The Naturalists A Historical Novel of the Hayman Family Vol. 2

By Clark Haberman

Gripped by a spiritual call, John Hayman found the land of his dreams. The land tested him, but he learned to live with it and survived to foster a land ethic.
In the second volume of The Naturalists, the new era of John’s three sons unfolds, and they are as diverse as the land. The youngest, Henry, focuses on what his father dreamed about: a peaceful land covered with grass and marshes. As more people settle the area, Henry faces changing land use that gives little thought to the effects. His life is not without personal heartaches and devastating emotional discoveries.
Over the first half of the 20th century, he and his youngest son, Jacob, follow the path recorded in journals that have become the focus for future Hayman naturalists. Deep family unrest threatens to forever change the Haymans and the land on which they thrive. Out of this turmoil, Jacob emerges to face the trying task of altering the path that threatens the Rainwater Basin and his family.
Will Jacob’s son follow the peaceful path to the 21st Century?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Clark Haberman
• Release date: Nov 29, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463279106

Clark Haberman

C. G. Haberman retired in Nebraska after teaching twenty years with twenty years of professional environmental work sandwiched in between. His science-teaching experience covered secondary, community college, and four-year liberal arts institutions. His environmental work spanned three States over twenty years and involved enforcement work.

Book preview

Naturalists A Historical Novel

of the Hayman Family

Volume 2

New Light

1900 – 1909 The Search

1910 – 1919 Losses

1920 – 1929 The Breakup

1930 – 1939 Survival

1940 – 1949 Challenges

Decimation

New Light

THURSDAY EVENING STARTED AS USUAL and would likely end as usual. I was well on my way to a tannin headache. A weakness of mine for a long time, red wine. I consume too much with a longtime friend, Ed Carpas, who meets me at the local pub where they serve meals that demand vintage wine from California’s Sonoma Valley. Our evening dress consists of jeans and rolled up, long-sleeve shirts, no ball caps.

Tonight a heated discussion begins on the federal farm bill, and it rapidly comes clear we won’t agree. We agree to disagree and move on to focus where we might do some good; that is, an honest candidate for the open Congressional seat.

Carl Joyce recently returned from Washington after resigning his long-held seat in the U.S. House of Representatives for the State’s vast third district. We have yet to hear from him. Ed and I always enjoyed Carl’s company in this old business with worn wood floors, dim light, and hushed voices.

So, Ed said, with a faint smirk on his wine-stained lips, we have two Democrats and umpteen Republicans wanting that seat. Who do you think should represent us? The smile fades and changes to a full-blown grin.

There’s only one choice … my neighbor down the road.

Come on, Ed grabbed his teetering half-full wine glass, he’s nothing but a pain in the rear; wants nothing more than to go back to the pre-irrigation days. Towns and the counties surrounding us, and those to the Colorado and Wyoming borders will never elect him. Ed waved to the waitress for another bottle of red wine as he drains his glass. He wouldn’t survive the agricultural communities’ onslaught. There’d be attacks by folk who remember the Buffalo Commons proposal if that’s what you could call such irrationality.

My mind races over a faded memory and comes to a screeching halt at that foolish idea. Some back-east professors wanted to make a national, open-range bison park for the western third of Nebraska, and the other states from Mexico to Canada that make up the prairie states.

Ed finishes his thought. That’d doom your neighbor.

I chuckle after I down the last swallow of wine. My guess … your neighbor would piss off everyone. But it might evoke some good conversation. There’d be a buzz in the pubs and coffee shops across this district like never before. I slid my empty glass toward him.

Yeah … and bring every dude with a 30.06 rifle to his campaign stops.

The red wine pleasantly sat on my tongue. Okay, I give up. But we can’t keep on like we are or we’ll see the land and crop prices drop. Mark my word that will bring more land-use abuse. And the remaining wetlands are gone forever, unless …

Ed stares past me and waves at someone entering the bar. I can’t argue with you on those points. We can start by working with the local state legislators. And you can run for the opening on the conservation district board.

