seam on it and, years later, helped her make the dress she wore to her school graduation. When Clara pulled back the cover that morning, she could still see a bent pin wedged beside the spool holder. She sat with one hand on the polished wood and wondered whether choosing what to keep was always going to feel like betraying something else.
A motor disturbed the quiet. Then another. Walt Henderson's black automobile appeared on the lane, followed by Harold Vance in his government Ford and Tom Blackwell in a pickup that looked large enough to carry a small barn. Clara set down her coffee. She had not invited all three, and the sight of them arriving together made her stomach tighten with a resentment she did not yet have words for.
Blackwell owned the largest farm in the district. He raised corn, soybeans, and cattle over hundreds of acres, sat on the cooperative's purchasing committee, and liked people to know that his father had planted their first crop with a team of horses before there were decent roads between the fields. He was a big man with a practiced laugh and an easy manner that could turn hard the moment someone failed to agree with him. He had wanted the Jennings land for years, partly because the acreage would connect two parcels he already owned and partly because its bend of Miller's Creek gave access to water in a dry season. He had been patient while Evelyn lived, because she had proved more difficult to persuade than he liked.
"Morning, Clara," Blackwell called. "We came to have a look at your forest."
Henderson gave him a brief disapproving glance but did not challenge the remark. Vance was already looking toward the field, and Clara noticed that he had brought a clean notebook instead of the folder of warnings. She met them near the gate in overalls and boots, having decided not to change into a dress for a visit that concerned the land. The morning light exposed every patched board of the fence and every bare stick beyond it.
"Mr. Henderson," she said. "I received your letter. I can make most of the payment by the end of the month, and I'm working on the rest."
"We'll discuss that after the inspection," he answered. "Mr. Blackwell was kind enough to come because he remains interested in the property."
"You could have told me you were bringing a buyer."
Henderson cleared his throat. "No decision has been made."
Clara looked at Blackwell, who smiled as though they had exchanged a pleasant joke. She had wanted to be dignified in front of these men, but she was finding that dignity required more effort when other people treated it as something they could give or withhold. She opened the gate and let them through, unwilling to let fear make her retreat from her own field.