The Marrow of Life: Earth’S Memories Series, Book Iii

By Nancy Larsen-Sanders

It is 1931 in Fremont County, Kansas, and Deborah Nelsons husband, Christian, disappeared months ago. But Deborah has no time to feel sorry for herself. Two children need her love, livestock require feeding, and farm crops must be tilled. Deborah is desperately trying to survive in a mans worldan especially challenging task for a woman believed to be an Indian.

Even after a drought begins to cause dire conditions, Deborah refuses to leave, for her soul is still connected with the land. She decides she must sell her cattle and stop planting wheat and then finds herself fighting a field fire that comes close to burning her farmstead and threatens the life of her old friend. Things go from bad to worse when she, her children, and the community experience the first horrifying dirt storm of the drought. Deborah partners with her closest neighbors to share labor and valuable resources, not realizing that very soon, one neighbor will leave her with five more mouths to feed and a promise he may not be able to keep.

The Marrow of Life continues the saga of one womans determined journey through the hardships of the Depression and Dust Bowl era as she slowly comes to the realization that she must turn to others for help.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Mar 20, 2013
• ISBN: 9781475976519

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 © 2013 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: 978-1-4759-7652-6 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-7650-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-7651-9 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013902667

iUniverse rev. date: 03/06/2013

Contents

Acknowledgments

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Also Written by Nancy Larsen-Sanders

All Stubborned Up

Earth’s Memories Series (Book I): The Mourning Dove’s Message

Earth’s Memories Series (Book II): Women with Backbone

For

Jamea Jule and

John H.

Sale

Acknowledgments

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

I extend grateful thanks to my brother, Norm Larsen, for having me crawl in and out of our dad’s 1930s combine! How else could Deborah do it in this book? And to the memory of my dad, James Jule Larsen, thank you for having me operate the big wheel of the same combine to raise and lower the reel platform at terraces while you drove the tractor. I was only ten—maybe eleven—and what a thrill.

It is with love that I thank my extended family for their courage, examples, and stories. You were my first readers, 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.

John, we will win the battle through our love and your editing.

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

CHAPTER 1

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Cries for Attention

A squeaky wheel gets the grease first over other wheels. At the beginning, the squeak is likely to be intermittent, almost indecipherable, and then becomes insistent, hard-on-the-ears, gnawing on the conscientious mind of someone who believes in taking care of such matters before they get worse—unlike one who is careless or simply chooses to ignore the warning sounds. Some folks do just that, even to the extent they desert a corn planter at the edge of a field, a hay wagon behind the barn, a tricycle beneath an overgrown lilac bush. A wheel can be left to sit until its metal parts—axle, bearings, bushings, or what else it has—begin to rust, or until its wooden parts shrink with age and dryness and wood rot. Dirt blows up around its spokes, and trash hides some of but not the entire eyesore, hides not all of the owner’s neglect.

Mommy, we’re hungry.

Many of the daily noises on her Kansas farm brought to Deborah Nelson’s mind a squeaky wheel, and, like a squeaky wheel, they needed tending. The squeaky wheels—demands in the form of children needing her love and care, livestock requiring shelter and feeding, and farm crops existing only if tilled and harvested—were music to her ears when Christian had been there to work with her. Now he was missing—had been for months—and she was on her own. That meant she faced alone wheel upon wheel, interlocking and turning, all needing to move forward if her family and farm were to survive.

After we eat, will you play with us?

The hogs were fed first among the livestock, their noise being the loud, shrill squeals that seemed to grate over the surface of her aching head. The shoats scrambled along the length of the trough. Each wasn’t contented to stay in one spot and eat the wet mash in front of his snout. Instead, he shouldered the pig next to him, snapping with sharp teeth, wanting what his neighbor had, and setting off a discord of protest.

When you’re finished with chores, can you read a story?

When scratch corn was scattered in the chicken pen, the rooster announced the meal to the hens as though the grain were his discovery, his contribution. He scratched among the cracked kernels, not eating, just clucking fast and furiously, calling the hens to the meal, and then raised his wings and puffed out his feathered chest and lifted his head to send forth a shrill, drawn-out crow. Full of tension and worry about the morning chores and other work yet to be finished, Deborah’s head throbbed at the sounds.

