Six years earlier, a creek had flooded Russell’s pasture, leaving him without enough hay. Frank had written that note allowing his brother to cut our north field for one summer. Russell had kept it for years, torn away the date, and produced it now as though Frank’s permission still applied. I pointed toward the missing top edge.

Merle immediately remembered watching Frank write it. “One season of hay,” he told Russell. Then I pulled Frank’s notebook from my jacket and opened it to the final page, written the day before he died. Walt read Frank’s words about leaving enough hay for my cows, and his face turned gray. Russell stopped smiling. Merle calmly told Walt to call the young couple who had purchased some of the hay. Then he turned toward Russell and ordered him to start counting money. I didn’t want the sheriff involved. I simply wanted back what belonged in my barn.