The next morning, I drove to Arlen Voss\u2019s place with a rhubarb pie on the passenger seat and Tom\u2019s notebook beside me. I had made the pie before sunrise, working by the kitchen light while the rest of the house remained quiet. The crust was uneven because my hands kept slipping on the rolling pin, but I put it in a clean tin and covered it with a dish towel.<\/p>\n
I had known Arlen for more than twenty years. He was seventy-eight, a widower, and one of those men who could tell you how a storm would move across the county by looking at the clouds over the western ridge. His back had begun to trouble him, and he walked with a careful stoop, but he still drove his old green Ford as if he had somewhere important to be.<\/p>\n
His wife, Dorothy, had died two winters earlier. Tom had been one of the few people Arlen allowed to help during the worst of her illness. I knew they had shared a bond that went deeper than ordinary neighborliness, though neither man would ever have called it friendship in a sentimental way.<\/p>\n
When I pulled into Arlen\u2019s yard, I saw the hay before I saw him.<\/p>\n
Sixteen large round bales sat on the flatbed behind his truck, their surfaces golden-green in the morning light. The twine was tight around them, and the cut ends of grass showed where the baler had pressed the crop into its shape. I knew that hay immediately. Tom had cut the north eighty at the same angle every year, leaving a slight curve at the corner where the old windbreak had once stood.<\/p>\n
I parked and sat still for a moment.<\/p>\n
Arlen came out of the house wearing a faded work shirt and boots that had seen too many winters. He looked at the pie, then at my face.<\/p>\n
\u201cKaren,\u201d he said. \u201cCome inside a minute.\u201d<\/p>\n
I picked up the pie and followed him through the screen door.<\/p>\n
His kitchen smelled of coffee and the lemon oil he used on the wooden cabinets. A calendar from the feed store still showed August, although it was already September. Dorothy had always kept the calendar current. After her death, Arlen had stopped noticing the dates unless somebody reminded him.<\/p>\n
He pulled out a chair for me.<\/p>\n
\u201cI need to tell you something,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n
\u201cI came to ask you something.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI figured.\u201d<\/p>\n
He sat opposite me and rubbed his hands together. His knuckles were enlarged from years of fence work and machinery repairs. For a few seconds, he stared at them.<\/p>\n
\u201cDwayne came by three days ago,\u201d he said. \u201cTold me you were getting out of the ranch business. Said you wanted the hay gone quickly, and that he was handling the sale because you couldn't face all the details yet.\u201d<\/p>\n
I placed the pie on the table.<\/p>\n
\u201cI never told him to sell it.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI know that now.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou knew it before?\u201d<\/p>\n
His eyes lifted to mine, then dropped again.<\/p>\n
\u201cNo. I believed him. I shouldn't have, but I did.\u201d<\/p>\n
He explained that Dwayne had offered the hay for eight dollars a bale. The price was so low that Arlen had wondered whether there was something wrong with it. Dwayne had insisted the sale was a favor to a grieving widow who needed cash and wanted to clear the place.<\/p>\n
Arlen had paid him for sixteen bales. He had already loaded them and was preparing to make another trip when he began to feel uneasy. He had driven past our ranch the evening before and noticed that the stackyard was empty.<\/p>\n
\u201cI should've called you,\u201d he said. \u201cInstead, I let myself believe what he told me.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhere are the other bales?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI don't know all the details yet. He said Gene bought most of them. There's a young couple who bought some, too. The Reyes family, over at the old Lindgren place.\u201d<\/p>\n
I felt a hard knot form beneath my ribs.<\/p>\n
\u201cHow many did Gene buy?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAbout a hundred, I think.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd the rest?\u201d<\/p>\n
Arlen shook his head. \u201cI'm trying to get the exact count.\u201d<\/p>\n
I looked out the kitchen window at the truck. Sixteen bales. They seemed so ordinary sitting there, as if they were no more significant than a stack of firewood.<\/p>\n
\u201cI need them back,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
\u201cI know.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI don't have money to replace all of it. Tom left enough for the cattle if the hay stays where he put it. If I have to buy feed for the winter, I may lose the herd.\u201d<\/p>\n
Arlen leaned forward.<\/p>\n
\u201cThen we'll get it back.\u201d<\/p>\n
I studied his face. He looked tired, and the shame in his eyes was plain enough that I almost reached across the table to reassure him. I stopped myself. He was a good man who had made a bad decision. I could understand that without pretending it had not mattered.<\/p>\n