The rooster’s crow stimulated the bucket calf. From his small pen, he thrust his bulbous head between the rails, his tongue drooling saliva as he bleated his demands for mama and nourishment. His mother, a long-legged, ungainly new milker, was shut in another pen, and she mooed in commiseration with her locked-away baby, her call ending in a screech, like metal-on-metal. Her needs meshed with that of the calf. He wanted milk, and the cow wanted him to suckle and relieve the tightness of her udder.

Deborah let the young cow into the barn, and the anxious mooing stopped, for the milker was learning to recognize the stanchion and its grain box. Deborah sat on the T-shaped milk stool and tugged at the full teats uneasily. The cow was skittish and a little too free and easy with her kicking legs and thrashing tail. Her personality hadn’t yet suggested a name—although Deborah had given her plenty of epithets in the past two days, none appropriate for the ears of someone else. She milked cautiously, alert, and ready to grab the bucket and move backward at the first sign of a kicking movement.

She could hear the boys playing somewhere near the barn, and in her mind they were additional squeaky wheels, both needing her attention, especially her admonitions to not bicker and scream at one another. Jonathan, soon to be six, was ordinarily the quiet one, a contemplative child who observed and listened in such a way that those around him sometimes forgot he was there. David, though, was quite aware of Jonathan. The three-year-old knew how to wound, inflicting annoyances rather than pain, and work at Jonathan until the heckling festered and the older boy erupted with retaliation. They never came to physical blows, and even their screams were brief.

They loved one another.

Shrieks broke out now, and Deborah sighed deeply. She tentatively rested her forehead against the cow’s side and was relieved that the critter didn’t react to the unfamiliar touch. The boys were quiet once again, and the rumble in the cow’s belly seemed loud. Doing chores was one of the many times when Deborah missed Christian the most, for she needed his help in supervising the boys, his calming voice, his humor that took away their frustration.

The young hogs no longer squealed, which meant they were finished with feeding, but the calf monotonously cried with its high-pitched bleats. For the first morning in days, the milk cow chewed her alfalfa and didn’t answer the calls.

She spoke soothingly to the cow. You’re much more patient now, aren’t you? It’s easy to feel overwhelmed when little ones demand your attention. She slid her thumb and index finger down each teat, stripping the last of the milk, and stood, lifting the bucket and stool. There’s your name, mistress. We’ll call you Patience. That’s a good Puritan name, one that Cotton Mather would have appreciated.

At the calf pen, she slipped through the gate before the calf could rush out. You are officially weaned from mama. Don’t you realize that, baby? She carried the bucket high because of the calf’s routine. The little bull charged, butting between Deborah’s legs, looking for milk, probably due to some vague memory of his four-legged mother. She reached out her hand and let him find her fingers. The small mouth pulled with strong suction, the tongue raspy and wet. She used her fingers to guide the baby’s mouth into the bucket.

He took in some of the milk and butted at the bucket in the way he would have done his mother’s milk bag, succeeding only in thrusting his nose into the milk. He sneezed milk all over her jeans and backed off, working at cleaning his nostrils with his long tongue. After the choking and sputtering had stopped, Deborah offered her fingers again, leading him to the milk. This time, he drank without butting. That’s better, she said. I think you’re getting the idea. His long eyelashes flickered with each swallow.

Crows cawed in the orchard, and Deborah heard the frightened squeal of what had to be a young rabbit. The sound was suddenly cut off, and the crows became raucous. That little fellow didn’t learn enough from his mama, she whispered.

A squeal of a different kind sounded in the corral, and she looked up to see Dumper kick his heels high at nothing. Spring had arrived. She laughed when the pony kicked too close to one of the big workhorses and was given a nip on the rear.

The activity in the corral was only a temporary diversion. Deborah rubbed at her pounding head. The calf drank close to the bottom of the bucket. When he was finished, her next task would be The Grasshopper, the combine that required a going-over before harvest could begin. Also, the cornfield needed cultivation, more rows of green beans had to be put in, the setting hens—she heard Jonathan and David scream.

She cocked her head toward the sounds. Those were not the whiny, frustrated shouting of boys in conflict. She heard fear and pain. She dropped the bucket, spilling what little milk remained.

Mommy, David’s stepped on a nail.