A minute later, I find out who roused Ed’s wave. The Rural County News editor sidles over with another bottle of red wine. He’s all we need to keep a semi-surly conversation going. Alan Hammerschmidt carries three menus with him to the dining area where Ed and I often feast on pasta. The editor does not keep with the current trend of staying in shape. He smokes, drinks, and carries an extra fifty pounds on his less than the six-foot frame.

Gentlemen, nice spring evening. What’s new with you two world-problem solvers? Alan parks his ample body on the sturdiest chair.

Oh sure, the editor fishes for a story, Ed replies.

Alan ignores the comment and peers at me over his sweat-stained glasses. I want to know how you’re doing with the save the planet approach? I hear the Governor visited you last week.

I glance at my longtime friend; his straight face focuses on me. There’re no secrets in the rural Nebraska setting where I live, sheesh. The editor drops by to dine with the two of us every three months. We discuss newsworthy items with Alan, and he later develops stories to his liking. To his liking means stories to sell papers.

Allow me to follow up on the question about the Governor’s visit, Alan says. He waits for a signal to move forward.

Three weeks had passed since the Governor sat in my pickup, talking about the discovery of the 1970s infrared aerial photography in the Rainwater Basin. After that meeting, I left with a smidgen of hope for wetland protection and restoration. But the question of how I could help her lingers. She said someone from the environmental agency would contact me. Two weeks, damn it, two weeks before someone called. They said they would get back to me. Another week slipped away and no word from the agency, further inflaming my thoughts about government agencies.

No news, they said they would get back to me. I scan the menu, knowing I’ll not venture from my usual order.

Alan cocks an eyebrow and says, What about cancer?

Ed bristles. A rumor, that’s all it is, at least what I know.

The waitress brings Alan a glass and uncorks his wine bottle. You guys are fountains of information. He waits for the wine to breathe before pouring. You know Walter Armstead? He waits. No response, so he continues, While ferreting out stories, I decided to stop to visit with Walt. To Ed, he says, You know him?

I do, he’s a wealth of historical knowledge if you keep him focused. He has fewer and fewer clear days. At least that’s what Winnie tells me.

Is she his third … or fourth wife? Alan asks.

Third, I think, Ed said.

No matter, Alan mutters. His attention focuses on me. Your grandfather was a friend of his, according to Walter.

Could be, I reply. Why this subject?

Walter says there’re Hayman family journals. Perspiration beads on Alan’s brow. Claims your grandfather kept records of the original settlers, and the land, Alan says, pausing to wipe his forehead.

So, what’s this have to do with anything? This conversation sits in my gut like a dense German dumpling.

Your great-grandmother, Maggie, disappeared, correct? The waitress returns for our orders. The usual, Alan says before she asks.

Well, according to Walter, there’s mention of … or some hint of what happened to Maggie.

That catches my interest. Do say?

Yes. And Walter said there are diaries or log books or whatever about the natural area where great-grand pappy, John, settled.

I come alert from the wine-induced haze. You’re sure the journals exist?

I asked Walter the same question. Alan waits for the waitress to place the warm plates with piles of steaming pasta. They’re somewhere on the Hayman land. Those journals might clear the rumors around town about your ancestors.

A young woman dressed in trekking clothes approaches our table, which stops me from answering him. She holds out her hand. Mr. Hayman? I look up at her. Jamie Cameron, I’m with the state environmental agency.

Ed cocks his head, grins, and says, Have a seat and join us for a meal. His eyes light up. The editor here’s paying.

I couldn’t, Jamie replies.

No problem, I’m gathering information for a news story. This evening might prove interesting. Alan studies the young, athletic woman. You might be in an article. He shifts his bulk and leans to me. Perhaps you can save the few remaining wetlands, he pauses, gathers a thought, and winks, and the Hayman reputation.

The next morning, I head for a visit with Mr. and Mrs. Armstead after my wine headache fades. Winnie answers on my first knock. The soft April breeze carries a hint of rain, which the weather service predicts for late afternoon.

