The first tentative rays of dawn discovered me hunched over the kitchen table, breakfasting on black coffee, stomach acid, and anxiety. My inferno-like heartburn snickered at the colorful rainbow of Tums Peppermint Smoothies I’d gulped. After days of far too little sleep and far too many worries, my frontal headache was a constant pulsating companion. But these mundane concerns vanished when a tingling lighter than an angel’s breath crisscrossed the back of my neck.
As a first lieutenant deployed in Afghanistan, I’d learned to honor such vague forebodings instantly and unequivocally, so I soundlessly slipped out my front door to explore. When my men and I had been in harm's way, I’d discovered how to focus my perceptions until I could hear what couldn’t be heard, scent what couldn’t be smelled, and view the invisible. So, after taking a long, deep breath, I exhaled slowly and released my sensorium.
The yard light offered little illumination on this murky morning, and a feeble sun, lodged beneath clouds the color of bruised skin, provided scant light and warmth. It was a blustery twenty degrees, and even my heavily muscled, black bear hairy body was cold.
But the honied smell of harvested corn drifted from my silos, large flocks of pre-migratory birds tittered merrily from roosts in our yard’s three giant red oaks, and my cattle lowed contentedly. All seemed copacetic…until two tiny white feathers tumbled past.
Marines are trained to attack and overwhelm, so after grabbing my grandfather’s ancient Browning twelve-gauge pump from the gun rack above our kitchen door, I sprinted across the barnyard. When a mink scurried beneath a rusty wire fence, I snapped off three wild rounds while running, more out of frustration than in hopes of a kill. I squeezed my weapon in fury when I saw my chicken coop had become a shit-pocked, gore-soaked battleground scattered with hen carcasses, each with her throat ripped open. The too-familiar stench of freshly torn flesh and spilled blood assaulted my nostrils while swirling feathers made the scene resemble a bizarre snow globe.
Mink are savage little carnivores that kill for sport. After having such feverish success, the bastard was sure to return, possibly with friends. I'd have to reinforce the pen today or risk losing the remainder of my flock, and especially now, every minute was precious. I kicked the ground in disgust when dime-sized snowflakes began to spiral. Although it was barely past sunrise, the day was already FUBAR. Jogging toward the house, shivering and teeth chattering, I passed my battered, rusted, and frost-flowered combine, whose inner workings I’d left scattered on a green tarp after yesterday’s unsuccessful repair effort. In this uncertain light, the big machine resembled a disemboweled dinosaur.
After loading and re-racking my weapon, I flopped into my seat at the head of the table, took deep breaths, and, as was my habit, twisted my wedding ring to remind me of the one whose heart had beat as mine. We’d met in college, fallen deliriously in love, and I’d walked around campus with a goofy jack-o’-lantern grin so often that my soon-to-be bride, Jillian, had nicknamed me “Mr. Sunshine.”
But that occurred a lifetime ago when I was still a boy. My weathered and weary face was now creased with frown lines, and hooded onyx eyes were flanked by deep crow's feet as I’d morphed into “Mr. Gloom.”
I'd been slurping robust black coffee since four AM when I’d abandoned any pretense of sleep, anxiety again trumping exhaustion, and I poured the pot’s lukewarm dregs into my late wife’s favorite China teacup decorated with a colorful hummingbird motif. Jillian loved and admired these gorgeous little birds, whose feisty spirit closely resembled her own. I kept all ten of our hummingbird feeders hanging twelve months a year, as even seeing them snow-capped eased my sorrow. While thick ceramic mugs held more and kept beverages hotter, the feeling of caressing warmth passing through this delicate vessel into my work-hardened palms usually consoled me.
But not this morning.
Piercing headlights tore me from maudlin reflections, and I was surprised to see Mom’s garnet-red Cadillac Deville flinging gravel as she wheeled into my drive with a flourish. As she walked past the window, I was struck by how youthful she looked. Tall, slender, and always dressed to the nines, her waist-long, ivory-white hair was plaited in a thick braid that swayed to the rapid beat of her gait. While her full-lipped smile resembled a warm plum, if provoked, her liquorice-black eyes could flash looks that petrified people as surely as Medusa’s fatal glare.
I suddenly recalled that in the darkness of my bedroom, I’d pulled on yesterday’s soiled work clothes, stiff with dried sweat and dirt, as I had no time to waste dithering with laundry. I also hadn’t showered, shampooed, or even run a comb through my thick, jet-black, and corkscrewed with grey, bird’s nest of hair, unbarbered for months.
