs to herself. 

While Ophelia is away, Olive occupies herself with a very different sort of reading than her niece expects. From a stack underneath her herb rack, she takes out a weathered collection of old herbal remedies and tinctures gathered over decades.

She turns the brittle pages with care; most contain harmless cures, but some are less so. One recipe describes a poison capable of mimicking the fever, weakness, and wasting of a terrible illness, leaving physicians convinced the victim simply succumbed to disease. Several pages later she finds another whose effects are said to draw flies in astonishing numbers, giving the appearance that decay has begun sooner than nature intended.

Olive studies the recipes for a long while, then she sets about preparing them. Mortar and pestle grind dried roots into fine powder while dark liquids simmer quietly over a low flame. Before Ophelia has returned from town, two small bottles sit upon her worktable, labeled in her careful handwriting. 

"I pray," she says quietly, "that I shall never have cause to use either of you." She wraps the  bottles in cloth and locks them safely inside her cabinet.

On Christmas morning, Ophelia rises early. She kneels before the cast iron fireplace and carefully lights the Yule log, then shortly after sets about baking some fresh bread for morning toast. 

When Olive finally comes downstairs, they eat together in comfortable silence while the fire crackles nearby. Afterwards, Ophelia hands her aunt a neatly wrapped parcel. 

"Happy Yule, Aunt Olive." Olive accepts it with genuine surprise, and for a rare moment, Olive's stern expression softens.

"Thank you, Ophelia."

Later that afternoon, while Ophelia tidies the kitchen and quietly hums to herself, Olive looks toward her locked cabinet, inside which, nestled among dried herbs and old journals, sit the two stoppered bottles she prepared days before.

For a long moment, she imagines ending the foolishness with that Grunt boy before Ophelia can ruin her future, but instead she lets out a slow breath. Yule, she decides, is a day for mercy.

Large flakes drift lazily across the bare branches of the old oaks, and with a woven basket looped over one arm, Olive makes one final circuit of her herb garden. She carefully clips what remains, giving the little garden one last look before carrying her basket back toward the house.

That afternoon, Ophelia is sweeping near the cast iron fireplace when she catches movement of a familiar figure through the window; Ripp. Her heart leaps, and without another thought, she hurries outside. 

"You shouldn't be here," she whispers, “What if Olive had seen you?” 

"I know." Ripp’s shoulders are slumped, his eyes hollow. Something is wrong. 

"What happened?" For a long moment, Ripp simply stares at the snow gathering around his boots, and then finally: 

"My father is dead. There was an accident with the wagon." Ophelia's breath catches. “We argued yesterday morning…and by the time I came home…” He cannot finish the sentence, and without another word, Ophelia wraps both arms around him. He clings to her as though otherwise he might fall apart.

"I keep thinking about the last thing I said to him."

"You couldn't have known."

"But I still wish I'd said something kinder." For a long moment they simply stand together while the snow settles softly around them, then Ophelia kisses him.

Inside the house, Olive stands rigidly at the front window, having seen enough. Her lips press into a thin line as she watches the young couple embrace beneath the falling snow.

"So," she mutters. "It is him."

She waits until Ophelia is settled back inside before she speaks. 

"Care to explain yourself?"

Ophelia freezes, then straightens.

"His father died."

"That’s not how I would give my condolences."

"He needed someone." Neither says anything for a long moment, until finally, Ophelia lifts her chin.

"I've done nothing wrong." Olive studies her niece carefully.

"I hope, for your sake, that's true."

"Papa?" She twists her dress between her fingers. “I need to tell you something.” 

"What is it, little bird?"

Vera lowers her voice.

"The night Mama had the babies…I saw a man in the woods.”  Loki's expression hardens. 

"What was he doing?" Vera swallows. 

“He was looking at our camp with those glass…things,” she gestures awkwardly, imitating. "I hid behind the log until he went away." The color has completely drained from Loki’s face, and Vera frowns. “I should have told you sooner, I’m sorry!” Loki then puts a gentle hand on her shoulder. 

"You've been very brave." He then spins suddenly, yelling for his wife so loudly Vera jumps. 

“Watcher above, Loki, I just got her to sleep,” Circe complains, gesturing toward the sleeping infant. Loki rolls his eyes. 