C’mon in, she says, while holding open the screen door, I’ve been expecting you since your we visited with the paper’s editor.

I step into the old-fashioned living room. Walter sits in a rocker-recliner, watching a game show. His eyes drift toward me and back to the TV. Winnie points to the chair next to Walter.

Would you like coffee or tea?

I glance at the TV. Coffee’s good.

She disappears into the kitchen. My decision to visit with Walter proves a smart move; he appears alert, at least mildly alert.

Here you are. Winnie hands me a ceramic mug full to the brim.

Thanks.

The sound of my voice near to his ear makes Walter look at me. A hint of recognition shows in his watery eyes.

Gotta be a Hayman, he gurgles. A cough erupts from deep in his chest.

Winnie steps over to help him with the second spasm.

His eyes come clear. Damned if it ain’t … Chance Hayman. He glances at the mug I hold and motions Winnie to fetch one for him.

Mornin’, Walter, I say, as Winnie seats herself near Walter’s side.

He takes the mug, slurps, and looks back at me. Shut off that damn TV. It’s nothin’ but nonsense.

A loose screen rattles and draws my focus away from him. My last visit occurred three years past. I came to see Walt’s grandchild, with whom I graduated.

You come to see me ‘bout your grandpa’s hidden treasure books? He winks at Winnie.

I grin at him, and the smug smile vanishes.

Well, I learned ’bout them books from one of the McFarlands or maybe the Whitlocks, he frowns, had to think a moment. He stifles a phlegm-filled cough and moves on. You own land with a skeeter hole and Kansas-limestone bunkhouses, don’t ya?

You’re asking about our hunting preserve? I know Walter detests the marshes. He feels it takes farm ground off the tax rolls.

He sips the coffee. An ornery twitch crosses his lips and fades. Yeah, I guess that’s what it is … if you say so.

For a second, Winnie’s posture becomes stiff-backed. Walt, don’t get nasty. Chance came to visit about what you might know.

Walter reaches over and pats her leg. Fresh information of the Hayman past should liven up your church circle.

What about the limestone bunkhouse, Walter? I say.

It’s good-sized, no? It’s got a wood floor? He smiles at my nod. You might look under the floorboards for some old storage cases.

I’ll do that … soon as I get a chance, thank you.

That why they called you Chance, eh? Walter rattles out a cough. He hands the mug to Winnie. Your granddaddy, he had two brothers that were interesting. His eyes lose the luster.

Winnie helps him reline the chair. You’re lucky. It was one of the few moments he’s been clear.

Thanks, Winnie. I stroll back to the pickup and wonder about Calvin, Joseph, and my grandfather Henry.

1900 – 1909

The Search

Chapter 1

MEADOWLARKS SIGNALED THE BEGINNING OF a sunny, turn of the century, late April day across Fillmore County. Recent rains increased the water level in the Hayman marsh, which meant more waterfowl would remain, and good fall hunting would result.

Henry sat astride his chestnut quarter horse with the flaxen mane and tail, enjoying the humus marsh odor that washed over him. Muskrat, heron, and other wildlife appeared throughout the vast wetland acreage in numbers not seen for many years. A vast expanse of open water stretched across the marsh, a welcome sight after the dry years in the 1890s. His hands rested on the saddle horn while he gazed at the distant buggy and driver that left after an overnight stay. Under a bright blue sky, dormant memories dormant seeped from his subconscious.

Two decades had passed since Henry’s brother Calvin moved to Lincoln shortly before their mother’s disappearance in 1881. Calvin finished his business degree in 1886, married a Lincoln woman in 1889, and remained there until 1894. He agreed, with some urging, to return to Fillmore County to help his father, John, manage the family land. Morris McFarland, John’s longtime partner, died the spring of 1894, and shortly after that, John’s health began to decline.

Calvin and his wife, Ruth, settled into a modest home several miles south of the Hayman marsh. By late 1895, Ruth pleaded with her husband to return to Lincoln, but Calvin prevailed. He convinced her to stay, as the farm investments would bring them a better lifestyle. To keep her happy, he promised to send a letter to his brother Joseph, asking him to return to the farm.

