Women with Backbone: Earth’S Memories Series, Book Ii

By Nancy Larsen-Sanders

Strong-willed Deborah Nelson has already endured much in her life. As the Great Depression invades northwest Kansas in 1930, Deborahs denial cannot stop the raw emotions that spread their pain through her once predictable life. Christian, her husband of six years, has disappeared without a trace, leaving Deborah to care for their boys and farm in a mans worldone made even more challenging by threatening, unpredictable weather.

Determined not to wallow in self-pity, Deborah finds comfort in knowing her childhood Indian mentor would want her to take responsibility for her land. After rejecting her fathers demands that she return to Minnesota, Deborah bravely faces her cruel reality. Haunted by dreams that her husband is dead and by the racist remarks of Sheriff Stoddel, who believes she and her little boys are Indians, Deborahs world could not be more challenging. But just as the investigation into Christians disappearance leads to suspicions about both Deborah and family friend Victor Whitesong, a revenge-seeking deputy makes maters much worse.

In this poignant historical tale, one woman must call upon all her strength to face life on her beloved land without the love and protection of her missing husband.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jan 17, 2013
• ISBN: 9781475962932

Nancy Larsen-Sanders

Nancy Larsen-Sanders, a former college teacher of composition and literature, creative writing, and English as a second language, also taught secondary learning-disabled students in the Colby schools in northwest Kansas. This is the fifth book in her Earths Memories series. Nancy and her husband, John, live near Colby.

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Copyright © 2012 by Nancy Larsen-Sanders

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Certain characters in this work are historical figures, and certain events portrayed did take place. However, this is a work of fiction. All of the other characters, names, and events as well as all places, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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Cover art by J. Shad Sanders

ISBN: 978-1-4759-6294-9 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-6292-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-6293-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012921688

iUniverse rev. date: 01/07/2013

Contents

Acknowledgments

Chapter 1 Strong Backbones

Chapter 2 Disagreement among Friends

Chapter 3 Pray for Better Times

Chapter 4 Memories to Awaken Us

Chapter 5 A Failed Bank

Chapter 6 Hard Lessons

Chapter 7 Playacting

Chapter 8 Custodians of the Land

Chapter 9 The Judge’s Verdict

Chapter 10 Rising Winds

Chapter 11 Twice Blessed

Chapter 12 More Colors Than White

Chapter 13 Caught Napping

Chapter 14 Girl Child

Chapter 15 The Business of Other Folks

Chapter 16 Facing Reality

Chapter 17 Narrowing the Distance

Chapter 18 Woe Is Me

Chapter 19 Toy Trains

Chapter 20 Four Corners in Bitter Cold

Chapter 21 A Tower to God

Chapter 22 Fencerow to Fencerow

Chapter 23 He Loves You

Chapter 24 Territorial Marks

Chapter 25 Closings and Foreclosures

Chapter 26 Home Banking

Chapter 27 Melonie

Chapter 28 Former Routes

Chapter 29 A New Friend

Chapter 30 Visitors

Chapter 31 Isolation

To

John Shattuck (J. Shad) Sanders

Acknowledgments

Fremont, Kansas, the town and county, are located in western Kansas … within my creative mind only, along with the rest of the story, Women with Backbone. Students and survivors of the 1930s decade, however, will recognize historical events and details of the time.

Born at the end of the decade, I did not experience the Depression and drought of the 1930s, but my amazing family did. At an early age, during World War II, I began to hear the stories and slowly fathom what my family endured and survived. As a little girl, one of my favorite places was in the shadows beneath a quilting frame. I listened to the talk of familiar, comforting voices and observed legs housed in tan cotton stockings, sometimes carefully mended, and feet in simple, worn shoes.

My mother, Pearle White Larsen, was a part of the Ladies Aid of Prairie Rose Church in northern Thomas County, Kansas. The women of the community met regularly to sew for others. They also gathered around a quilting frame, sang hymns, shared Bible lessons, and visited while stitching some ladies’ artwork. When I grew older, I began to understand that my mother and the others must have kept up their courage during desperate times—the drought, Depression, and then World War II—through the support of that community of Prairie Rose Church friends and family.

