Merle didn’t say a word. He pulled on his boots, settled the hat on his head, and held the door open for me. We drove to Walt Hruska’s place with the last two pies riding on my lap, and the whole way his hands never loosened on the wheel.

Russell’s truck was already parked in Walt’s yard. The two men stood by the hay barn, and Russell was smiling like a man at a church picnic. “Frank wanted me to have that crop,” I heard him say. “He left me a note.” Walt, who looked sick about the whole thing, pulled a folded paper from his shirt pocket and held it out to me. My hands shook as I opened it. Then my heart nearly stopped. Every word on that page was written in my husband’s own handwriting.