On receiving the letter from Calvin, Pastor Joseph Hayman gave much thought of a return to the marsh country. The memory of the home marshes and Fillmore County tugged at his heart. He did not want to leave his northeast Indiana congregation and senior pastor, and he agonized over his decision. The written response evoked his love for the Nebraska country and brothers, but he declined.

After John moved to town, Calvin and his wife agreed to occupy the sturdy house except for spring and fall. John, and his friend Hannah Abernathy, cared for the home whenever Calvin spent extended time in Lincoln with Ruth and her family.

Henry had returned to the Rainwater Basin in 1897 to help Calvin and settled in an old, one-bedroom house overlooking a large marsh northwest of Sutton. On his arrival, Henry agreed to manage the pasture and prairie-hay business.

Before his father’s death, Henry spent every spring and fall at the Hayman marsh entertaining nature enthusiasts and hunters. This specialty, for which he became known, would last until his death.

In the spring of 1898, Hannah introduced Henry to a friend from Colorado who came for an extended visit. He spent hours with her at the small house and Hannah’s place. The companionship made him ponder his future about marriage, children, and the family business. During that time, Calvin kept Henry abreast of his negotiations with Rachel Hobbs Whitlock to sell her interests in the McFarland-Hayman Corporation.

Henry shook away the memories and dismounted. The chestnut wandered to a bright-green grass patch, snorted, and clipped the plants at will.

Another memory uninterrupted his marsh view. The winter before John’s death, he had stood on this spot and stared at the snow-covered wetland, watching coyotes and fox search for food. Henry packed and lit his pipe, the tobacco his father introduced him to the previous winter. The evening of that cold day, in front of the great room, limestone fireplace, Henry reminisced with his father. The bittersweet conversation covered their time together after Maggie disappeared, and before he left for college. He talked about his education at Yale and Cornell University but said nothing of his personal life with a radiant female.

John, always a decent listener, picked up on his son’s avoidance of a sensitive subject, and he did not probe for further information. Henry, his favored son, would eventually find his way with the right woman.

Henry loved the prairie and marshes, and John figured he would be the one to take charge of the Hayman land. Calvin’s business insight would help, for the present, but John knew this son would not carry on with the love of this land. And Joseph, his kind and loving son, would serve his God rather than the ground.

Chapter 2

MANAGING HAY FIELDS AND THE growing cattle business consumed most of Henry’s time. In spring and fall, waterfowl hunts added to his workload, but he loved it. After John died in 1899, Calvin reluctantly moved to Geneva, which Ruth insisted they do, or she would leave him.

Henry moved to the Hayman homestead a week later. With increasing demands on Henry’s time, Calvin agreed to manage most of the finances. The newly formed Hayman Brothers Company, and their longtime farmhand, Walker Johnson, made his life more comfortable.

For an unknown reason, Henry sensed a developing rift with his brother Calvin, who had become distant and less attentive to the farm business. Farm income began to drop, and with it, Henry felt the onset of a sour gut. Ruth started calling him about the whereabouts of her husband, who claimed to be tending business. Communication began to break down between the brothers. Henry decided to confront his oldest brother about the problems they faced. Calvin’s response: not to worry.

On a cloud-filled Sunday afternoon, Calvin arrived at the home place with a lathered, near-exhausted horse, and an empty whiskey bottle on the buggy floor. Henry, although annoyed, helped his brother from the buggy, and as they staggered to the house, he noticed more than alcohol smell. Grass stains covered his brother’s pants at the knees and elbows. Lipstick and perfume odor gripped Calvin’s collar and shoulders. Ruth seldom used lipstick and only a slight amount of perfume, and this one not common to her.

