Chapter 5

Diary of Mercedes Walker

June 21, 1994

Daddy came back from Texas as poor as ever after more than two years away. His dreams of making it rich on a Texas ranch were as elusive as the love Austin and I craved from him as a father. As I suspected, he didn’t even know Momma was gone. When he heard, he lay down in their bed and didn’t get up. He’s really ill. I don’t know what’s wrong with him, and he won’t go to the doctor.

Good thing Wayne is still there to keep the farm running, or we’d lose it for sure. I worried that he’d leave when Daddy returned so suddenly. Wayne is so much more than just a hired hand, no matter what Daddy may have said in the past. The farm is still in our family only because of Wayne. If I had any say, I’d give it to him. I know he’d always let me visit, if I needed to. Grandma actually owns the farm on paper, but she’s too heartbroken over Momma to care about anything other than her charity work. But there was nothing she could do to stop Momma. Nothing any of us could do. She was sick. I understand that now, but it doesn’t take away the pain of being deserted once again.

Brandon was nervous as he drove off the main highway and onto the dirt road leading to Walker Farm. The sun hung halfway down on the horizon, and fields stretched for miles around, beckoning as the short stalks of wheat or whatever was growing there bent and swayed in the evening breeze. There was something that was absolutely foreign to him here; he’d felt it every time he’d been to the farm, even with Mercedes all those years ago. He knew it was because he didn’t belong. He’d once thought she didn’t belong either, but he’d been wrong. Seeing her that morning in the garden, she was every bit as much a part of the farm as the peas she was growing. A quiet partnership existed that even he couldn’t deny.

What if his son had the same connection Mercedes did to the farm? Brandon had come to entice him away, but after Mercedes’ emotional pleas, he wondered if he’d have the strength. If his son belonged here, would there even be a choice?

He’s my son.

What if the child took an immediate dislike to him? What if Mercedes had said something that made him hate Brandon? But she wouldn’t do that, would she? Brandon simply didn’t know the woman she’d become.

Yet he wanted to know her.

How did things go so wrong? He should be driving home to his house in California now, with Mercedes and their children awaiting him. Or maybe he’d be picking up their son to meet her at the office where she was helping a late psychiatric patient. That was how they’d talked about it, and he knew it hadn’t happened mostly because of him. He’d learned during his marriage that women needed to be told and shown often how important they were. He should have told Mercedes that he’d come back for her or send for her. If he hadn’t been so arrogant, so assured of her love, so completely absorbed in his new career, he would have understood her mind. He would have put aside his own hurt at not hearing from her and realized something was wrong.

Yet would he have done the right thing even then? He had no way of knowing, and the truth was—the truth that hurt deeply, like a wound that would never heal—it didn’t matter for them now. That was over. She had gone on with her life, even if he had not.

Regret every bit as painful as the treatments he’d endured for his stomach cancer rolled through him in a terrible, blinding wave. There was nothing here for him.

No, that wasn’t quite true. There was still his son.

He pulled to a stop before the low-slung farmhouse that had been built a little at a time as the family who resided in it grew. Mercedes told him there had been only one bedroom when she was a child, and she’d slept in a small alcove built into the hallway. Her brother slept in the kitchen by the stove until a room had finally been added. Mercedes and her husband had made more new additions in the years since he’d first visited, though he couldn’t be sure how much from the outside. One of those rooms Mercedes shared with her husband. In another, Darrel slept, dreaming . . . of what? Brandon wanted to know that more than anything.

Taking a deep breath, he opened the car door. This time he was greeted by a red retriever followed by at least five puppies. The dogs began barking, keeping him from coming onto the porch. The front door opened, and Mercedes emerged. “Di, down. Come on, girl. He’s invited.”

She was wearing a buttercup yellow dress that skimmed the tops of her brown bare feet. The yellow contrasted with the dark hair that fanned out over her shoulders. Her eyes looked black in her face, which was tanned despite the silly hat she’d been wearing that morning. She was so exactly like his Mercedes from the past that he found it impossible to do anything but stare.

The dogs had stopped barking, and now he was being attacked by warm, wet black noses as the puppies investigated his dress pants.

“Shoo!” Mercedes scolded. Her head turned. “Joseph! Scott! Come and get these dogs.”