That is why I see community to be so important to Deborah Jorgenson Nelson in the five books, Earth’s Memories. Today the need is still with us, and perhaps there are those who are searching out that support and security for the first time.

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It is with love that I thank my extended family for their courage, examples, and stories. You were my first readers as I wrote the books, and I am grateful. Yes, hang in there. Eventually, Earth’s Memories will tell Deborah’s entire story and your questions will be answered.

Colby Writers group, thank you for your steady presence.

Thank you, Jamea Jule Sale, for being my daughter and an early reader.

Thanks to my son, John Shattuck (J. Shad) Sanders, for the artwork in this book.

The wit of my brother, Dean Larsen, is memorialized here in some of the group storytelling.

John, we will win the battle through our love and your debates with me about grammar and punctuation.

Those who kept encouraging me to finish these five books: Linda Kistler and Stacey and Frank Cory—your love of the Deborah story and me is sustaining. Thank you.

Chapter 1

Strong Backbones

On this morning of the fourth day, her mind wallowed in such blackness that she dreaded being awake and alert. Then she remembered. Despite her denial, emotions spread their pain like the thawing of a frostbitten finger.

Christian was missing. No one knew why or where. She had gone to sleep three nights ago with him beside her and woke to find him gone.

Deborah Nelson sat up in her bed, doubled over, pressing her hands to her chest, and rested her forehead on Grandfather Blue Sky’s red blanket. He had said to her years ago, Granddaughter, when loved ones die, you will carry them in your mind and heart. She believed him—Grandfather was with her, as were the others who had died in her twenty-six years of life. But Christian, her husband of six years? She couldn’t sense his presence, even though she had dreamed that he had died. Was that because the questions of why and where seemed to have no answers?

She and her closest neighbors—August and Audrey Goodman and Victor Whitesong, such good friends—had searched everywhere on her farmstead and land: the house and outbuildings, wheat fields and pastures, deep canyons, and the twists and bends of the creek. Her muscles had cried out from crawling through brambly berry bushes and climbing around the boulders that took her up to the lookout point where grass and wheat lands stretched out like children’s blocks of varying earth colors. Families in the surrounding community had made similar searches on their ranches and farms.

Her old friends were tired and distraught. Daughter, August said, "I don’t know what we’re not seeing. Where is that young man of yours?"

Audrey had cared for the little boys while the rest of them had searched. We said lots of prayers, your fine boys and me.

Jonathan was worried. Mama, Grandma Audrey took us to look in the cellars—I helped David up and down the steps. Daddy wasn’t there. Where’s Daddy?

David asked, Daddy? Home?

Their eyes had filled with tears, and Deborah had buried her face in their hair.

She would never forget the details in her mind’s eye of the neighbors searching again on her farmstead: determined, compassionate faces of local farmers and ranchers; the dark, bold eyes of Maude Ratliff as she sent young children under the lilacs and beneath the heavily draped branches of long needled pines; and women with the droop of tired, overworked shoulders, cautioning the same young children against their attempts to spy out and coax semiferal cats from the protection of the old woodpile; and there was the hatred in Tony Van Ricker’s eyes when the mounted and armed men from the neighborhood had demanded to search his buildings and land.

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Day four. Deborah threw back the blankets and tried to find enough energy to get out of bed, letting the cold get to her skin; goose bumps crawled up her bare arms. Last night, she had gone to bed expecting the same restlessness as previous nights, the snatches of sleep that brought nightmares, the endless questions, just as August expressed, wondering if something obvious had been overlooked. This morning her head throbbed, and her body ached as though she had slept in one position all night long. She slowly stretched.

Daybreak was colder than yesterday; she shivered. Christian had always been the early riser, the one who noisily shook down the grate, shoveled out ashes, and broke kindling. She missed those comfortable sounds, and the little boys would miss them also in their half sleep, half wakefulness. She had better do something about it. They needed the same routines and the rituals that were filled with familiarity and security.

Now she understood the admonition, You have to be strong for the children. Where had she heard that? She remembered her dad saying something different to Aunt Kirsten after Uncle Oscar’s death. It would be far easier if you had children. I would then say, ‘Kirsten, you have to be strong for the children. You have to keep going for the children.’ Instead, I will just say, ‘You have to be strong for yourself.’ Whenever she had heard the statement in the past, Deborah had filled with impatience, believing the words were obligatory, meaningless, and even thoughtless. Wearily, she took jeans and shirt out of the closet. There were the chores to do and breakfast to fix before the neighborhood women would arrive to help her write letters of inquiry to county sheriffs.