After he woke from his wasted state, Calvin steadied himself and swung his feet to the floor. With a sullen look and a caved-in shoulder posture, he took the coffee and cornbread that Henry offered. The room spiraled around him, and Calvin pressed his shoes hard on the rug in front of the old couch. He nibbled at the buttered cornbread and washed each tiny bite away with the strong, boiled coffee. Calvin studied his young brother, seated calmly in a rocker. He placed the empty plate on the floor and fumbled for a cigarette he’d rolled earlier in the day, and that contained more than tobacco. His tongue, thick and twisted from alcohol and weed, he began his rambling, senseless tirade.

Henry listened, but his brother’s state left him with a sadness he felt when he lost a friend at Cornell. The sweet cigarette smell and the overpowering perfume assaulted his senses. Anger boiled below the calm surface.

My marriage’s in trouble. Calvin took a deep drag from the cigarette and let the smoke trickle from his mouth and nostrils. I need help; please help me. He lit another smoke, from the first, and whined, Ruth’s grousing again that we must move to Lincoln.

I cannot help, Henry replied.

Why not …why the hell not, brothers should help one another?

This’s a personal problem between you and Ruth and— Abruptly, Calvin unsteadily stood, walked out, and weaved his way to the buggy.

Henry heard nothing from Calvin for several months. All news came from the neighbors, most not good. Calvin and Ruth moved from the rural house to a new home in Geneva.

At a Hayman business meeting in Geneva, Calvin spoke in private with Henry. Ruth loves the large manor-like house, but our marriage hasn’t improved. My efforts to appease her concerns, haven’t helped.

Henry's reflection on their conversation: lies or truths? Damn you, Calvin.

Snow, the latter months of 1899 and the early months of 1900, provided excellent runoff to fill the Hayman marshes. During the first spring of the century, letters littered Henry’s desktop, the majority asking about hunting and the marsh conditions. A few envelopes the postmaster stamped: Postage Due. Beside the word paid, scrawled by the shaky hand of the postmaster and mixed in with the mess, a letter that ignited relief, quickly followed by a pang of doubt.

Henry took the letter to the porch and breathed in the fresh air washed clean by April rains. The marsh reflected midafternoon sun rays across the low horizon. Red-winged blackbirds chattered and flitted above and through the green vegetation, which edged the finger-like peninsulas that extended into the six hundred-acre marsh.

He paused before opening the letter, a red-tail hawk floating on the undulating air currents over the marsh had caught his eye. For a brief moment, the free-soaring bird took him back to his college years and his Appalachian exploration. What would have life been like with his first love in those tree-covered mountains?

The hawk that rocketed from the crisp blue sky to the marsh edge set off the Blackbirds. The birds squawked and scattered in a frenzied mass. The wetland sounds contracted to deadly silence. Seconds later, the raptor exploded from the vegetation, a snake twisted and fought as talons sank into the scaled body.

Henry reached for his three-draw, brass telescope and focused. A good-sized garter snake toiled to break loose from the hawk’s deadly grip. Not until the raptor swept over the marsh lip did Henry put the telescope aside.

He sat, propped his feet against the wood rail, pushed the oak chair back on hind legs, and mindlessly focused on the railing shadow that slowly crept across the porch. A horse-drawn buggy that approached the farmhouse from along the western horizon broke his mulling.

Absentmindedly, he reached down and scratched the ears of his father’s old retriever. The gray muzzle with the cold, wet nose leaned into his hand. A wave of loss swept over Henry. With his father, he had hunted many years in the wetlands surrounding the Hayman marsh, the heavy-muscled black Labrador at their side.

The letter rested under his callused hand, and it stated his brother would return to Fillmore County. Joseph wrote about the sadness of leaving his senior pastor and the congregation to help his difficult older brother. It bothered Henry, somehow his brother had learned of Calvin’s troubles. He folded the letter and tucked it in his shirt pocket.

As the buggy neared, he could see the driver wore a straw trilby, which brought a smile to his square-jawed face. The Whitlock clan set the trend in fashion for the county, much like their grandmother, Rachel Hobbs Whitlock once did. Henry rocked forward as the buggy swerved to miss a mud puddle near the house. The woman waved as she drew the horse to a stop. He bounded down the steps to help her off the two-person Henney buggy.