Seconds later two young boys shot from the door behind her and tumbled into the array of puppies, giggling all the while. They cast shy glances at Brandon but didn’t speak to him.

“Take them around to the barn and put them in the empty stall,” Mercedes said. “Not the one with the baby goats.”

“Aw, they hate that.”

“It’s just for dinnertime. Now go.”

Whistling for the dogs, the boys raced around the side of the house. The puppies’ mother looked between her retreating offspring and Mercedes, as though trying to make a decision. “You can go, too, Di,” Mercedes encouraged, but Di, giving a low bark, chose to stay with her mistress. “Well, that’s fine then,” Mercedes said with a smile. To Brandon she added, “She considers herself my protector. Come on inside. We’ll be eating on the back deck. It’s nice out this evening.”

“So many dogs,” he said, just for something to say. “What are you going to do with them?”

“We’re only keeping one. We’ve promised the others to neighbors. Tomorrow, in fact. They’re in high demand around here. Di and Thunder—that’s the father—have good pedigrees. I’m letting the boys pick just one because they lost their other dog, Jellybean, last year when he deserted us for my brother’s wife.”

“Deserted?”

She laughed. “Jellybean is a very self-centered, lazy dog. A disgrace to his parents. He knew he’d get more attention there.”

She led him through a front room, down the hall where he saw the alcove where she’d once slept—now filled with sewing paraphernalia—and into the kitchen. Delicious smells reminded Brandon that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

Mercedes pointed to the door leading to the deck. “Why don’t you go through there and have a seat? I have to check on a few things, and then I’ll be out.”

Where’s Darrel? he wanted to ask.

As though reading his mind, she added, “Wayne and Darrel are just washing up. They’ve been in the fields until now.”

“How did you know what I was thinking?”

A faint smile touched her lips, her dark eyes luminous and sad. “I live with four men. I’ve learned to read between the lines.”

He felt a distinct disappointment. She hadn’t guessed because she knew him or felt anything for him. Anything but perhaps resentment and hatred. I’m really sorry, Mercedes, he told her silently. I don’t know what else to do.

“Go on,” she urged, as though talking to the dogs.

He did as he was told, amused that Di followed him out to the deck. “Keeping an eye on me, are you?” he asked the creature. Di sat near the door and studied him, her demeanor regal. Only once, when they heard one of the boys shout happily from the distant barn, did she look away briefly.

The backyard was exactly as it had been that morning, with the exception of the clothesline that was full of damp clothing. Socks, pants, shirts, little boys’ underwear, but nothing that was notably Mercedes’ except one dress and maybe a pair of jeans. If he hadn’t been coming, would there have been more? A dressy blouse perhaps? A pair of nylons? Of course there would be nothing he would recognize, not after all these years.

The table on the deck was set with matching dishes. Six places. A green salad in a plastic-covered bowl, a basket of rolls, and a pitcher of milk sat in the middle. A normal family dinner. Brandon remembered his wife, Hannah, arranging a similar table and how he’d loved to come home and find everything ready.

“Oh, you’re home!” Hannah met him in the hall, lifting her face for his kiss. Her blonde hair was cut short, and he liked the way it followed the curve of her head.

“How was work today?” he asked.

She wrinkled her cute, slightly uptilted nose. “Beginning of a new year. You don’t want to be anywhere near a grade school during the first week. My phone didn’t quit ringing today. Half from teachers looking for missing supplies, and the others from concerned parents wanting to move their children to other classrooms.”

“Thank heaven schools have regular hours.”

“Yep. No emergency bypass.” She pulled him into the kitchen. “Come on. I have dinner ready. It’s your favorite.”

“You made pizza?”

“No, your other favorite.”

“Ah, shrimp.” He took her hand. “You are so good to me.”

The cancer and the treatments had changed all that. He didn’t blame her—he was the one who’d taken out his frustrations on everyone around him, including Hannah. Before he realized what he was doing, it was too late.

The story of my life, he thought bitterly.

Mercedes and Wayne came onto the deck, carrying steaming dishes. They moved with the familiar rhythm of those who knew each other well and were comfortable together. Wayne was wearing clean jeans and a polo shirt, his white-laced red hair wet from the shower. His face was gentle, but his eyes were cautious. Brandon had the impression of great power within the man, this man who had probably never studied further than his high school diploma, and he looked away uncomfortably.

