Merle said nothing. He pulled on his boots, settled his hat onto his head, and held the door for me. We drove to Walt Hruska’s place with my last two pies balanced on my lap. Merle kept both hands tight on the steering wheel. When we arrived, Russell’s truck was already sitting beside the hay barn.

Russell stood with Walt, smiling as though nothing was wrong. He claimed Frank had left him a note giving him the crop. Walt reluctantly handed me a folded piece of paper. My hands trembled when I opened it because every word was unmistakably written in my late husband’s handwriting: “Russell can have the hay off the north field this season. Frank Kostka.” For one terrible moment, I wondered whether I’d misunderstood everything. Then I noticed the paper’s ragged top edge—and suddenly remembered exactly when Frank had written it. Click continue reading below