“Circe, they found the camp.”  Those words are all it takes, and Circe does not ask another question, she simply nods and says she’ll start packing. 

The camp erupts into a flurry of activity. Loki hops onto his horse and is off within moments. .Circe folds blankets and packs cooking pots, while Vera gathers anything she can carry and loads it into the wagon. Victoria sleeps through all of it, tucked securely in her Moses basket. Beside the fire, Vera rolls bedding, and glances over to where Bella sits on the log, bound with lengths of rope. She glances over her shoulder to be sure her mother isn’t listening, but Circe is preoccupied wrangling her and Loki’s tent. 

"I'm sorry you’re all tied up,” Vera says. “I know you wouldn’t leave us.” The words catch Bella completely off guard, and she swallows hard, watching Vera disappear toward the wagon, her eyes stinging. 

By late afternoon, little remains of the camp they have called home, and just before evening, Loki returns, explaining they’ll have quite a ride ahead of them, but he’s found them a new campsite. 

Heavy snow begins to fall as the Beakers prepare to abandon the campsite. Circe walks one final time to the little mound of earth beneath the trees.

"We're sorry to leave you here, Victor," she whispers, . "But the Watcher knows where you rest."

For another moment she remains there in silence, then, with great reluctance, she stands, and never looks back again. 

Loki rides at the front, Bella behind him on the saddle, hands still bound. Behind them creaks the wagon, piled high with what little the family owns.

Circe walks beside it, Victoria bundled tightly against her chest, and Vera trudges faithfully beside her,  boots disappearing deeper into the growing snow with every mile.

At last, after a journey that takes the greater part of the night, Loki raises a hand. The new campsite lies well away from any road, tucked into a bend of the river where towering pines crowd closely together. It is quieter than the old camp, the sort of place one could never stumble upon by accident, and the family begins to set up their new home.

Though exhausted, Circe serves them a stew that is as much for sustenance as it is for warmth. As he sits beside his daughter and swallows the warm broth, Loki surveys the clearing one final time before allowing himself to feel the slightest bit of relief. 

Vera has barely fallen back to sleep before she is woken by cries of pain from her mother. Circe is doubled over, both hands braced on her belly. The labor is long, but Loki does everything he can to help his wife through the delivery.

At last, the soft cries of a newborn fill the campsite, but before Cersei can hold her son, she is hit with another wave of sharp pain. Loki looks up, confused. The baby is already born; the labor should be over. For a moment, neither of them speaks.Then Circe barks a disbelieving laugh. 

"Twins." 

Soon another, much stronger cry fills the clearing. Loki carefully gathers the second infant before laying her beside her brother. Circe reaches out with trembling hands, touching each tiny face in turn.

"I think," Loki says quietly, "Victor."

"And Victoria."  

Their joy is short-lived, however. For reasons no sim could ever hope to understand, the Watcher calls Victor home just as quickly as he entered the world. A terrible silence settles, and then Circe lets out a broken sob, reaching toward the son she didn’t even have the chance to hold. The earth is hard with frost, and the grave Loki digs could easily be mistaken for a plot to plant vegetables. 

Once Victor has been laid to rest, Vera stands before the little mound of fresh earth, staring at it for a very long time. The image of the man with the binoculars is still fresh in her mind. She should tell Mama or Papa. They would want to know someone has found the campsite. 

Frost clings to the trees that surround the Beaker campsite, muffling the sounds of the forest and making the little clearing feel even more isolated. Bella remains where she has for months; secured inside her canvas tent. The Beakers are practical enough to understand that a frozen prisoner is of little use, and with the arrival of winter they have begrudgingly provided her with warmer clothing; a thick wool gown and a threadbare coat, the hems frayed. 

Outside, Circe spends the morning beside the fire with Vera, patiently guiding her through sums and reading.

"Again," Circe says, and Vera sighs dramatically. Her mother repeats her command, and by the time the lesson finally ends, Vera is more than happy to escape. She spends the better part of the afternoon kneeling in the frozen earth, happily pushing little stones through the dirt with a stick and constructing imaginary roads for pinecones that serve as wagons.