The rising sun touched the lower cottonwood branches of the homestead tree outside the kitchen windows, and the early October light was fractured and golden cool. She shook the grate of the coal and wood-burning range and shoveled out hard clinkers, spilling ashes when tears blinded her. She threw the shovel into the ash bucket and pressed her nails into her palms.

Stop it. Stop it. She clenched her teeth, sucking and blowing her breath in angry, sibilant sounds.

She hated self-pity, and this had to be the last of it. She brushed at her face, and knew she had smeared black soot on her cheeks. There was irony in that, for there were cultures that put soot on their faces in times of grief. She straightened her back. She wanted to build a fire and put some warmth into the kitchen, but that would have to wait. Outside chores needed to be done. Jonathan and David were still asleep, and she’d be leaving them alone in the house for the first time. Before she would do it again, they’d have to talk about hot stoves and the fireplace—and kerosene lamps. Leaving the boys with no supervision was just the beginning of the adjustments needed to manage her life if Christian didn’t return. How safe were three- and five-year-old boys without her in the house?

She tried to ignore a throbbing headache. Bits and pieces of her dream about Christian one night ago still hovered about her mind like hot summer gnats. The impact of seeing Christian again, even in a dream, was painful in its power. She relived the touch of his hand and images etched into her brain. Out of desperation, she pushed them aside. Remembrances were time consuming. She had work to do.

While sweeping the ashes from in front of the grate, teeth chattering with cold, she grew increasingly frustrated when she tracked ashes to where the dustpan was kept. She gave up and swept the entire floor. Determined to function with her usual orderliness, she swept the ashes into the dustpan. When she dumped them into the bucket, most spilled on the floor. Darn, do it right. Again, she gathered the ashes with exaggerated, meticulous movements and just as carefully poured them in the ash bucket.

She washed her face with cold water. The soot smeared as she worked at making lather. By the time her hair was brushed and combed, she felt better. Beneath one eye was a slight smudge of soot, and she grimaced. Would her neighbors think she had somehow bruised herself?

With her hair down, long and straight and near her face, its darkness seemed to emphasize her cheekbones, slightly slanted eyes, and dark skin. That would add fuel to the fire of those convinced she was Indian. With someone like Nila Meyers coming, she really ought to braid her hair and put it up. No, it wasn’t worth the effort. The neighbor women already had their opinions, more positive than negative. There were more important matters to worry about.

Perhaps Christian was dead, but if so, questions needed to be answered. She had to know for certain. The women were coming to write the letters, and, after they were finished, she didn’t know where to go from there. She hoped Calvin, Christian’s dad, would arrive from Minnesota with plans as to what to do next.

Christian’s chore coat was full of his scent, and she put it on. Did all widows do that—widows who knew they were widows? What was she? No one seemed to know where he was, but did that make her a widow?

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Deborah went outside. The sunrise grew quickly, its light filtering through the trembling cottonwood leaves. Only two pair of mourning doves sang this morning. Perhaps that meant the others had left for the winter. She would miss them.

Grandfather Blue Sky would have said, It’s time, granddaughter. The changing seasons never stop. When she was young, he taught her that the bird’s song was a reminder to bless the passing spirit of a person who had died.

A mourning dove near the machine shop called again, and she said, God be with you.

The dog thrust his nose into her hand and whimpered. Good boy, Marco. She roughed and smoothed his fur. I know. I miss him too. She pulled his head against her knee, embracing him.

To the north were the far-reaching hills, the rolling ones that spilled down into the creek or were abruptly cut off by canyon walls. She wished there was time to walk or ride her mare out where the recent rain had swept the dusty, yellow cast from the buffalo grass, replacing it with a shadow of green. Beyond the well house and garden, the wheat field stretched to the west and south, and she held her breath. Was that a hint of green in the drill rows? At the edge of the field, she bent down. Minute sprouts, sharp blades, pierced the soil and shoved it up in cracked dimples. The wheat was growing.