Entering without knocking, she switched on the light, purred, "Good morning, dear," in her most beguiling voice, then strode over and air-kissed my whiskery cheek.
"Mom, it's great to see you, but what brings you here at this ungodly hour?"
She pulled off blood-red driving gloves but kept a glossy, black, full-length leather coat buttoned to her throat. "What a nasty November morning. When I stepped out of my car, the wind went straight through me, and it’s starting to snow.” Leaning back against the kitchen counter, arms crossed over her chest, she began tapping one foot in allegro time. "I’ve only a moment. I’m showing a house in Carlyle at eight, but I need to speak with you."
"Something wrong?" I asked, squirming like a kid summoned to the principal’s office.
Pursing her lips, she frowned. "I’m not sure. I ran into Teddy Humphrey at Hy-Vee last night, and we chatted about this and that, but he had trouble holding eye contact. Teddy almost always asks about our farm, but he never mentioned it, so while driving home, I began worrying. I know his bank has loaned us considerable sums.” Her compelling eyes pierced mine as she demanded, “Jack, are we in danger of losing the homeplace?"
Jillian’s cervical cancer was discovered during the appointment that confirmed her pregnancy. Her obstetrician, Dr. Siek, had stridently advised aborting the fetus and immediately beginning aggressive treatment. A devout Catholic, Jillian refused to terminate our child and listened to none of my pleadings. The desperate chemotherapy starting a day after Rachel Ruth’s birth did little to slow the disease, and her loss crushed my spirit and increased the excruciating survivor’s guilt I’d suffered since returning from combat. The treatments also plunged me into a quagmire of debt, making it impossible for me to finance the farm buyout Mom and I had agreed on.
I stared at my black-nailed, heavily callused, and scarred hands, hoping they might hold a better answer than the one I dreaded giving. Twisting my ring, I replied, “We are facing some challenges. Remember how cold and wet last spring was? Like most Iowa farmers, I was late getting my crops in. Fertilizer washing away diminished yield, and I had to replant areas that drowned out. After that tough start, we suffered through a brutally hot and dry summer, followed by heavy fall rains that delayed the harvest. Now, when my last crops are finally ready, the damn old combine broke down."
"I saw you had it taken apart." Her high, freckled forehead wrinkled as she asked, "How much do you have left?"
Swallowing hard, I stammered, "Eighty acres of soybeans. The whole east field.”
Mom let out a low whistle. “If today’s snow is as heavy as forecast, it could force the beans down until they’re impossible to harvest. What would losing that much revenue mean?"
I stepped to the coffee pot and tried to pour from an empty vessel before mumbling into my chest, "It could mean the end. When I negotiated an input loan this spring, Ted told me point-blank that Marine wouldn't extend an additional dollar on the place. Having been our bank forever, if they don’t offer credit, I doubt anyone else will."
Her face flushed as she snarled, "I can't believe you're losing the fourth-generation homestead where your father was born, lived, and died."
Struggling to remain calm, I said, “I’m working dawn to dusk seven days a week, but I’ve been living on the other side of luck. Besides weather and equipment problems, commodity prices are down across the board, so the entire American farm economy currently stinks."
Stepping nearer and standing erect, she barked into my face like a drill sergeant. “I know you’re a hard worker, but you’re also as bullheaded as your father. I told you from the get-go that running an operation this size by yourself was impossible.” Looking me up and down, she added, “And you’re not a boy. Take a shower, put on fresh clothes, and get a haircut. For god's sake, you look like a hobo who just fell off a freight train. And… It’s past time you took off that wedding ring and got a life.”
The room seemed hot and close, and sweat prickled my upper lip. A decade ago, Dad had died in my arms, felled by a stroke while in his forties as we were haying in one-hundred-degree July heat. Though a strict disciplinarian, he was a warm, patient, and encouraging parent. Their successful marriage proved opposites attract. Thunder pounded in my ears as I growled, “You’re right about one thing. I’m not a boy, nor will I be treated like one. And with all due respect, Mother, I farm; you sell real estate.”
She gasped and put a hand over her lips before saying, “I'm sorry I’ve upset you, but I was a farm wife for many years, and I still own half this property. For both our sakes, I wish you’d listened to me, hired fieldhands to do the heavy lifting, and worked smarter.”