The boy emerged next, carrying a set of small dessert plates. Brandon stared. This is Darrel. The child looked younger than twelve. He was thin everywhere, from his face under the dark brown hair to the narrow bare feet sticking out under his stiff, new-looking jeans. His eyes, so dark as to be nearly black, were Mercedes’, and the oval curve of the cheek as well, though his had a sharpness that had never touched his mother’s. His skin was tanned, and a few stray freckles were scattered over his nose. There was nothing of himself that Brandon could see in the child. The hair was darker than his own and would likely darken even more to the same color as Mercedes’. He was his mother’s child through and through.

Then Brandon met Darrel’s eyes, and he felt something more. The intelligence and curiosity were immediately apparent, but they had also been obvious in Darrel’s brothers. What, then, was Brandon experiencing? My son, he thought. I know him. He wanted to reach out and touch the boy on the shoulder. To caress his face and ruffle his hair. To make up for all the lost years.

I would have told her to take care of it.

No, he couldn’t believe that. If she had waited, had placed Darrel as an infant in his arms, and Brandon had stared into those intelligent eyes . . .

Stop, he told himself. There was no going back. Never. The past could not be undone. Only the future could be shaped. But would he make the same mistake he’d made with Mercedes and with Hannah? No, he had to make this work with Darrel. It was his last chance.

“Hi,” he said aloud, his voice sounding rusty and unused.

“Brandon, this is my son Darrel.” Mercedes put a hand on the child’s shoulder. “Darrel, this is an old friend of mine, Brandon Rhodes. He was a resident at the hospital here many years ago.”

“Hi,” Darrel said, staring at him frankly. “You’re a doctor, huh?”

Brandon grinned, impressed that he understood what a resident was. “Don’t I look like one?”

Darrel considered a moment. “I guess I was expecting you to be wearing a white jacket or green scrubs.”

“And wearing a stethoscope?”

“Something like that. But if I were a doctor, I guess I probably wouldn’t go around wearing that all day.”

“I do get rather sick of green and white.”

“I’ll bet.”

In the ensuing silence, Mercedes said to Darrel, “Would you go get the boys?”

“Can I ring the gong?”

Mercedes groaned. “If you must.”

“Yes!” Darrel sprinted across the deck and darted into a tool shed at the far end. Inside, Brandon spied a gas grill, a hedge trimmer, and other odds and ends people usually stuffed into such structures. The boy pulled out an object that could only be the gong, held up on a homemade frame by a sturdy rope.

“He made it for a Boy Scout project,” Mercedes explained. “All by himself. It’s pretty creative, actually.”

“I can hear it in all the fields but the north one,” Wayne added, seating himself at the head of the table. “If I’m late to dinner, you can be sure they love to ring it.”

Darrel grabbed the rubber mallet tied to the frame and gave the metal sheet three strong hits in succession. The sound reverberated through the yard. In seconds, the younger boys bolted from the barn, followed by another full-grown red retriever, whom Brandon assumed must be the father of the puppies. He loped with the same regal air as Di, his good breeding showing in every movement.

“I’m starving,” complained the larger of the younger boys as he reached the deck. He had bright red hair, from his father, and a face covered in freckles. His eyes, like his brothers’, were as dark as their mother’s.

Mercedes grinned. “This is Joseph, our resident bottomless pit. He’s always starving.”

“Especially at bedtime,” Wayne added.

“Or in the middle of the night,” Darrel said.

Joseph giggled and started to sit at the table. “No,” Mercedes told him. “Go wash your hands. You, too, Scott.”

The boys tumbled into the house to obey without the smallest protest. Brandon had no doubt they’d played out this same scene many times and had learned that objection wouldn’t get them very far.

Darrel finished replacing the gong in the shed just as the younger boys returned. They sat still in their seats while their father prayed over the food, and then for a while, everyone was busy loading their plates. As Brandon took his share, he peered across the table at Darrel every time he dared. This was his son. His child. With his wide smile, honest face, and intelligent eyes. Mercedes’ eyes. Brandon looked at her to be sure, though he already knew it was true, but her eyes were lowered and she didn’t glance his way. Her face was locked into an expression of endurance, one he’d almost missed identifying. This was torture for her.