What brings you this way? he asked.

Thank you, Henry, Rose Whitlock took his hand, … I came to talk about several storage cases grandmother found in the small barn Morris used for his woodworking. She followed Henry to the hitching post, where he tied the small horse.

Would you like a cup of tea?

Rose studied him. Something different about you. You’re grew a beard?

Aye … He pointed to the door, leading to the living area.

The single-story frame house opened to a large central room. To the rear, a kitchen, a simple bath, and bedrooms on both the right and left.

What’s this piece of iron? Rose asked as she drew her hand across the fireplace insert.

I found it in a catalog. It creates more warmth for the room. He smiled and moved to the cookstove. Steam spouted from the well-used coffee pots perched atop the burner plates. As Henry pulled a small tin from a drawer, he said, I brought the tea leaves from Boston.

You amaze me. She watched him pour the water over the leaves he’d tied into fine cheesecloth. He dipped it in the pot and grabbed two mugs.

May we have tea on the porch?

Henry smiled at her proper English. We may.

Rose strolled around the room, hips swaying with the tune she hummed. You do these? She admired the tables, chairs, and bureaus.

A laugh erupted from Henry. You’re kidding?

No. Henry, you’re a talented person. Her voice sounded husky.

And how do I take that?

She smirked. However you like.

He handed her the mug. Let’s have our tea. He held the screen door. Watch out for Char.

Char …? She peered down into the black dog’s sad eyes. I assume you mean the ever-present Charcoal?

He pulled a chair next to the one where she sat. He responds better to the one-syllable name. Course it could be his hearing.

Huh, Rose said. The tip of her tongue peeked through a sly smile. Sorry I couldn’t help it.

He took her hand. How’s your grandmother?

She’s well, I think. She cocked her head and scanned the marsh. Damn, I love the trills. I’ll miss them.

What? Henry dropped her hand.

I’m moving west this summer. I need to be on my own, spread my wings. To find my way, know what I mean?

Char shifted to eye the marsh. Every few seconds, his ears would twitch when the red-winged and yellow-headed blackbird songs changed to alarms. What do you hear, old boy? Rose reached down and began to stroke the dense black hair on the aging dog’s thick body.

He licked her hand in response. I’ve friends for you, Char, and your two-legged pal.

Henry shifted so he could see her smiling face.

You hear that you two old dogs?

Char focused on the buggy. At the same time, Henry focused his gaze on the soft noises. They waited for a minute. The sounds came again.

A gift from my grandmother that she bought from a Clay Center farmer. Rose placed her mug on the railing and took Henry’s hand. Come along.

He followed her. Her fingers wrapped warm and firm around his.

She pulled back the wool blanket. For you, my friend, she said, watching his handsome facial features melt at the sight of the puppies. You’re handsome when you smile.

He took her in his arms and hugged her. Thank you, and thank your grandmother. He opened the wire pen and snatched the pups to his chest. The color’s not Labrador …?

Rose took the small pale-yellow dog. They’re both Labs. She squatted by Char. What do you think, old guy? She held her pup next to the old Labrador. Same head, same features … to the tail’s end.

Henry held the second pup so he could examine it. You’ll grow to be a beautiful animal.

Rose stood and handed him the other pup. And you too young lady. Come along. I’ll help you settle them.

Rose and Henry strolled to the porch after depositing the pups in the room where Char slept. They watched the afternoon shadows creep over the wetland. Char groaned, turned three circles, and curled up beside Henry’s chair.

Rose sighed and took Henry’s hand. Would you answer me honestly if I ask you a personal question?

Depends, he said.

She traced the veins on the backside of his hand. Depends on … what?

Henry feeling her warmth, said, If I know the answer to your question. He weakly smiled at her, hoping it did not involve him.

Damn men, you never give straight answers.

He chuckled. You sound like your grandmother. Ask your question.

Is your brother, Calvin, having an affair with my mother?

