“I’m not going back to three different farms asking for hay I’ve already sold.”
“You didn’t have permission to sell it.”
His jaw tightened.
“Look, I was helping you. If you don’t appreciate it, that’s your problem.”
He stood so abruptly that his chair scraped against the floor.
“The deal’s finished. I’m not discussing it again.”
Then he walked out.
The screen door slammed behind him.
I remained seated, listening to the silence.
A few moments later, my seventeen-year-old son, Ben, appeared in the doorway.
He’d been working in the machine shed and had apparently heard more than I realized.
His face was red with anger.
“Mom, you need to call the sheriff.”
I shook my head.
“Ben—”
“No! Uncle Dwayne stole Dad’s hay. He can’t just sell our stuff and walk away!”
He was right.
Every word.
But I had barely survived burying Tom.
The thought of turning his brother over to the authorities while funeral bouquets still filled our house made me feel physically sick.