\u201cDid Dwayne give you a receipt?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cNo. Cash, no paperwork. I should have known better.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cDo you remember exactly what he said?\u201d<\/p>\n
Arlen thought for a moment.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe told me you wanted to sell before the first cold spell. Said you had enough trouble without having to deal with hay and cattle. He made it sound as though he was doing you a kindness.\u201d<\/p>\n
That was Dwayne\u2019s way. He could make an act of selfishness sound like a burden he had nobly volunteered to carry. He could present himself as the practical man in a room full of people who were too emotional to understand what needed doing.<\/p>\n
I had seen him use that trick on Tom for years.<\/p>\n
\u201cWill you help me talk to Gene?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n
Arlen pushed back his chair.<\/p>\n
\u201cI'm going to do more than talk.\u201d<\/p>\n
He put on his hat and took his keys from the counter. Before we left, I cut him a slice of pie and wrapped the rest in foil. He insisted on taking the entire tin to the truck, then stopped beside the flatbed and looked at the hay.<\/p>\n
\u201cI'll bring these back first,\u201d he said. \u201cThen I'll get Gene.\u201d<\/p>\n
I shook my head.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou don't have to do that all in one day.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cMaybe not. But I can.\u201d<\/p>\n
He climbed into the Ford. The engine turned over with a rough cough, and he backed toward the drive, leaving me standing beside the porch.<\/p>\n
I watched him go, then returned to my own truck and headed east.<\/p>\n
Gene Pokorny lived four miles from us on land his grandfather had homesteaded. He was fifty-three, broad-shouldered, sunburned, and permanently bearded, with a voice that could carry across a pasture without much effort. He and Tom had been schoolmates. They had once fought over a girl in eighth grade, and the girl had married neither of them. The story had been repeated at so many gatherings that I suspected both men had improved it over the years.<\/p>\n
Gene and Tom had spent much of their adult lives disagreeing about machinery, weather, cattle prices, and the best way to repair a fence. They also showed up for one another whenever it mattered. Gene had helped Tom move cattle during the blizzard of 2009. Tom had spent three days rebuilding Gene\u2019s baler after a bearing seized in the middle of hay season.<\/p>\n
When I arrived, Gene\u2019s pickup was parked beside the machine shed. His hay trailer stood nearby, loaded with round bales. He was leaning over a toolbox, trying to find a wrench, when he heard my truck.<\/p>\n
\u201cKaren,\u201d he called. \u201cYou all right?\u201d<\/p>\n
It was a question people had asked me every day since Tom\u2019s death. Most of them did not really expect an answer. They asked because silence seemed rude, then looked relieved when I said I was managing.<\/p>\n
\u201cI'm working on it,\u201d I told him.<\/p>\n
He wiped his hands on a rag and nodded toward the house.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou want coffee?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI want to know what Dwayne told you.\u201d<\/p>\n
Gene went still.<\/p>\n
He folded the rag and put it in his back pocket. For the first time since I had known him, he looked as though he wished he were somewhere else.<\/p>\n
\u201cCome inside,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n
I followed him to the kitchen. A stack of seed catalogs covered one end of the table, and a pair of reading glasses lay on top of a folded newspaper. Gene poured coffee into two mugs and sat down without drinking.<\/p>\n
\u201cDwayne said you were selling the place,\u201d he began. \u201cSaid Tom had left things in a mess, and you wanted to get out before winter. He said he was trying to help you get some cash together.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd you believed him?\u201d<\/p>\n
Gene looked at the coffee.<\/p>\n
\u201cI wanted to.\u201d<\/p>\n
The admission was quiet, but it struck harder than an excuse would have.<\/p>\n
He told me he had bought one hundred bales for eight dollars each. He had known the hay was worth far more. At seventy dollars a bale, a hundred bales represented seven thousand dollars of feed for only eight hundred dollars. He had told himself that Dwayne was family, that the sale was legitimate, and that a widow might need quick money more than she needed a fair price.<\/p>\n
He had never asked why I had not called him myself.<\/p>\n
\u201cI'm sorry,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n
I let the silence remain between us.<\/p>\n
\u201cI can't pretend I didn't know it was a bargain,\u201d he continued. \u201cI knew exactly what I was doing. I told myself I wasn't responsible for asking questions.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cDid Dwayne say where the money was going?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo. He said he'd settled it with you.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cDid he give you anything in writing?\u201d<\/p>\n
Gene shook his head.<\/p>\n
