Sylvie finished hanging the laundry out and then walked down to the lower fields to check on the sheep. There hadn’t been any more coyote attacks, but she knew that they were out there and that, as the nights got colder, they would be hungry. But all was well now, the flock grazing peacefully on the still-green grass. It wouldn’t be green for much longer, though. Soon, they’d be eating hay in the barnyard and she felt the familiar panic of wondering whether they had enough put away. With what Mr. Hatchett had brought them, though, there should be enough now to get them through the winter. Besides, she could buy some if she had to. As it turned out, there was quite a lot of money in the accounts Hugh had set up in New York. Mr. Williamson had helped her take five thousand dollars out and put it into the local bank. She had gotten word from a lawyer in New York that Victor Weber, who was ill, was no longer able to carry out his duty as executor, so Mr. Williamson would take over.
Sylvie had wondered many times about why Hugh had never told her about the money, about why they had scrimped and saved and gone without when he could have taken out money to make things a little easier. She had even talked to Mrs. Bellows about it. “I think, you know, that it was about control for him,” Mrs. Bellows had said. “He had more control over all of you, he could make you live the way he wanted to live.”
Sylvie had thought about that a lot and sometimes she thought Mrs. Bellows was right. But other times she wasn’t sure. Hugh had found satisfaction in the work, she thought, and maybe he thought that if the work wasn’t necessary, they wouldn’t find it as meaningful. In any case, she wanted to be careful with the money; there were things she needed to do to fix the house once they’d finished the barn and Scott said they would need a new tractor before next summer, but for the moment, she could afford to buy a bit of hay if she needed to.
Isaac Rosen was going to do a lot of the work of repairing the barn from the fire. He was staying in town, he’d told her, renting one of the rooms over Collers’ Store in exchange for building some new shelving, and part of the arrangement with him not getting charged for the fire was that he rebuild the camp for the Frederickses and do some repair work on Sylvie’s barn. Franklin Warren had arranged it all and the boy had already started, pulling down the timbers that were beyond saving and putting up new boards. He said he’d have it buttoned up by winter. Mr. Hatchett had given him a load of wood to do the repairs with, wood that he said he didn’t need anymore, though it looked to Sylvie like it had come straight from the lumber mill.
It wasn’t until she knew that they could stay in the house that she was able to feel with a sense of finality that she would never sleep up against Hugh’s warm body again, that he would never kiss the top of her head as he passed her chair, that she would never again laugh at something he said. She had sobbed then, remembering the day they had come back to the house after the wedding. Nude together for the first time, Hugh had taken her hand and led her to the magical swimming hole by the brook, where he had told her she was beautiful and that they would be very happy, and they had bathed in the cool water in the darkness, and she had loved him. At least then she had loved him.
They had buried what was left of him on a warm day in September, the Reverend Call saying a few words for her and the boys. She had ordered a stone with his name and dates and the words, “Writer, Farmer, Husband, and Father.” He would have liked that, “Writer” coming first. Sylvie had not visited the gravesite, but she thought that they might when some time had passed, when the boys had started to forget him.
She heard a small bark before she was back to the house. Assuming someone had stopped by, she came around to see who it was. She didn’t want a strange dog worrying the cows. There wasn’t a car parked out front, but her boys were all standing there, in a huddle, their heads bent toward each other.
“Look, look!” Daniel shouted.
Scott turned and she saw suddenly that he was holding something in his arms, a small yellow bundle that was wriggling and licking his face.
“It a puppy, Mama, it a puppy!” Daniel told her.
“My goodness, what’s this?” She looked down the road.
“Mr. Warren brought him,” Scott said. “He said he’s for me, he’s meant to be mine, though they can help take care of him. He’s one of Dr. Falconer’s puppies. He’s a real nice pup, Ma, purebred. Mr. Warren said I could take him hunting and name him and everything.” He met her eyes and she tried to think what to do.
“Ma, he said if you say no, he’ll take him back, but he said he’s away too much, and Bounder, that’s what I’m going to name him, Bounder, he needs walks and to be out on a farm, like out here. He needs me to take care of him. He’s mine for always. That’s what Mr. Warren said, Ma.”
She smiled. He was clever, Warren. She didn’t like owing him any more than she did, but she couldn’t say no now.
“Isn’t he a good dog, Ma?” Andy asked, his face shining.
She reached out and let the puppy sniff her hand. He was round and golden, like a fat little grain of wheat. Plump grains, waving furiously … She looked out over the fields. Spun sun. Golden gauzy …
“Bounder,” she said, touching Scott’s shoulder, telling him it was okay. “I like it. It’s a good name, Scott.” She leaned down and whispered to the puppy. “Welcome, Bounder.”