Wayne, on the other hand, met his gaze steadily, unflinchingly, and without a visible sign of stress. He was in control here, no doubt about that, no doubt at all. “So,” he said, “tell us, Dr. Rhodes. How are your lectures going?”

“Okay, I guess,” Brandon began without enthusiasm. He didn’t want to talk about himself. He wanted to learn what Darrel was studying, what he wanted to be when he grew up. If he liked the farm. If his brain was getting all the opportunity it needed to stretch and grow. “At least they haven’t kicked me out.”

“Mom said you were a heart doctor,” Darrel said. “Do you operate on people?”

Brandon turned perhaps a little too eagerly toward the boy. “All the time. Hearts are the most fascinating of all the human organs. Over the past five years, I’ve developed a new procedure that is particularly effective on children with heart valve problems. I predict that it’ll become fairly routine with time.”

“Did you ever see someone die?” This from Scott, the youngest, whose eyes looked huge in his round face. He had brown hair like Darrel, though not nearly as dark. Both the younger children would likely be as tall and broad-shouldered as their father, and Brandon wondered what Darrel would think when they began to develop. Would he begrudge his own genetics? Would he even know why he was different?

Brandon meant to see that he did. He would fight for a place in his son’s life. Mercedes must be made to understand that his involvement would be for the best. I can give him what they cannot. He could educate the boy, show him the world and all its endless possibilities. He could not let the child get stuck raising grain.

Yet what if that was Darrel’s desire? Farming was an important occupation; food was vital in any economy. In fact, food was more vital than heart valves to the general population. Who was Brandon to look down upon that? Who was he to take away his son’s dreams? But he didn’t really believe Darrel would want to farm. Surely there was something of Brandon in him, something not as obvious as the color of his eyes or the shape of his face.

He became aware that everyone was staring at him, waiting for his reply. “I’ve seen people die before,” he said slowly, “but only after everything we can do. Many more live than die.”

“We saw a dead calf,” Joseph volunteered. “There are lots of dead things around here. Birds and animals. But we’ve only seen one dead person.”

“That’s enough, Joseph,” Wayne said, the words clipped but not harsh.

“But I was just—”

Wayne gazed at him. “No.”

Joseph nodded. “Yes, Dad.” He glanced over to where his mother sat. She’d stopped eating, her face still and her eyes looking past the garden and the orchard at something Brandon couldn’t see. Something in the grove of shade trees beyond.

Darrel dug Joseph in the arm with his elbow, making a face at him.

“Darrel,” Wayne said.

“Sorry.”

Brandon had no idea what was going on, but he felt this was something more than talking about dead animals at the dinner table. Had Mercedes suffered another loss he was not aware of? What was out behind those trees? Before he could consider the matter further, Mercedes came back from where she had been in her mind. “Hey, boys, did I tell you what I made for dessert?”

“Apple pie?” Joseph asked eagerly.

“Chocolate cake?” Scott guessed.

Darrel smirked. “Nope, I saw it. You’re both wrong.” At his mother’s nod, he added, “It’s strawberry ice cream. Not the store kind, but the good kind Momma makes.”

“Yum!” Both Joseph and Scott fell to shoveling in their food as quickly as possible to be ready for the ice cream, and the tenseness Brandon now thought he might have imagined was completely gone.

The pork roast and potatoes were excellent and kept Brandon eating, though he was bursting with questions he knew he shouldn’t ask—yet. He didn’t want to alienate Darrel by seeming overly interested or pushy. Nor did he want to worry Mercedes. She had a little color back in her cheeks now, though her eyes were still wary and avoided his.

“So what happened in school today?” Wayne asked the younger boys.

They listened as Joseph and Scott recounted the day’s events in detail. Joseph told a long story about a baseball game that went into all three recesses, and Scott told a story about a king who couldn’t seem to find his cow, or some such nonsense, and then how Bradley Pyne had thrown up all over the floor during math.

“Not exactly great dinner conversation,” Wayne reminded him.

“Well, it’s better than what happened to Tim McDonnell during the test last week,” Joseph said. He, Darrel, and Scott burst into laughter, and even Mercedes and Wayne couldn’t hide their smiles.

“Enough of that,” Mercedes said, and the conversation went on before Brandon could work up enough nerve to ask them to let him in on the secret. The younger boys stopped their narration every so often to take a huge bite of food, and Mercedes would have to remind them not to talk with their mouths full. Even eating slowly, Brandon was almost finished before the boys fell silent.