The cries came from behind the barn—the old lumber pile. Deborah climbed over the fence and ran through the corral, holding her breath as she dodged clouds of hovering gnats. Marco barked with alarm, following close to her heels.

The pile of old lumber was big, some of the boards in decent condition, others full of wood rot. Jonathan teetered at the very top of the pile, and David stood midway up the side. The boards were piled every which way. Both boys were barefoot, rocking on the unsteadiness; all around them were occasional, protruding nails, some glinting in the sunlight, others rusty.

He’s nailed, Mommy. David’s nailed.

David’s face was tear streaked, and little sobs of fear made him hiccup. He stood on a small board, his arms thrust out from his sides, balancing on the pile. She could see blood on the board. Aw, David, I’m so sorry. Maybe blood poisoning … the thought chilled Deborah’s backbone.

He’s nailed, Jonathan said again, his voice shrill. It’s just like he hammered that ol’ nail in his foot. He teetered.

Jonathan, stand as still as you can, Deborah said. I’ll get him down. Then I’ll help you.

She bent down by David’s foot, and he grabbed her shirtsleeve. Don’t touch it, Mommy, he whimpered.

Oh, but David, we have to get you off the nail. With a sudden move, she pulled his foot upward, and he gasped, choking on his own quick intake of breath and saliva. He leaned over her shoulder, sighing with relief, and she gathered him up, pressing her head against his. She carried him down the pile’s side, feeling the instability of the haphazardly stacked boards. Trying to avoid the nails in one old board, she slid to the ground, landing on her haunches but holding the boy tightly.

She grasped the foot and pressed the heel, forcing blood from the wound. Don’t, David howled. Marco licked his face.

Yes, she said firmly, and he cried louder. You just as well stop it. I’ve got to do this. She told him how the blood would clean the dirt out of the wound, but she didn’t mention the frightening possibility of blood poisoning.

David quieted down and nodded, Okay. She wiped his runny nose on her shirttail and covered his face with kisses.

When the puncture ceased to bleed, Deborah tied her handkerchief around his foot and left him seated on the ground. She climbed the woodpile again, wrinkling her nose at the odor of something dead, probably a missing cat. At one point, two boards slid from beneath her, and she held her breath, watching them come to a rest near David. When she reached Jonathan, he grabbed her about the waist, and more boards slithered down the pile.

Awkwardly holding the long-legged boy, Deborah worked her way down. David blubbered, and Jonathan, pale faced, reached to hug his brother. That was awful, Mommy. He couldn’t move because the nail held him down.

This hateful old pile. Hands on her hips, she thrust out her jaw. We should’ve burned it as soon as we bought this farm. Why Clifford Strong left such a dangerous eyesore on the place, I’ll never know.

She turned to the boys. Stay here. I’m going to get a can of kerosene and take care of this right now. You were told to stay away from here, you know.

I know. Jonathan hung his head.

David imitated his brother. I know.

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Swinging the uncapped container high, Deborah smelled oil as she threw the kerosene in arcs onto the pile. Jonathan called to her. Rainbows, Mommy. You’re making rainbows. They’re pretty.

She set the can down and reached to lift David. Don’t put your foot in the dirt. Let’s have you sit over here away from the fire.

The boys waited patiently while she went through each of her pockets. Shoot, I don’t have any matches with me.

I’ll go to the house and get some, Jonathan said.

She deliberated. Where’s my mind? This is a mistake. The pile will take a while to burn, and I’ll have to watch it. First things first. David, we’ve got to soak your foot in some disinfectant. That’s more important than burning the pile. I’ll do the burning later.

Will it hurt?

Not a bit. The warm water will take away some of the soreness. She bent down so David could climb onto her back.

Piggyback, David said. I get to ride piggyback.

You’re a pig, Jonathan said.

No, I’m not!

In the house, she washed the little boy’s foot thoroughly. She had him soak his foot in warm water and Lysol while she fixed a quick lunch. When she was ready for bed that night, she remembered that once again she had failed to burn the dangerous woodpile. Tired as she was, she lit the kerosene lamp and wrote in her journal.

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I’ve lost my husband—and may never know how. I lost my baby, a little girl unready for the world. I know how that happened. I didn’t take care of my health and was so unaware that I didn’t know she grew right there in my own body. (To not be aware I was pregnant … I know what grief was doing to my mind, but the despondency must have been doing its damage sooner than I thought … or I’m just ignorant.)

