She watched the vehicles stop. Joe Kowalski climbed down from a pickup, followed by the Larsons, then the Henderson family from beyond the bridge. Several men from the co-op arrived together, including two who had laughed at Clara's first day of planting. A few women carried empty baskets, while others held notebooks or rolled maps. Children stood close to their parents and stared at the line of green trees as though the field had changed overnight rather than through six months of rain, heat, failure, and stubborn observation.
They gathered at the fence, where the laughter had begun in April. Nobody laughed now. Clara felt the weight of their attention settle over her and wondered whether it was possible to feel ashamed of being seen after spending half a year wishing people would look honestly. She was still wearing the same battered boots. Mud stained her trousers, and the cuffs of her shirt were frayed. None of those details had changed, yet every face in front of her carried a new kind of expectation.
Ada came forward first. "I told them you weren't going to hand out branches if they meant to plant them in dried clay tomorrow," she said. "I told them they'd have to listen and come back at the right time. Some of them complained, so I told them to save it until they'd heard the whole thing."
Clara looked at the gathered farmers. "I don't have a secret that's going to save everybody's crops," she said. "I can't make it rain, and I can't make a willow grow in any place you put it. If you want to know what Grandmother learned here, I'll show you. But you're going to have to help me measure where your water goes."
There was a movement in the crowd, some uncertain murmuring, a few nods. Joe Kowalski stepped forward with his cap in his hands. "My south bank washes out every spring," he said. "I just want to know if there's a better way than hauling dirt back to the same hole."
"There might be," Clara answered. "But I'd want to see it before I promised."
One of the co-op men cleared his throat. He was the same man who had drawn a crooked crown over the picture of Clara watering sticks, though she had not known it until he admitted it now. His name was Leonard Pike, and he had a face made red by the sun and the embarrassment of standing in front of his neighbors with no joke left to hide behind. He said he had been wrong to laugh. The apology came out in pieces, awkward enough that several people looked down to let him finish.
"You had every right to think I might fail," Clara told him. "I thought it, too, plenty of mornings. What hurt was that you seemed happier about the possibility than you would have been about my succeeding."