His lips parted and quickly closed. He rescued his hand. I don’t know?

Rose abruptly stood, trotted to the buggy, picked up a small packet from the seat, and trudged back. She sat and held out two small glass containers. The scent exploded when she opened the first, his nostrils flared. Rose stopped before opening the second. He is. You needn’t say a word. From the small bottle, she dabbed liquid on the inside of her wrist. He closed his eyes. I knew it. She replaced the samples. Damn it!

I’m sorry—

Why the hell should you have sorrow? It’s your brother who can’t keep his male part harnessed.

No reply, words would not help.

I found them in the barn one Sunday afternoon. You know what it’s like to find your mother enjoying another man that’s not her husband?

I can’t speak to that.

How well did you know your mother?

Shock broke his tight-lipped expression. Why bring up my mother?

The cases, my grandmother found, contain diary-like notes written by your father.

Chapter 3

THE WATERPROOF CASES ARRIVED ON a warm May morning, three weeks after Rose left him with a warm hug and gentle kiss. Walker Johnson, an old friend, and farmhand, for both the Haymans and McFarlands, drove his supply wagon from Clay Center to the Hayman farm. Among the supplies, the cases Rose mentioned.

You want a cuppa coffee.

Not now, Mr. Hayman. Let’s unload first; then, we can grab one. The horses snorted, ears twitched, and eyes bulged at the noise that erupted from the front door. Char had pushed open the screen door, and two yippy pups rushed past him and tumbled down the steps.

Walker grinned as they sat on the sound of Henry’s stern voice. He quieted the horses, stepped off the wagon, untied, and rolled back the wagon’s canvas tarp to reveal the cases. You want these in the house?

Henry nodded.

Char trotted up to Walker, sniffed his pant legs, his curiosity satisfied he headed for the barn next to the empty dugout. The pups nipped at the old dog’s hind legs until he swatted them with a forepaw.

What you hear from Pastor Hayman?

Funny that you should ask. Henry hefted two cases from the wagon bed.

Well … I done heard a rumor the pastor might be comin’ back.

Henry placed two cases on the porch steps and hustled back for the last. You’ve been visiting with Rose, Henry said.

Yep, she came back to the farm all pumped ‘bout the three Hayman brothers bein’ back in the county.

Walker, that might be good, or not. He picked up a case and used his boot toe to open the screen. Set the cases over by the window that overlooks the marsh.

They placed the old cases under the window. Walker hesitated before walking away.

Something’s wrong? Henry said.

Missy Rose and her grandmother numbered them. I wanna make sure they’re in order.

Leave it to those two that they’re all properly arranged. Henry peered at the numbered tag on the handle of each case. I’ll check later that they’re okay.

Your pappy was a great man. Smartest guy around. Walker pulled a large blue and white bandana from his back pocket and swiped at the beads of sweat on his brow. It’s gonna get real warm today. Not normal for the first part of May. Walker delivered supplies, like clockwork, to the McFarland and Hayman farms every two weeks. I got lotta supplies to unload due ta the wet April weather. You low on supplies, are ya?

Not too bad, I picked up some essentials after visiting Hannah.

How’s she doin’?

She’s still the strong and patient woman we know and love. That’s what attracted dad to her.

Walker said, Let’s get the other supplies unloaded in the barn, and we can chat over that coffee ya mentioned.

It took less than an hour to unload and arrange the barn supplies. Char watched from his doghouse inside an empty stall. Both pups had curled up in a clump of prairie hay next to Char’s house.

You gonna train those two pups? He didn’t wait for the answer as he led his team to the wooden water trough outside the barn. Walker continued, The pups sure did react to your voice.

Henry rolled the tarp back over the wagon bed and retied it. I reckon I can try to train those young-uns.

Your dad trained old Charcoal, didn’t he?

Yes, and I helped.

You did? I didn’t know you worked with that good dog. He eyed Char, stretched half out of the doghouse, twitching in a sound sleep. A gust of wind tugged at the tarp. "You fit this place; ya know