Later in the day, Loki appears with a fishing pole slung over one shoulder, and together they disappear into the snowy woods. Vera settles herself beside the creek, bundled snugly against the cold as she patiently watches her line drift beneath the icy water while Loki carefully gathers berries and fungi. Vera eventually lets out an excited squeal, and Loki looks up just in time to see her hauling a handsome salmon from the water.

"Excellent work, Vera!"

By the time they return to camp, Vera proudly carries two salmon while Loki's basket is filled with enough plants to occupy him for several evenings. Circe wastes no time preparing supper, roasting the fish over the fire and serving herself, Loki, and Vera with generous portions.

When she finishes filling their plates, she quietly ladles from a separate pot containing little more than a thin oat gruel, and carries the bowl toward Bella's tent without a word. The warm porridge does little to satisfy Bella’s hunger, but at least it chases away the cold for a little while.

Late that night, long after the fire has burned to embers, Vera stirs beneath her blankets. Still half asleep, she slips quietly from her little cot and makes her way into the clearing to relieve herself. 

Suddenly, she freezes. Across the clearing, beyond the dying fire, a man stands among the pines. He is almost completely hidden by the darkness, but he raises his binoculars to his eyes and studies the camp from behind the trees, taking care not to step too close or disturb so much as a twig.

Vera's heart begins to pound. Is he a bandit? A hunter? Something worse? Trying not to crack a twig herself, she drops to the ground and scrambles behind the old log the family uses as a bench, peeking over the log. She remains there for what feels like an eternity, until finally, the stranger turns away, and only the forest remains. 

Vera races back to her cot and slips beneath her blankets, burying herself as deeply as she can, heart continuing to race long after she closes her eyes.

Christmas morning brings flurries of snow and frost clings to the windowpanes. Camryn, still in her nightgown, looks over to find Wyatt already awake, standing in his crib and gripping the rail with both hands. She lifts him into her arms and carries him into the kitchen for breakfast, not even bothering to dress him for the day. 

After breakfast they gather in the parlor, and Lazlo adds another log to the fire while Vidcund stands near the window, stealing the occasional glance toward the sky. At Camryn's encouragement, Wyatt toddles toward the small pile of presents beneath the tree, and unwraps a lovely little carved wooden horse. He gasps. .

"Horse!" 

Once Wyatt has preoccupied himself playing with the toy, Lazlo reaches beneath the tree. 

"I believe this one is yours."

Camryn accepts the carefully wrapped parcel with curious eyes. Inside is a polished silver dressing set; a hairbrush, comb, hand mirror, and a graceful tray to hold them all. She carefully lifts the brush into the light, watching the fire dance across the silver. She gasps, insisting he’s spoiled her and that her gift is incomparable as she retrieves his own gift. 

Lazlo unwraps it to find a finely embroidered linen handkerchief, stitched by Camryn herself with neat blue thread. 

“This is too pretty to use. I suppose I'll just carry it around to show everyone." Camryn laughs and shakes her head. 

As afternoon settles over Freedom Hollow, Vidcund pulls on his coat, promising to be back before supper. He returns shortly thereafter with Florence on his arm, but Florence frets. 

"I'm rather nervous. I feel like I’m intruding." Vidcund smiles in a quiet, reassuring way. 

"They'll love you, and I won’t let you spend Christmas alone.”  

Any lingering worries disappear almost as soon as she steps through the Curious front door. Camryn embraces her as though welcoming an old friend, while Lazlo takes her coat and insists she warm herself by the fire. Even little Wyatt toddles over clutching his wooden horse.

"Horse," he announces proudly. 

By evening, the family gathers around the supper table, partaking in a platter of fried chicken accompanied by various vegetables they’d purchased from the Burb farm. Camryn quiuetly ensures everyone’s plate stays full, while Lazlo tells exaggerated stories. 

Later, after the dishes have been cleared away and Wyatt settled to sleep, the fire burns low in the parlor, and Florence stands before the hearth, Vidcund beside her. For a long moment, neither speaks, and then Vidcund clears his throat.

"I spend most of my nights looking at the stars; discovered planets even. But none of it has ever made quite as much sense as you. If you need more time, I understand but…” 

He looks into her eyes, and Florence forgets to breathe. 

"Will you marry me instead?"

Her answer comes out as a whisper.