Through it all Wayne appeared interested. “Any homework?”

“Momma already helped us.” Scott stabbed his last piece of meat. “But we still have to read tonight.”

Wayne nodded. “I need to check on the cattle after dinner, to see if they’re ready to move to a new pasture, but we’ll read when I get back. By then Darrel will have finished the milking and you boys will have fed the animals.”

“I’m done,” Joseph said, pushing away his plate. “Can I have some ice cream now?”

Mercedes grinned. “In a few minutes. Wait for the rest of us. But you can take your plate and put it into the sink.”

With an exaggerated sigh, Joseph grabbed his plate, utensils, and cup and went inside the house.

Brandon waited for Wayne to question Darrel about his day, but he didn’t. The incongruity bothered him. Did Wayne treat the child differently because of his parentage? Brandon felt a sliver of justification. If his son were being neglected, he would make up for it.

“So,” Mercedes said to Darrel, “did you tell your dad about the article your teacher gave you?”

“Yeah. That’s what we’re going to read. And Dad says we need to talk to the math teacher about getting me in a different book. It’s too easy.”

“Yeah, even I can do it,” Wayne joked.

“I got all the states and capitals memorized,” Darrel said. “Dad tested me on the way home.”

Of course, Brandon thought, feeling like an idiot. Darrel and Wayne had spent hours together in the fields after school. They would have covered all the usual topics while they worked, took breaks, or were returning to the house. Likely Wayne spent far more time alone with Darrel than with the other two boys.

Mercedes began stacking dishes. “I’ll get the ice cream. You men stay here. Boys, help me carry these inside.”

Within minutes they were all enjoying freshly made strawberry ice cream. Mercedes had made ice cream often for him and their friends in the old days. He remembered the long summer, cooling off in her apartment with the windows wide open to let in the breeze as they bantered back and forth with his friends about the meaning of life.

The meaning of life.

Whatever it was, Brandon felt he’d missed it completely.

“When did you decide you wanted to be a doctor?” Darrel asked him.

“I think I was just born knowing. Sometimes it’s like that.”

“I was the same way,” Wayne said.

“Not me.” Mercedes’ spoon poised over her bowl in an oddly appealing manner. “I tried a dozen things before I knew I wanted to be here at the farm.”

He knew she’d studied many occupations, and it had puzzled him, her lack of focus, when she always seemed so sure about where their relationship was headed. At the same time, her wide knowledge of subjects had fascinated him. She was a continual mystery. In their early days together, he’d worried that one day she’d wake up and consider him old news, like her hair-cutting days or her year-long stint in construction.

The meal was over before Brandon was ready for it to be, and he felt them looking at him, waiting for him to leave. They had work to do. But I haven’t even really talked to Darrel, he wanted to protest. A look passed between Mercedes and Wayne and Darrel, and Brandon acutely felt his outsider status. This family didn’t need or want him.

“I’ll get to the milking,” Darrel said. “Hurry and check on the cattle, okay, Dad?”

“I will.”

“I can saddle a horse for you first.”

Apparently Wayne would check on his cattle using a horse and not in their old truck sitting out front. This surprised Brandon, though he really had no idea of how things were done on a farm, much less this one.

Wayne smiled. “Thanks, son.”

Again they all looked expectantly at Brandon. “Well, it was nice to meet you, Darrel,” Brandon said. “I enjoyed our conversation.”

Darrel shrugged with a carelessness that bruised Brandon’s ego. “Yeah, me too. See ya.” He was off, running to the barn, the dogs and his little brothers taking up the chase.

Brandon proffered a hand to Wayne. “Thanks for having me.”

“You’re welcome.”

There was much to say, but Brandon didn’t want to press his luck after such a nice meal. He started to offer his hand to Mercedes, but she clung to Wayne’s arm and nodded at him. The wariness in her face hurt, though he knew she was right to maintain it. This little time with Darrel did not begin to fill the craving in his heart.

“Good-bye,” she said.

He left them standing on the deck and went around to his car. He started the engine and pulled around in the gravel beyond the front lawn until he was facing the long dirt road out to the main highway. In his peripheral vision, his saw a movement to the left of the house, a horse galloping along the edge of the field with Wayne atop. Like a scene from an old western, he thought.