I took Tom\u2019s notebook from my bag and opened it to the page with the hay tally. I did not push it across the table. I simply laid it in front of me.<\/p>\n
\u201cTom cut every one of those bales while he was dying,\u201d I said. \u201cHe knew he wasn't going to be here for winter. He wanted me to have enough feed to keep the cattle. Dwayne knew that. You knew that. Arlen knew that. Yet somehow, all three of you accepted a story in which I had decided to sell the hay without telling anybody.\u201d<\/p>\n
Gene lowered his head.<\/p>\n
\u201cI know.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cDo you?\u201d<\/p>\n
He looked up sharply, and I saw the beginnings of anger in his face. Then it passed, leaving only embarrassment.<\/p>\n
\u201cNo,\u201d he said. \u201cI suppose I don't.\u201d<\/p>\n
I could have raised my voice. I could have told him that his decision had put our ranch at risk and that his excuse about wanting a bargain was not much better than Dwayne\u2019s theft. Instead, I asked him a question.<\/p>\n
\u201cIf I asked you to bring the hay back, would you?\u201d<\/p>\n
He stared at me for a long moment.<\/p>\n
\u201cAll of it?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAll of it.\u201d<\/p>\n
He stood, walked to the window, and looked out at the trailer. I watched his shoulders rise and fall as he took a breath.<\/p>\n
\u201cI'll bring my hundred,\u201d he said. \u201cAnd I'll pay for the fuel to haul it. I don't expect you to thank me.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI wasn't going to.\u201d<\/p>\n
He gave a short, surprised laugh. It was the first time either of us had smiled that morning.<\/p>\n
Then his face became serious again.<\/p>\n
\u201cThere's still the Reyes couple. Dwayne sold them some, too. I don't know whether they'll agree to return theirs.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHow many?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThirty-two, I think.\u201d<\/p>\n
I made a note in the margin of Tom\u2019s notebook.<\/p>\n
One hundred with Gene. Sixteen with Arlen. Thirty-two with the Reyes family. The numbers did not add up to two hundred and twelve, which meant either Dwayne had misrepresented the total or someone else had received hay I did not yet know about.<\/p>\n
I wrote down the figures and circled the difference.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhere did you say the Reyes place was?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cOld Lindgren property. Go south past the church, then take the gravel road west. Their house is the one with the red equipment shed.\u201d<\/p>\n
I thanked him for the directions, not for the promise. I had learned not to count anything as returned until it was back in our stackyard.<\/p>\n
When I stepped outside, Gene was already walking toward the trailer. He had taken off his cap and was turning it in his hands, looking at the hay as though he had only just understood what it represented.<\/p>\n
\u201cI'll start unloading,\u201d he called. \u201cArlen can bring his first load whenever he's ready.\u201d<\/p>\n
I climbed into my truck and drove toward the old Lindgren place.<\/p>\n
The Reyes family had moved to the county recently. I had seen their pickup on the highway but had not met them properly. Their farm sat at the end of a gravel lane, with a modest house, a red equipment shed, and a few young trees planted along the drive. A child's bicycle lay on its side beside the porch.<\/p>\n
A woman answered my knock. She looked to be in her thirties, with dark hair pulled back and flour on the sleeve of her shirt. Behind her, a toddler was trying to fit a wooden block into a plastic cup.<\/p>\n
\u201cI'm Karen Haller,\u201d I said. \u201cI live north of here.\u201d<\/p>\n
Recognition crossed her face.<\/p>\n
\u201cOh. You\u2019re Tom\u2019s wife.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n
Her expression changed. She stepped back from the doorway.<\/p>\n
\u201cPlease come in.\u201d<\/p>\n
I explained why I had come. I told her that Dwayne had sold our hay without my permission and that I was trying to recover every bale before winter. I did not accuse her of anything. I wanted to know what she had been told and whether she would consider returning the hay.<\/p>\n
Her husband, Mateo Reyes, came in from the shed while we were talking. He was a lean man with a weathered face and a careful manner. He listened without interrupting, then asked whether I had proof that the hay belonged to me.<\/p>\n
I opened Tom\u2019s notebook and showed him the tally. I also explained how we had cut the north eighty and why the bales were needed for our cattle.<\/p>\n
Mateo studied the page, then looked at his wife.<\/p>\n
\u201cWe were told the owner wanted to sell,\u201d he said. \u201cThe price was so low that I asked Dwayne about it. He said the family was dividing things after a death, and that he was authorized to handle the sale.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHe was not.\u201d<\/p>\n
Mateo nodded slowly. He did not look pleased with himself.<\/p>\n
