september 1984

DAVIS DISMOUNTS THE bay, leads him to where Avery pulls dry sunflower stalks out of the ground by the shed. He pats the horse on the neck and rump, says, Lovell said we’ll surely make a horse of him—said I got a good deal on him.

He’s a handsome one, she says, points to the black-socked feet. She pulls up a headless flower stalk, bangs it on the shed wall to get the dirt out of its roots, misses Mary—dead two weeks now.

She says, Who are you figuring will take care of him until you get back next summer?

You’ll be here, won’t you? he says, puts his hand on her arm. Were you going somewhere?

I don’t—wasn’t sure what would happen to the place now Mary’s gone. I thought I would live in town—not with Mom, though. I’d maybe work, take some classes at the college. Lennie wants to teach me how to catch babies.

You can stay here. Mom and Dad don’t want this place—aren’t going to move away from Boise. Grandad always said it’s better for a house to be lived in.

Avery puts her forehead to Old Man’s neck, lets the tears fall. Davis circles her with his arms, turns her toward him, says into her ear, Stay here. Go to school—do all those things you want. I’ll come back when I’m through with farrier school, live with you.