Her tongue was like a rasp, and as she slammed the door behind her, I smashed my palms on the table and swept aside bills I’d just sorted by the number of months overdue. The only one that mattered was the bright red notice advising that the note dated December 31st must be paid in full by the end of that business day, or Marine Bank and Trust would “Be forced to initiate appropriate measures to protect our assets.” That’s legalese for, “Our lawyers will seize your farm to settle a debt less than half the property’s value.”
The depleted soil demanded ever more expensive fertilizer. Most of my equipment should have been replaced years ago, and it was held together by baling wire, duct tape, and desperation. But my father had taught me how to farm, and despite numerous challenges, the yields had been excellent. Harvesting the last field would save our farm for at least another year, and I owed Dad that much.
Farm Service’s opening time had finally arrived, and they answered on the first ring.
"Farm Service, Ron speaking."
Their manager, Ronnie Hafner, and I had been friends and classmates since kindergarten. Burly as a Brahma bull and as broad as he was tall, he’d been the fullback whose devastating bowling-ball blocks opened gaping holes I’d scampered through. He wore his hair in the same buzzcut he’d favored since grade school; his azure eyes were always alight and cheerful, and his contagious smile curtained yellowed, chipped teeth perpetually clamped around a stubby, unlit half-cigar.
"Hi, Ronnie. It’s Jack.”
“Hey, ole Buddy! How’s your hammer hanging?”
I laughed despite myself. “Straight down at the moment. My damn combine busted again. Can you get somebody out here ASAP?"
The quiet seemed interminable before Ronnie muttered, "I’m real sorry, man, but I can't get to ya ‘til Monday."
I knew how busy Farm Service became late in the harvest, but Ronnie’s answer hit like a punch below the belt. "Well, shit. I don't know if my crops will hold if we get much snow," I said, despising the desperation in my voice.
"I hear ya, but we're swamped here, man,” Ronnie mumbled. “Everybody's working twelve-hour shifts, but we’re booked solid ‘til Monday morning. Look, if ya can find somebody else, I'll surely understand."
We both knew there wasn't anybody else. "Okay, Ronnie. I'll look for you first thing Monday. If someone gets here sooner, I'll be obliged."
My father and the military had disciplined me to waste neither energy nor time on what I couldn’t change, and plenty of other work remained. But a man can’t do his best on an empty stomach, so I placed an iron skillet filled with bacon on the stove, then set out bread, butter, and eggs. I’d guess the delicious aroma of sizzling pork woke Rachel Ruth as she wandered into the kitchen in her pajamas, rubbed her eyes with both fists, and then yawned so widely that her jaw popped.
“Sweety, you don't need to get up this early on Saturday. Why don’t you go back to bed?"
Wagging her index finger at me, she said, "Daddy, you know bacon’s not healthy. Let me fix some nice, hot oatmeal.” She batted pale lashes and added, “You can sprinkle it with brown sugar and mix in lots of raisins.”
Jillian had played college basketball, and as a perpetually fit and dedicated athlete, she’d tried to improve my high-calorie, fat-laden farmer's diet without notable success. Rachel Ruth's suggestions reminded me of her mother, and I’d long ago come to understand their concerns as expressions of love.
The gawky twelve-year-old seemed to outgrow her shoes and jeans every month and showed signs of attaining Jillian’s six-foot height. As light-complected as I was swarthy, she’d inherited her mother’s sparkling turquoise eyes, tawny lion’s mane of hair, and the infectious smile that had illuminated Jillian's face like a Christmas cathedral. Playfully punching her shoulder, I said, “And you need to eat something besides boiled feed, or you’ll end up looking like a horse. How about I scramble you a couple of eggs and make toast?"
My egret-slender daughter stood erect with fists knuckled on her hips. “I doubt I’ll look like a horse no matter what I eat, and it's your diet we have to worry about. Grandma says you're eating your way to a stroke, just like Grandpa did." Her upper lip curled as she stamped her foot and snarled, "I won't let that happen!"
I love Mom, and I’m grateful for the female perspective she offers Rachel Ruth, but she’s a strong woman who speaks her mind, so I often received the benefit of Mother’s wisdom delivered secondhand by my determined daughter. "Here’s the deal. You eat toast and eggs, and I'll choke down a bowl of glorified donkey chow.”
She circled my waist with her slender arms and squeezed. “Thank you, Daddy.”