In the well house, she lit the kerosene stove to heat a kettle of water. The many parts of the milk separator lay beneath a clean dish towel, ready for another scalding and assembling. She dipped buckets of water for the hogs and chickens from the concrete storage tank. The milk buckets were turned over on a shelf, just as they had been three mornings ago before she learned Christian was missing. Milking time.

When she carried water to the hogpen, Marco barked by the old woodpile. Christian had told her a visiting tomcat, battle worn and missing an ear, occasionally took up residence beneath the boards. Marco likes the challenge of protecting his territory, Christian said, but I don’t think that’s fair in the love and war of tomcats.

She saw the dog circling the pile, whimpering and barking, his tail waving like a flag. Marco, she called, come here. He hesitated. Leave that cat alone. Come on. She whistled.

He came to her reluctantly, still whimpering, and slunk down beside her. I’m not mad at you. She patted his head. I know, you think it’s your job, but that cat isn’t hurting anyone.

After feeding, milking, and separating, she scrubbed and scalded the separator parts. A hint of warmth came from the sun by now, and again she wished she had the freedom to ride out to check the range cattle and fences—but the boys were probably awake.

They were still in bed, leafing through picture books. Good morning. Both grinned at her, and David reached for a hug.

I suppose you knew I was outside doing the chores. They nodded. The cottonwood leaves were falling around my head. It’s like the trees are making piles of gold money on the ground. The boys liked to hear her speak with similes.

Mommy, Jonathan said, wrinkling his nose. I’ve got a simile. David’s bed smells … like an outhouse.

David ducked his head.

Oh, David. It’s okay. Accidents happen. You take off your pajamas, and I’ll get a washcloth. Only two pair of doves seems to be left this morning. Their songs were like— and she sang —good-bye. We’ll be back someday.

She stripped David’s bed, leaving a rolled pile on the floor and the bed unmade. Let’s get dressed and have a quick breakfast. Grandmother Audrey and the other ladies are coming, and I need to start some cinnamon rolls. Tendrils of urgency began to work their way into her chest.

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August Goodman brought Audrey early. Daughter, the old man said, and hugged her. When he took off his hat, his white hair stood up as usual, and she reached to smooth it.

Audrey held her close, and Deborah took comfort in feeling the strength and firmness of the small woman’s body. My dear girl. Any news? Anything? When Deborah shook her head, Audrey said, Thought so. Figured you would’ve come running down the road if you’d heard something. Her eyes overflowed with tears.

August offered to take David and Jonathan with him for the morning. I’m just doing chores about the place. They might as well be with me instead of being spoiled by all the womenfolk.

Deborah was thankful, for she wasn’t sure she could keep up with the boys while she had company. She hurried about, dressing them for the outdoors, feeling guilty for dumping them on her old friend. I’ll bring Audrey home as soon as we’re finished here, she said.

David whirled, and she made a grab for him when she saw him tromp over Audrey’s feet. The old woman had painful corns, and Deborah knew he had hurt her.

August got to him first. He latched on to the back of David’s coat and pulled until the boy’s feet barely touched the floor. Sounds like a good plan, he said. He left, the boys hanging on to him like appendages at the ends of his arms.

Audrey had brought food, and when the other women arrived, they carried in more dishes. Deborah was embarrassed, for she hadn’t even thought about anyone staying for a noontime meal. At the same time, she was frustrated, wondering what to do with all of the food. You didn’t need to do this, she said. I have things left from what everyone brought the other day.

We want to have potluck with you, Mary Cressler said. I want you to know my girls made this prune cake just special for you and the boys. It’s not often we get away from the menfolk for a meal. She whispered, These are lonely women. They need time away from their men who, including mine, don’t talk much.

The women chattered while hanging their wraps and giving Deborah hugs. They asked questions: Had she heard anything, seen anything, or received any news at all? Deborah could only shake her head, grateful for their concern and touches, and handed each a cup of coffee, moving the women from the kitchen to the dining room table.

Mary’s springy hair brushed Deborah’s face, and a delicate, flowery scent filled the air. You poor dear. I tell you, Pa is pure upset about this. She bustled her big body about the kitchen, doing as only Mary could do, the work of two women, making more coffee, setting food meant to be hot in the warming oven, carrying cold foods to the cooler on the porch. Normally, he doesn’t hang on to something in his mind very long these days. But he keeps wondering about Christian. I said, ‘Pa, fasten your pants,’ and he said, ‘That ain’t important. Christian’s gone. Don’t you see, that’s important.’ I just let him be, and I suppose he’ll go through the day with his pants undone. He feels real bad for you.