All right, here’s the big issue now. One or maybe both of my boys could get hurt if I’m not alert. To tell my boys, three and five, to not play on the old woodpile because of splintery boards and rusty nails is not enough. I’d better prepare to have eyes in the back of my head and the sharpest hearing possible to keep track of two little boys who hear my orders … and yet they don’t.

CHAPTER 2

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Matchmaker

I can’t see you coming … Jonathan’s singing was a warning announcement to any other team and wagon they might meet on the road in the heavy morning fog. The breezes blew scarves of dampness across their bodies, and Deborah could see minute drops of moisture on the tips of her eyelashes. Her hair was clinging to her scalp, and the braids hung heavily down her back.

I can’t hear you coming … Jonathan’s voice seemed to float like bats of cotton about their ears rather than project down the road. She slid over on the wagon seat, closer to the side, watching the edge of the road ditch as her guide in the dense fog. Damp vegetation odors—wild sunflowers and grasses—filled her nostrils. A bird, something large, flew up near the hooves of the right-hand horse, and the team jerked their heads at the whir of wings. The links and chains of the damp harness rattled dully.

Both boys sang. I can’t smell you coming …

There was the turnoff, the crossing that led to the east gate of her pasture, and she guided the team of horses.

Whoa, someone called.

She pulled on the reins. Is that you, August?

The old man appeared out of the blanketing grayness and ran a calming hand down the neck and along the back of the left-hand gray. Beside the big horse, he seemed even smaller than he was. Did you ever see the like? As little moisture as we’ve been getting, this fog is almost unbelievable. He grinned at Deborah, his white hair so wet she could see the pink of his scalp. You got a foghorn in your wagon? Something sounds like a foghorn. He held the bridle near the horse’s mouth. I’ll lead you through the gate, daughter. Victor and Audrey are nearby.

She was grateful for his help. The fog wasn’t nearly this bad when I left home. I’ve been afraid I’d miss the turnoff and end up at Victor’s ranch. Until this burns off, other folks will have trouble finding the gate.

Victor’s going to stay here and holler them in. Another hour, it’ll all be gone, and we’ll be sweltering in the heat, wondering what all the fuss was about.

August led her team through the gate opening, and Victor appeared. She didn’t think she had ever seen him with wet hair. Over time, she had grown accustomed to how his ears protruded slightly, and he had a nicely shaped head. He stood near where she sat, his hands resting on the wagon wheel. When he smiled at her, his whole face seemed to light up. Grand day for a picnic, he said.

Can you imagine playing horseshoes and baseball in this soup?

It’ll clear. August fastened a lead rein from her team to the tailgate of his wagon. I know which part of your grove we’re headed to, daughter. I’ll walk and lead us there.

They couldn’t see Audrey but heard her from August’s wagon. Good singing, boys. We heard you coming.

David answered. Grandpa August said we were like foghorns.

You used a simile, Grandpa, Jonathan said.

A what?

I’ll explain later, Deborah said. August, I’m going to trust you won’t lead us over the creek bank.

I’ve got good eyes. Besides, my team can sense when they’re headed for trouble.

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The neighborhood gathered for the picnic by Deborah’s creek and grove when the fog began to burn off. They tethered their horses to graze and brought their planks and sawhorses for tables and baskets of food. Soon the men had the tables and chairs set in the shade. Others brought cream cans of cold water and long-handled dippers. Stones were placed, and a fire was started for Mary Cressler’s big enamel coffeepots.

Children of all ages scattered, finding the only mud there was in the creek and clambering over the nearby rocky terrain. Someone had carefully paced off distances, and there was the pound of hammers on metal stakes for horseshoes.

Fay Kolter came to Deborah. I understand you have a pond that Clifford Strong built somewhere over that rise there. The woman glanced about her and hurriedly tugged at her corset, pulling it down. Derned thing. Always working itself up to my neck. Will you take me to see your pond? I’d like to see it before a drought dries it up. I know it seems odd to ask, but my dad built ponds for a living, and I’ve been interested in them ever since. Maude wants to go with us because she needs to visit with you kind of private-like.