As we ate, I sensed her studying me and wasn't surprised when she asked, "Is something wrong?"
"Combine broke down."
"Did you call Uncle Ronnie?"
"Just did. A service technician will be here on Monday."
"Monday? But you’re not done harvesting."
Summoning the disingenuous smile I’d mastered as a leader of men during tough times in rough places, I asserted, "Don't worry, Sweety. Everything will be fine."
As usual, Rachel Ruth's frown quickly became a smile. "If you can’t combine, this would be a great day to take me pheasant hunting. Since you took out the corn, Jordan and I have been chasing roosters all around the north field, and you know how much I’ve wanted to find out what it’s like."
I was aware since she’d mentioned it at least a hundred times. I’d started tagging along with Dad as soon as I could keep up, and during my teenage years, bird hunting had become an obsession. I’d never missed a fall weekend in the field until I reported to boot camp, but I hadn't gone since… "Not today, Sweety. I’ve had to put off too many jobs because of the harvest. Besides, it's cold, windy, and spitting snow."
She cocked her head like a curious bird. "Grandma told me you were going with Grandpa way before you were my age. She said hunting isn’t just for men and thinks I’d have fun because I like playing sports and being outdoors. I’ve got heaps of warm clothes, and it’s something we could do together. Can we go, please?"
A dozen tasks bedeviled my mind, but there was so precious little I could do for this child. I carried dishes to the sink and said, "Tell you what, you clean up around here, and I'll get started on chores. If everything goes well, maybe we can go after lunch."
I was butchering chickens in the barnyard, a loathsome job, when a dilapidated once-blue Dodge pickup rocked to a screeching halt, and Hans Hafner, my dad’s best friend and Ronnie’s uncle, stepped out. When I extended my right hand, filthy with blood, guts, and feathers, he backhanded it away, his wide grin revealing teeth worn almost to the gumline peeking from beneath a grizzled mustache the size of a small hedge.
“Come to lend a helping hand, neighbor?” I asked.
“Ach fee,” he hissed. “I don’t gut chickens fer no man, Jackie. I was passing by and saw ya in the yard. Wouldn’t a stopped if I’d seen what fowl work ya was up to.”
“Ha-ha, very funny. A damn mink got them.”
Han’s face darkened as he snarled, “I hate them murdering rats. They got so fierce coming up from the creek that I give up and got rid of my birds. A man my age gotta pick his battles.”
“This is the first time I’ve had trouble, but it probably won’t be the last. How are things at your place?”
Looking down and scuffing one boot in the gravel, Hans mumbled, “Been meaning to stop and tell ya. We’re selling out.”
He’d been my nearest neighbor since the day I was born, and the stocky Dutchman could still outwork most men, so his news was shocking. I stuttered, “Do you mind if I ask why?”
Hans shrugged. “This has been our home fer thirty-five years, and we hate leaving, but it keeps getting harder to make a living farming. A man can bust his ass all year and still lose money, so Marie and me say to hell with it. Never put the place on the market. Al Fleming paid my asking price ‘cause it was fair, and it ain’t often ya get to buy the spread next to your home place. Your ma already found us a nice house in town, and I got me a job at the foundry.” He shook his head and added, “Hate being cooped up indoors, but I’ll get paid sick days, holidays, and vacations.” A wide smile warmed his face as he shook his head in wonder. “Can ya feature getting money fer not working, Jackie boy?”
“The last time I had benefits, I was employed by Uncle Sam. The perks were nice, but people kept shooting at me.”
Hans rested his thick, liver-spotted hand on my shoulder. “We fought fer this country, you and me. Your war was in a desert while your dad and me was mucking around in jungles, but other than that, I’d guess most things was about the same. I learned sometimes ya gotta retreat to fight another day, and it’s the same in the civilian world, near as I can tell. All ya get fer beating your head against a wall is a sore noggin. Well, best leave ya to your fun, young feller.” After striding back to his rust-latticed truck, he climbed inside, tooted his horn twice, and disappeared behind a dusty spray of gravel.
My body kept working the rest of the morning, but my mind swirled. Hans was as respected as any area farmer, and his quitting marked the end of an era. I’d need time to process this news.
Snow flurries passed without damaging my beans, leaving behind a crisp, picturesque afternoon. I'd strung an electrified ground wire around the chicken coop’s border, set four Conibear traps, and reinforced the fence. Fifteen hens were in the freezer, and I'd lubricated the combine so it would be ready to roll the moment Farm Service completed repairs.