Your dad’s a special man, and Christian loves him.

Mary filled the teakettle and put it on to heat. Deborah felt fatigued, just seeing Mary rush about. Her friend had found all kinds of work undone in the kitchen.

Nila Meyers and Polly Rogers arrived together. As soon as they were in the house, Deborah became self-conscious, aware of dust on the furniture and smudges the boys had left on the stained glass windows by the front room door.

What an unusual living room, Nila said. She walked about, holding her coffee cup high. She went to the bay window where the sun glinted off the polished wood of the baby grand piano. Polly was Nila’s follower, touching and studying, while Nila had a habit of bobbing her head about, her eyes shifting here and there. She absorbed only bits of information she wanted to hear, holding her mouth and her small, receding chin in a habitually disapproving manner.

Sonja Beckman, the eighteen-year-old girl who had worked the past summer as Deborah’s hired girl, brought her mother, Vera, who was very pregnant. As the woman removed her coat, she struggled for breath. Deborah was concerned. Are you sure you’re up to this, Vera? Maybe you should be home resting.

Vera smoothed her hair and laughed. Being here this morning is rest. If I was home, Fred would be after me to do something outside. He keeps me and Sonja busy. She sat heavily in a rocking chair.

Nila asked in a strident tone, What are you doing having another baby? Why do you want so many kids? You’re going to kill yourself.

Audrey turned on Nila. Oh, you don’t know about the birds and bees yet?

Well, of course. Indignation burned her face.

Do you think Vera has much to say about how many children she has?

Oh. Well. Nila turned her back on Audrey.

Sonja said, I’ve heard there’s something called contraceptives. Realizing what she had said, the young woman blushed.

Vera scrutinized her daughter. Where have you heard about that?

I heard it from one of the girls. Her older sister knew something, not much.

Well, her mother said, this isn’t the time or place.

Audrey patted Sonja’s shoulder. It’s all right. Deborah has told me about something of the sort, but she doesn’t know much either. I don’t suppose any of us know more than what I know, and that’s next to nothing.

Vera put her swollen feet on the footstool Sonja set in front of her. I’ll manage to have this baby safely. I always do. I’m a lot more worried about putting food in all the mouths. Wheat prices are a worry, butter and eggs too. If I can’t make money on my butter and eggs … She shrugged. Oh, well, 1930’s about over. 1931 is bound to be better.

I worry about the same things, Vera, Janie Procek said. Since we lost our baby, I think it’s best to not have another child right now, the way the economy looks. That would be my choice … although I know what my duty is. Deborah thought Janie’s face had an unhealthy paleness along with dark smudges below her eyes.

Audrey asked, Is your duty to Daniel or the Catholic church?

Probably the church more than Daniel.

I’ll bet June Strate wishes she could’ve had choices long before now. Mary served sugar and cream, and Janie handed out spoons, something else Deborah hadn’t thought about. Six children, so close together.

Bessie Runnels removed her shoes and rubbed her toes. I hope you young women have some choices someday. Women my age and older haven’t had any. Audrey had once told Deborah that Bessie birthed nine children. Four of them hadn’t lived long.

Bessie put on her shoes and tied them. I tell you, sometimes I get to thinking the age I’m going through, you know, my change of life, I’d almost rather be in the middle of childbearing years.

That bad? Gracie Dickerson asked.

That bad … sometimes, at least. Wouldn’t you think doctors could figure out how to help us through the change? Bessie laughed. No, I don’t suppose I want babies again.

Gracie said, I’m like Vera and Janie. Farm prices are a worry. And I worry about drought. There’s talk, you know. If we don’t have rain, how are we going to grow our gardens?

Vera nodded. Got to grow food.

Eloise Williams thumped her way across the room, cup in one hand and cane in the other. The garden June Strate grows is all that keeps that family alive. I reckon she can barely buy flour. Tony Van Ricker don’t feel any responsibilities as a landlord. A frail woman in her seventies, Eloise was so bent over she had grown turtle-like in recent years. The distortion of her back forced her face toward her chest, and she twisted her neck in an awkward position to see people.