Deborah looked warily at Maude Ratliff. Only in recent months had they become friends, and she knew she had to be alert to Maude’s ways. Maude, you can come with us—I doubt we can stop you—as long as you don’t press me on matters. Hear me? I’ve heard enough about your darling nephew, Ed.

Maude made the noise that Deborah now recognized as the woman’s laugh. Certainly that grimace-smile on her long, irregular face was preferable to the meeting of her shaggy eyebrows above her nose when she frowned.

Why, Deborah Nelson, the idea. With big hands Maude swiped at her hair in an attempt to smooth it. Either she didn’t care or wasn’t very efficient at braiding and pinning her hair, for she always looked like she had just been in a strong wind. She grinned, her teeth big and yellow. What makes you think—

I’ve heard it all from you, Maude. No more, Deborah warned.

Is Maude still trying to match you up with Ed? Fay asked. You know, he isn’t a bad catch—

"Enough," Deborah said, feeling as though she cautioned David and Jonathan about their bickering.

She walked between the two women, concerned about the navigation of their swollen ankles and blocky feet over the rough pasture ground.

We’re a pair, Fay and me, Maude said. She navigated with a cane. I tell Fay she ought to have a cane, but she’s a little younger than me and thinks she doesn’t need one. Maude walked with the straightest back Deborah had ever seen a woman have in her sixties.

Deborah bent her elbows, holding them out. Each of you, take an arm. They seemed grateful and hung on tight. Deborah could sense Maude was watching her and wondered what the woman was up to.

Your pasturage looks fine. Maude’s voice was deep and guttural. It’s greened up pretty good. What you going to do about those calves and yearlings? Deborah’s herd was grazing up a nearby hillside. They look prime, but the market’s so bad—

I’m going to sell and take a loss, Deborah said abruptly. The cattle were a painful subject.

Is that what your husband would do?

I no longer have a husband, Maude. You know that.

The woman set her jaw and took in a deep breath. Yes, it seems you no longer have a husband, but it ain’t good business, taking a loss—

Deborah said, "I know what you’re thinking. Because I’m a woman, one that you admire and respect, you have expectations of me."

Maude’s noises sounded more like laughter than usual. You’re a prickly one, Deborah Nelson. Like that cactus there.

Fay asked, Do we have a choice? She picked her way around the prickly pear cactus, her hand working again through her dress at the bottom edge of her corset.

Deborah said, Calvin—that’s my father-in-law—advised me to cut back, even though I’ll take a loss. My dad agrees. And with drought, I’ve got to be sure I don’t overgraze.

Your grass looks good, Maude insisted.

Right now it does.

What’s it been, a half year now since Christian disappeared?

Eight months. Deborah figured they weren’t out walking among clumps of cactus to talk about the price of cattle. Maude was focused on Christian’s disappearance. Seems like forever.

August still says he can’t figure out what happened to Christian. That old man is real frustrated over that boy’s disappearance.

I know. So am I, Maude.

You need a husband.

She narrowed her eyes at Maude. Don’t start that again. I’m not interested in your nephew. He’s a nice man, but that’s all.

Fay Kolter giggled, sounding surprisingly young. You’ll never get Maude to stop matchmaking, don’t you know? I keep telling her to give up on you and Ed. I know you’ll choose Victor Whitesong.

Deborah came to a halt, dropping their arms. She stepped to where she could face them. Where did you get that idea?

Maude snorted and wiggled her salt-and-pepper eyebrows. Fay and me ain’t stupid.

Deborah shrugged. The two of you are silly old women. They laughed. It isn’t time to think about such matters. I understand that when there isn’t a death certificate you have to wait seven years. She took their arms again and gently tugged and nudged the women around a young yucca.

But what about the dream Audrey said you had? Where Christian came to say good-bye and left with his dead brother. Don’t you put stock in something like that? Maude was a stubborn woman.

Just so happens I do.

Well. The dream frees you up.

I believe the dream, Maude, but there’s no proof. A dream isn’t proof.

The women stopped to inhale the perfume of a sandhill plum thicket. Maude jiggled a sprig of blossoms with the tip of her cane and sucked her cheeks in and out, the way she did when she was thinking what to say. Deborah figured she was readying an attack on the subject of Christian from a different direction.

