Dwayne knew what those cattle meant to us.
He’d been raised on a farm himself.
Yet he was speaking as though my husband’s death had automatically made our farm disposable.
Then he leaned forward.
“When you decide to put the land on the market, come to me first. We can work something out without involving an agent.”
I stared at him.
My husband had been buried less than a week.
His boots were still beside our back door.
His coffee mug was still sitting on the shelf.
And his own brother was already helping himself to our harvest and positioning himself to buy our property.
I wanted to ask him how he could possibly justify what he’d done.
But I was exhausted.
For days, I’d barely slept.
Every room in that house reminded me of Tom, and every conversation seemed to require strength I no longer possessed.
Besides, fighting with Dwayne wouldn’t put food in front of our cattle.