Speaking of babies, Eloise said, I was with child eight times and birthed two live ones. Seems like every time I turned around, I was getting sick from the smell of the morning coffee.

Nila impatiently changed the subject. Your decorations—where’d you get them? She fingered things, her blonde-white eyebrows drawn tightly across her nose. What a big vase. Who would’ve thought about bringing wheat into the house for a decoration? Reuben would say, ‘I have to look at wheat when I’m cutting it. Who wants to look at it in the house?’

Nila bent over the clay pot that held tall, golden stalks of wheat from the 1930 crop. Deborah noticed she wore a dress that had been in style ten years before and probably fit her better then. The skirt gaped at each large button that went down the front facing. She pointed at the pottery. Where’d you get the vase?

It’s a water pot made by southwestern Indians.

I suppose all these other things come from your people. She made a sweeping gesture at the Indian rugs, one on the back of the divan, and paintings on the walls.

Not my people. Before I was born, Mother spent a half-year in Arizona. When she returned to Minnesota, she brought with her an Indian friend to help Dad on his horse farm. Both of them had things with them. His daughter did paintings.

An Indian can paint? Nila looked at the painting above the fireplace of an Indian mother and child.

What I like are the little pottery dolls, Sonja said. They are just one of the many nice things about working for you, Deborah. They’re so pretty. Mother, she said to Vera, see how the turquoise blue in Deborah’s Indian rugs matches Bethany Strong’s braided rug? Isn’t that a coincidence?

Nila had questions. Why would your mother bring an Indian with her?

They were friends. His wife had died, and Mother knew he was good with horses. He helped my dad breed and train them.

How did they travel?

On a train.

Did they sit together? Nila’s question was testy, antagonistic.

That was in 1904. They didn’t sit together. It wasn’t customary.

How long did he stay?

Until he died. Grandfather Blue Sky died on my twelfth birthday.

Grandfather? What in the world are you saying?

He was important in my life. He was my friend, my teacher—

Teacher? What could an Indian teach?

He taught me about nature, how to take care of the earth, the values of the Hopi people.

Hopi?

Grandfather’s people, his tribe.

"Why would anyone want to know about their values?"

Their values should be all people’s values. They value one another—and Earth. They don’t believe in violence.

Not practical, Nila fumed. There will always be people hurting one another. It’s human nature.

Chapter 2

Disagreement among Friends

The murmur of voices, light laughter, and even the squeak of the rocking chair were consoling to Deborah. Mary helped her sprinkle cinnamon and sugar on the sweet dough while Audrey cut the rolls. You’re not sleeping well, are you?

I’m better, but I had a dream that I can’t stop thinking about.

I can’t imagine not having a warm body beside me. Sometimes I’ve been aggravated with Norris snoring against my neck. But since you’ve lost Christian, I don’t think that way anymore. Mary’s eyes glistened with tears. What was your dream?

Years ago, when we were kids, Christian and I played with his brother in the sheep pen … feeding the bottle lambs and chasing around. Lendel died the next day, and I’ll always remember that last time the three of us were together. I dreamed we were all in the pen again. The lambs disappeared, and so did Lendel and Christian … I knew Christian had come to say good-bye. He touched me. I can still feel the touch.

Deborah. Mary’s voice reflected the sadness that Deborah felt.

He looked back, briefly. I felt he was saying good-bye.

Are you sure? Do you believe—

Audrey spoke for the first time. I believe in a dream like that.

Yes, Deborah said, I believe. But I’ve still got to have answers. I’ve still got to keep searching.

Nila had found photographs on the parlor table and called to Deborah. You’ve got pictures of Bethany Strong here—among your relatives, right beside your wedding picture. How come?

She had her eyes close to Bethany’s photos, and Deborah suppressed a desire to take them from her. The boys found them in their bureau, and I like them. Christian and I feel as though Bethany and Clifford are still present and we know them.

Well, that’s a strange notion. You didn’t know them at all. They were just people who built this ranch. They died before you even came here.

Audrey took the pictures from Nila and put them back on the small table. "Nila Meyers, haven’t you ever come up