Then I stood.
Dwayne might have believed I was a helpless widow who would quietly sell the land.
But he had made one very serious mistake.
He assumed that losing my husband meant I’d lost my determination, too.
That afternoon, I walked out to the rhubarb patch near our old windmill.
The plants were thriving.
I gathered enough stalks to make three homemade pies.
One for Arlen.
One for Gene.
And one for the young couple who had purchased the remaining hay.
My mother always taught me that when you had difficult news to deliver to a neighbor, you should arrive with kindness rather than accusations.
By the time the last pie came out of the oven, it was nearly one in the morning.
I slept for a few hours.
At eight the next morning, I was standing on Arlen’s front porch with the first pie in my hands.
He opened the door wearing faded jeans and an old plaid shirt.