Brandon shut off the car. Darrel would be milking now. His son milking a cow! He couldn’t bear to pass up the opportunity to see him one last time. Did he milk well? Did he complain? Was it dangerous?

Slipping from the car, Brandon made his way around the side of the house. No one was in sight, and he would just have to hope that Mercedes wasn’t looking out her kitchen window as she cleaned up from the meal. Or that she didn’t return to the deck to gather the few items remaining there. He skirted the log swing and began traversing the considerable space to the barn. This was a backyard he would have loved when he was growing up. Plenty of room for baseball, or hide and seek, or watermelon seed spitting contests.

Inside the darker interior of the barn, he could hear the voices of the children, but he could only see unfamiliar shapes. As his eyes adjusted, he spied the younger boys playing in a stall with the puppies. Where was Darrel? Brandon took a few steps into the barn, unnoticed by the boys. He was glad the older dogs were nowhere in sight, or he would likely have been discovered upon entry.

A black horse lifted his head from the hay he was munching and eyed him. Brandon walked down the middle of the barn, which had stalls on one side. Three more horses were in stalls that opened to a pasture beyond, and at the far end of the structure he could hear chickens clucking in an adjoining coop.

Brandon peered around the thick post that made up one corner of the last stall. There was Darrel with a huge black-and-white Holstein cow. She had short horns, though Brandon remembered reading somewhere that milk cows often had their horns cut off for safety.

“Come on, move!” Darrel was saying. He threw his thin body against the side of the cow, who turned a head in his direction with boredom, as if wondering what this tiny annoying creature was trying to do. Darrel pushed again and again. Finally the cow moved over, and Darrel whipped out a stool and sat down. He looked vulnerable next to the cow, as though at any moment she would move, squishing him flat against the far side of the stall.

Unconcerned, Darrel placed a bucket under her udder, burrowed his head into her side, and started milking. After a little effort, the swish, swish of milk sounded as it hit inside the bucket. Brandon kept his head hidden behind the post, not wanting to alert the boy to his presence.

“Meow, meow.” Two small kittens appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, weaving their way around the cow’s hooves, heedless of any danger. Darrel lifted his head and chuckled. With a deft twist of his wrist, he squirted a thread of milk at first one kitten and then the other. The animals jerked as the milk hit them but settled down immediately to lick their paws. Within seconds, they were meowing for more.

The bucket was nearly full when Brandon became aware of someone moving toward him. He turned to see Mercedes, still in her yellow dress. On her feet she wore white tennis shoes, her ankles bare. Her face was flushed with anger. “What are you doing here?” she hissed.

His gaze swung back to Darrel. “He seems so small compared to that cow. One step, and he’d be squashed. But he has no fear. Or maybe he doesn’t know what might happen.”

“Nonsense. Darrel knows how to take care of himself. Besides, he and that cow grew up together. She’d sooner hurt one of her own calves than do anything to him. I asked what you were doing here.”

“I don’t know. I just had to see him with the cow. I couldn’t imagine it.” He was whispering, but now his voice dropped further. “I’ve missed out on so much.” Their eyes met, his begging her to understand.

Mercedes relaxed, the anger noticeably seeping away. Passing him, she put her bare arm on top of the stall gate in plain view of Darrel if he were to look their way. Brandon felt a strong and inappropriate desire to run his hand along her arm. Ridiculous. This wasn’t the old days, and they weren’t a couple. They were, more than anything, strangers.

“Look,” she said.

Brandon glanced back into the stall and saw that Darrel had placed the milk some distance away from the cow and was now rubbing her neck. The animal turned her head lazily in his direction, and for a moment he stood between the big head and body in a sort of hug. He buried his face in her neck. “Good girl,” he murmured. “You’re a good cow.”

“Reminds me of my brother,” Mercedes said. “He was the same way with this cow’s grandmother.”

Brandon’s eyes fell again on her arm, just a few short inches away from his own hand that now tightly gripped the wood. Might as well be a mile apart. Following his gaze, she dropped her arm to her side and stepped away, a clear message.

“I’d better go,” he said. “I’m sorry for intruding. It won’t happen again.” It was a promise he didn’t know if he could keep.

Mercedes nodded, her expression unreadable—she who used to be so open with him. Her black eyes glinted in the dim light. “Good night.”

He turned and left the barn.