\u201cWe have used some of it already,\u201d he said. \u201cNot much, but some. I can return the rest. I should have called you before accepting it.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cCan you bring the remaining bales back?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYes. I'll arrange a trailer this afternoon.\u201d<\/p>\n
His wife touched his arm.<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd we should pay for what we've used.\u201d<\/p>\n
I shook my head. \u201cLet me count what's left first. I need to know where all of it is.\u201d<\/p>\n
Mateo wrote down the number of bales they still had and gave me his telephone number. I thanked them both and stepped outside.<\/p>\n
The red equipment shed stood in the afternoon light, its paint peeling near the lower boards. Beyond it, I could see the hay stacked in two rows. I counted from the drive, then checked my notes.<\/p>\n
The numbers still left a gap.<\/p>\n
As I drove home, I considered the possibility that Dwayne had sold hay to someone else without telling me. He had taken money from Gene, Arlen, and the Reyes family. He had allowed each of them to believe I was the one who wanted the sale. If there was another buyer, I needed to find that person before the trail went cold.<\/p>\n
The sun was low when I reached our ranch. Ben was waiting beside the barn, his arms crossed, Tom\u2019s old cap pulled low over his forehead.<\/p>\n
\u201cDid you find it?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cSome of it.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHow much?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cArlen has sixteen. Gene has a hundred. The Reyes family has thirty-two, though they've used a few.\u201d<\/p>\n
He looked toward the empty stackyard.<\/p>\n
\u201cThat doesn't make two hundred and twelve.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cSo where's the rest?\u201d<\/p>\n
I took out my notebook and checked the numbers again. The total on the page remained the same, but the difference was no longer a mistake I could dismiss.<\/p>\n
\u201cI don't know yet,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
Ben kicked at a stone near the barn door.<\/p>\n
\u201cUncle Dwayne knows.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI expect he does.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThen we should go ask him.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNot tonight.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhy not?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cBecause I'm not going to let him decide how this ends.\u201d<\/p>\n
Ben looked at me as if I had spoken a language he did not understand. Then he turned and walked toward the tractor.<\/p>\n
I stood in the yard until the dust settled around his boots. In the distance, a truck moved along the county road, its trailer rattling behind it. I could not tell whether it carried hay or machinery, but I found myself counting the shapes in the load.<\/p>\n
There were still twelve bales unaccounted for. I did not yet know where they were, or whether they could be recovered. I knew only that Dwayne had sold what did not belong to him, and that three different people had accepted his explanation because it was easier than asking me the truth.<\/p>\n
I went inside and set Tom\u2019s notebook on the kitchen table.<\/p>\n
On a fresh line, I wrote: Find the last twelve.<\/p>\n
Then I added another line beneath it.<\/p>\n
If the hay is not returned, call the sheriff.<\/p>\n
I left the pen beside the notebook and turned off the kitchen light.<\/p>\n
The next morning, I drove to Arlen Voss\u2019s place with a rhubarb pie on the passenger seat and Tom\u2019s notebook beside me. I had made the pie before sunrise, working … <\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":8672,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-8674","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-sharestory"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/onesharedstory.online\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/8674","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/onesharedstory.online\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/onesharedstory.online\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/onesharedstory.online\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/onesharedstory.online\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=8674"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/onesharedstory.online\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/8674\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":8686,"href":"https:\/\/onesharedstory.online\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/8674\/revisions\/8686"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/onesharedstory.online\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/8672"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/onesharedstory.online\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=8674"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/onesharedstory.online\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=8674"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/onesharedstory.online\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=8674"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}