When we sat for lunch, Rachel Ruth said, "I vacuumed, dusted, and set out your hunting clothes. Daddy, can we go? Pretty, pretty please, with sugar on top?"
I kept my eyes on the plate as I shook my head. “There’s too much to do, Sweety. For every job I finished, I noticed two more that needed to be done. The season’s open until mid-January, so we’ll have plenty of time to hunt after harvest."
Taking a shuddering breath, she whispered, "You say that, but you always have too much to do.”
"It's hard work running a farm, but that's how I put food in our bellies, keep a roof over our heads, and clothes on our backs." My father’s words spilling from my mouth were disturbing, especially since I recalled how much I’d disliked hearing them.
"My friends do stuff with their family and friends all the time, but I'm always alone. It's not fair.” Her chin trembled as tears slid down her cheeks.
I wanted to rant that other kids have a mother and aren't buried beneath an avalanche of medical bills, but instead, I asked, "Do you think I'd rather do chores than hunt?"
Rachel Ruth set her fork down, and her reddened eyes bore into mine. "Grandma says talk is cheap, but people do what they really want. If you wanted to take me hunting, you'd find a way. If not, you’ll find an excuse."
I was the first to break eye contact, and although I kept eating, the macaroni had lost its taste. As a single parent, I'd frequently had to make difficult decisions, but this conversation was particularly unsettling. Many of my most precious memories were of being in the field with Dad, yet getting him to leave work had become increasingly more difficult every year. But we’d thought there'd be plenty of time. Later.
Like Jillian and I believed we’d be together. Forever.
Lifting my daughter's downcast face with my fingertips, I said, “Let’s go right after lunch."
Rachel Ruth's gap-toothed smile flared like Aurora Borealis. "Yeah! Let's hurry and finish eating."
Donning my old hunting clothes felt like visiting a dear friend. After stuffing shells into my coat pockets, I grabbed my Browning, whistled for Jordan, and the three of us bound from the kitchen porch into a radiant world basking beneath a blue sky dappled with creampuff clouds.
After all the years, I feared my grey-muzzled dog wouldn't remember a single command, but when I whistled and pointed to a weedy area, Jordon leaped in. "See the way he’s working that cover? That classic Z pattern lets springers cover maximum ground without missing scent.”
"He acts the same way with me and goes wherever I point, too,” she replied calmly.
So much for instructing my daughter on how to handle bird dogs. Despite plentiful sunshine, the northern wind was brisk, so I asked, "Are you warm enough?"
She smiled, hugged herself, and nodded. "I'm fine, Daddy. It’s so neat to be out here with you! Mom liked to go too, didn't she?"
It pained me to talk about Jillian, but it felt right to reminisce while walking the land she’d treasured beside the daughter she’d loved more than her life. "Mom especially enjoyed deer hunting. The opening morning of our first year living here, the farm got buried beneath eight inches of snow, but she was in the timber by six. When I finished chores and she wasn’t home, I drove into the woods and found her perched in her stand. She’d gotten so stiff I had to climb up and almost carry her out of that tree."
Concern clouded my daughter’s heart-shaped face. “Was Mom okay?”
"She was very cold but otherwise fine. I was relieved she was safe, but worried she'd stayed out dangerously long. Once in the heated cab, I rubbed her hands to warm them and begged her to be more careful. But she’d put an icy fingertip on my lips, beamed, pointed south, and said, 'Let's look for my first buck!' Less than a hundred yards away, already almost buried beneath drifting snow, lay a twelve-pointer bigger than any deer I’d ever taken.”
A radiant Rachel Ruth clapped and squealed, "And Mom shot it?"
I nodded and beamed, delighted by the memory. “Mom had just decided to come in when she spotted it wandering her way. She held still for fear of spooking him, but he was foraging through the snow, so he took a while to stroll into range. She was shaking from cold and excitement, but when the buck came within thirty yards, she drove an arrow through his chest. He sprinted away but left a heavy blood trail. She wanted to climb down and track him, but her hands and feet were numb, so rather than risk falling, she’d wisely waited for my help.”
Distracted by telling my story, I’d committed a bird hunter’s cardinal sin of not watching my dog. I was startled back to reality when Jordan flushed a cackling rooster that flew low and fast toward my face, then flared and soared behind me. Stumbling as I pivoted, I missed. "Damn!"