"Yes, Vidcund." He laughs a rare, genuine laugh, and pulls her into an embrace before kissing her in the warmth of the hearth.

Bundled in heavy coats, Vidcund and Florence wander to the back garden. They lie side by side in the untouched blanket of snow, shoulders brushing as they gaze toward the winter sky. Above them, countless stars glitter in the darkness, among them the tiny point of light Vidcund believes to be his planet. He points toward it and Florence follows his finger until she finds it.

Long before the first hint of sunrise comes close to the horizon, Vidcund is already awake, staring toward the heavens, carefully recording the movements of familiar stars. The Curious family has always insisted the night sky holds secrets that most folk are too busy to notice, and Vidcund has never seen any reason to disagree. Then, a a tiny point of light catches his attention. For the next hour, he checks and rechecks his charts until there can be little doubt in his mind.

Whether it is truly a new planet or simply a wandering heavenly body, Vidcund cannot say. Word of the discovery eventually reaches the regional scientific society, who reward his careful observations with a handsome sum; and as others in town would later complain, “Five-Hundred for looking at the sky.” 

While Vidcund busies himself with the mysteries above, Lazlo concerns himself with much more earthly matters. With an axe over one shoulder, he heads into the woods in search of a Christmas tree, and after wandering for some time, he settles upon a tidy little pine, no taller than his shoulder. By midday, the tree stands proudly in a corner beside the fireplace, waiting to be decorated. 

That evening, little Wyatt makes his way into toddlerhood, and his appearance immediately begins to resemble that of (some of) the Curious men. Dark curls tumble across his forehead, refusing every attempt to be tamed, and Lazlo is already peering thoughtfully into the child's eyes.

"He squints." Camryn sighs.

"He's only just become a toddler."

"I'm fairly certain he'll need spectacles."

Wyatt spends the following day toddling about the farmhouse in a pair of little brown linen overalls, enthusiastically investigating every cupboard, chair leg, and loose floorboard he can find, yet no matter how many baths Camryn and Lazlo give him, the child simply refuses to remain clean for very long.

"I swear I just washed him."

"So did I.” 

Wyatt sits before the hearth, happily stacking a few metal cups from the kitchen into an impressive tower before knocking the whole thing over with a delighted squeal. His little brown overalls are already dusty once again despite the bath he'd had not an hour earlier.

Camryn watches from her chair, a bit of mending forgotten in her lap. She smiles to herself as Wyatt babbles away to no one in particular, entirely absorbed in rebuilding his masterpiece.

The front door opens, and Lazlo stamps in, fresh from bottling vinegar that’s been fermenting since fall. The moment Wyatt hears him, his head snaps toward the doorway, and his face lights up. 

Progress on the house has slowed tremendously since General Buzz's passing. There are still shelves to build and furniture to finish, but every spare moment now seems to belong to settling the estate, helping Buck and Ripp, or simply mourning. As they eat together in the warmth of the fire, Tank stares thoughtfully into his breakfast.

"The least he could've done was leave me a few coins in his will," he mutters, shaking his head. "Would've made finishing this place easier." Lilith reaches across the table and rests her hand over his.

"Perhaps, but no amount of coins could ever buy what you've built with your own hands." Tank looks up, and Lilith gives hiss hand a gentle squeeze.  "A rich man could pay someone to build a house," she says. "But this is a home you built because you love me." 

"I suppose that's worth more than an inheritance."

After they dress for the day, Tank cannot seem to stay still. Finally, he can’t keep the secret anymore. 

"I finished it." Lilith blinks. "Our bed."

Tank rips down the canvas he’d kept hanging with the excitement of a little boy. There, against the wall, stands a beautifully finished wooden bed, sanded smooth and carefully fitted together.

Tank sits on the edge of the straw mattress, testing the bedframe one final time, and waves for Lilith to join him. For a few quiet moments, they simply sit together, shoulders touching, and then Lilith turns to him, eyes shining.

Without another word, she throws her arms around his neck and kisses him. One thing leads to another, and before long the newly finished bed receives a christening by its very grateful owners.

Later, as they lie together beneath the quilts, Lilith cannot stop smiling. 

"Worth the effort?" he asks as she stares into his eyes. 

"Every splinter."

