Owen and Tanner turned back around and sat up straight. Wade pulled out the chair across from them and sat down heavy, still holding the folded dish towel. Brian eased the screen door shut behind us. I stayed standing beside the saddle, one hand on the cantle, because I didn’t trust my knees.

“I lost my job at the feedlot in March,” Wade said. Not to me. To his boys. I hadn’t known. Nobody had. Then he reached into his shirt pocket and unfolded a piece of pink paper, creased soft from being opened too many times. He laid it on the table beside the saddle, smoothed it flat with his palm, and slid it across to me. It was a receipt from Guymon Monument Company. The deposit paid was $280. And the name on that order wasn’t only Dad’s.