"Daddy, such language. But aren't pheasants the most glorious birds?"
Slamming in another shell, I muttered, "They're darn tasty, too, if I can hit one."
"I’m sure you will. Jordan and I usually see four or five. Did Mom shoot more deer?”
“She was a gifted athlete who loved the outdoors, so hunting came naturally. She took other trophy bucks, filled our freezer, and donated venison to the food pantry every season.”
Freed from the shackles of work, I breathed fresh, fragrant air. Tense muscles relaxed, and my mind, locked in dizzying overdrive for weeks, calmed as I basked in nature’s glory. Thoreau was right when he proclaimed, “In wildness is the preservation of the world.” I'd almost forgotten the joy of doing something I loved on my land, but wasn’t that one of the primary reasons we sacrificed so much to live here? After years of suppressing Jillian’s memory, I was shocked that recalling her gave me such joy. And Rachel Ruth deserved to know more.
As we approached the cattail bog, Jordan’s nose dropped to the ground, and his docked tail thrashed as he accelerated through dense cover. "Easy, Jordan,” I called as I hurried to close, but I’d only taken a few steps when a rooster cackling his indignation took flight. I fired and knocked him stone-dead. Flushed by the fallen bird’s crash, a second pheasant erupted, and although it was a long shot, I broke a wing, and Jordan bounded after him.
After smoothing the first bird’s feathers, I handed him to Rachel Ruth. "Be careful of his spurs, Sweety," I said, pointing to the inch-long talons jutting backward from just above his feet. “They’re sharp as daggers.” Holding the bird aloft while dripping blood splattered the colorful leafy carpet, Rachel Ruth remained motionless for so long I feared she was upset by the gore. Then, in an awe-filled voice, she said, "I've only seen roosters flying. Up close, they're more beautiful than I ever imagined. Look at the bright red and blue on his head, the white ring around his neck, and these lovely long tail feathers."
After giving her a one-armed squeeze, I thrust the bird into the pouch of my game coat. “A pheasant with a broken wing can still run, so let's help Jordon find him." But as we neared the thicket, the proud dog emerged, head held high, stubby tail erect, the rooster gripped in his mouth. I accepted the bird, and after Rachel Ruth neck-hugged Jordon, we exchanged high-fives. "Two's my limit, and if we hurry, we’ll have time to roast them for supper… Did you have fun?"
Jumping up and down while clapping her hands, she said, “Yes. Yes. It was the neatest thing ever! Thanks so much for taking me, Daddy, and telling me about Mom."
She and Jordan capered down the hill, darting and weaving in a game known to dogs and young girls, while I descended at a measured pace. The fire perfume of wood smoke tickled my nostrils while the lees of sunlight transformed the western sky into the seeping lavender of dusk. And the wind died to a whisper as the magical half-hour between sunset and full darkness, which the Scots called the gloaming, began.
I took in the cooling evening air as a benediction.
Resurrected by my daughter’s company, this land’s beauty, the excitement of hunting, and the blessing of my beloved wife’s presence, my refreshed mind percolated with possibilities. Despite farming’s present dire straits, people had to eat, so commodity prices wouldn’t remain depressed. Also, the forecast was for sunshine all next week, and harvesting my last field would make the farm viable for at least another year. Who knew what the circumstances might be then?
The Marine Corps slogan is “Improvise, adapt, and overcome,” but I’d done none of those. Despite hard-won field experience, I’d yielded to relentless pressure and panicked, freezing like a newbie during his first firefight. Maybe I should listen to Mom and hire a man this spring so I could spend more time with Rachel Ruth and be a better business manager. And Hans was correct about the foolishness of continually beating my head against the same wall. I’d been living that old definition of insanity for months. He’d sold his farm, so perhaps I could sell mine. A fair price would allow me to repay Mom and the bank while retaining enough to stake Rachel Ruth and me to a fresh start. Maybe it was time to use my teaching degree, even consider my old dream of coaching, and if we moved to town, Rachel Ruth would be near friends.
I caressed my wedding ring. Could Mom be right that it was time to take it off? But my gut gave an instant and definitive answer. I’d need Julian’s loving companionship and strength more than ever for this new adventure.
Most of my thoughts were vague, but I was dead certain of two things: There were more important things than work and worry, and I was taking my daughter hunting tomorrow.