And of course, Fay said, with our goodly sheriff still thinking you and Victor did something to Christian, I suppose it wouldn’t look good for the two of you to marry when you’re under suspicion.

Deborah didn’t manage to keep sarcasm out of her voice. That’s a real smart observation on your part. She smiled apologetically. Fay, I’m scared of Stoddel. When you see his hand on his gun like I have, when he’s been accusing me, I think he’s the kind of man who could do something drastic just because he lacks common sense … and despises me.

I’m not scared of Egbert Stoddel, Maude said.

Good for you. It’s a good thing he doesn’t think you’re Indian. He doesn’t respect folks he thinks are different.

Riffraff, as he calls them. I’ve heard it all. Maude grinned. "Well, you are Indian, aren’t you?"

If your saying so makes it true—and you’ve said it plenty—then I guess I’m Indian.

Maude pushed her laughing sound through her nose. Black hair, brown skin, you’re Indian, Deborah Nelson.

More to being Indian than dark hair and skin.

Well, sure. Indian features, your cheeks, your eyes—you got it all, spunky girl.

Yes, and my great-great-grandmother in Sweden had some of the same looks.

She was a first grader, learning, as all first graders must do, how to stand in line among many lines, waiting for the restroom, hand washing, and lunch.

She heard again the third-grade teacher, Mrs. Jenson. There’s that Deborah Jorgenson—

Such a sweet girl, Miss Collier said.

Whatever are those Jorgensons thinking?

She’s a very smart girl. She’s going to be an exceptional student—

Indians don’t belong in a white school.

Over a rise, Deborah and the older women came upon a high, grass-covered bank, the dam, placed to hold back water where three hillsides sloped and converged. My, my, Fay said. Let’s walk on the dike.

Maude hesitated. Is it big enough for the three of us?

It’s big enough, Fay said. What a dandy dike.

They stood on the dam, gazing at the pond. It was full of water, reflecting the blue of the clear sky, and a light wind made surface ripples. Along the outer edges of the water, the mud held casts of animal tracks of all kinds.

A big pond, a dandy pond. Look at the snow water, Fay said. Now, there’s what I wanted to see. She leaned to peer down at the waterside of the dike. See! My dad told me that Clifford collected rock and built a stone wall, and then he bermed the soil up against it.

You’re right, Deborah said.

Only one like it in the whole area. I understand he built this when he still had cowboy help, but can you imagine the work—first the rock wall and shoveling the soil into wagons, hauling, dumping, and tamping so careful. My dad always said the tamping was the most important or it would just wash out with the first gully washer. This is a dandy dike. Fay bent over further to look, her skirt hiking above her calves.

Maude tugged at Fay’s skirt. Good thing your dress is as long as it is. Look at that one tree. She pointed with the cane. What a strange place for a tree. A cedar, its winter rustiness now turning to a bright green, was growing out of the center of the dike.

Bird planted it. Fay was emphatic. Its roots are helping to hold the dike firm.

I’ve always felt a little sorry for that tree, Deborah said. It must be lonely, being the only one up here.

Strange notion, Maude said, her heavy brows drawing together in a bristly line. She turned to look about. But see. It looks out over everything, including all the trees by the crick. King of the mountain.

Talk about strange notions, Fay muttered.

They laughed.

So, Maude said.

Deborah and Fay looked at Maude, waiting.

He’s been gone eight months—dead or deserted. When I wash dishes or iron—the most boring woman jobs in the world—sometimes I get to thinking about you, spunky girl. You need a man—too many bad things have happened to you. You’re even lucky to be alive. You fed your cattle during blizzards and practically froze to death.

Now, Maude Ratliff, I did what any cattleman had to do. I just took some chances I shouldn’t have.

Also, you were badly beaten and almost taken advantage of. That about tore up your mind.

Maude, that deputy beat a woman, just like he did his own wife, and he thought he was beating an Indian woman to boot. I try not to think of him as beating Deborah Nelson.

She saw Fay Kolter shaking her head in dismay. Deborah figured she was working up to put in her two cents.

Maude drew back and raised her eyebrows to where they scrunched against the wrinkles of her forehead. But girl, you’re a good-looking woman with no man on the place to protect you. Don’t you see what I mean?

Deborah was taken aback to hear tears in the woman’s voice, for she had figured Maude