Like

I just want a little mound of dirt. I'd even accept a rock!

Fresh tracks weave where rabbits have crossed directly into their crude crate trap during the night. For so many years, Lilith had wondered whether she would ever belong anywhere, now she watches smoke curl from her chimney while her husband still sleeps, and she smiles into her coffee.

By the time Tank joins her, the two have already planned another day's work; there is always another improvement to make. Tank sets about building them a proper bed, once again setting a date that he’ll have it done by Christmas, carefully planing each board and fitting every joint as though he expects it to last a century.

Outside, Lilith checks the traps, and is met with several hares that have found their way into the traps overnight.

"Sorry, but we have to eat," she murmurs to them.

Around noon, Lilith slices fresh bread and prepares simple sandwiches filled with cold rabbit, sharp cheese, and a little mustard, gifted from her grandparents’ store. Tank wipes the sawdust from his hands before sitting down beside her.

Once lunch is finished, Tank pulls on his coat, explaining he has to fetch something in town, while Lilith explains she, too, has an errand in town.  Angela has invited her to meet at the tea house, and while she isn’t sure what to expect, Lilith hopes for the best. She bundles herself against the cold and starts down the snowy road, then spots General Buzz bent over his tools, working on the old wagon Tank has been insisting he should just sell. 

"Afternoon!" Lilith calls, andd Buzz straightens just enough to glance in her direction, nodding curtly. “Don’t work too hard.” 

"I'll stop when it's fixed." Lilith lifts a gloved hand in farewell and continues toward town, never imagining it will be the last time she sees her father-in-law alive.

The warmth inside Mama Hick's Tea Parlor is a welcome relief after the bitter cold outside, and the former Pleasant sisters embrace before settling into a cozy corner table, each with a steaming cup of tea between them. Finally, there is no family drama demanding their attention, instead they simply talk, which is new. 

Angela tells stories about newlywed life with Jason and Jodie, laughing as she admits married life has been everything she hoped for, except for one unexpected complication.

"I traded one little sister for another," she says with an exasperated sigh.

"I thought you two got along."

It had seemed a simple enough vow when autumn was still warm, now, with icy winds beginning to whistle across the fields, it has become a race against the season itself. From sunrise until dusk, Tank cuts timber, hauls beams into place, and hammers shingles into position one by one. His military discipline refuses to let him stop, even when his hands blister and every muscle protests.

One evening, the last shingle is finally nailed into place, and Tank climbs down the ladder and looks up. He means only to sit beside the fire for a few minutes before returning to his tools, but exhaustion overtakes him. When Lilith comes looking for him, she finds him prone on the ground and folds her arms.

She sighs, kneels beside him, and brushes a strand of hair away from his forehead. No one has ever worked this hard for her before; ever poured so much of themselves into making her happy. Her eyes drift upward toward the nearly finished roof. Every board, every nail, every blister exists because he loves her. 

When  he finally stirs awake, blinking in confusion at the dying fire, Lilith is still sitting beside him.

"You fell asleep." Tank rubs his eyes.

"I was only resting my eyes." Lilith smiles, and before he can say another word, Lilith kisses him beside the workbench that has occupied so much of his time these past weeks. When they part, she rests her forehead against his.

"Thank you for loving me enough to work yourself half to death, but if this hammer moves before morning, I’ll hide it.”  Right on time, the first snow begins to fall.

With the roof complete, Tank’s attention turns to the next task: a proper fireplace. He hitches the wagon and makes his way to the quarry, where blocks of limestone are cut for foundations, chimneys, and hearths, where he finds Benjamin Long overseeing the day's work. Neatly cut blocks of stone are loaded into the wagon and begin the slow journey back to the Grunt homestead. Tank carefully lays each stone himself, mixing mortar and checking every line. Lilith watches from the doorway more than once, marveling at his patience.

When the final stone is set and the mortar has cured, Tank stacks several split logs inside the new hearth, strikes a match, and the flames catch almost immediately. Lilith steps closer, taking in the crackling fire, the sturdy hearth, and the man standing proudly beside it.

"You built all of this." Tank shrugs modestly, but Lilith continues. "My whole life, I've wondered what it must feel like to have someone choose you first." Tank meets her eyes before she can continue.