“I’m Marlene,” I said. “Wes was my husband for thirty-six years.”
The man did not reach for a cup. His face went rigid, the color draining out of his cheeks until the windburned red on his cheekbones stood out like bruises.
“Cody said his uncle died,” the man said.
“He did,” I told him. “Twenty months ago. And when Wes died, every stick of timber, every fence post, and every foot of creek bottom went to me. I paid the county treasurer in April. Cody doesn’t own the mud on his boots.”
The boy looked up at his father. His lip quivered once, then tightened into a straight line.
“Dad?” the boy asked.
The father took a slow breath through his nose. He reached inside his heavy coat, pulled out a folded piece of paper, and handed it to me.
It was a receipt from a generic carbon pad you can buy at any filling station. Written in blue ink was the date, six hundred dollars, and Cody’s scrawled signature under the words Hunting Rights – Eighty Acres.
“We drove out from Omaha last night,” the father said. “Got a motel room in Columbus. Got here at five this morning like he told us to. He gave me the key to the chain.”
He pulled a brass key on a piece of baling wire from his pocket. I knew the key. Wes had made three copies at the hardware store twelve years ago. One hung on our board by the back door. One stayed in Wes’s truck. The third had been in the glove compartment of the old farm pickup Cody borrowed last spring to haul firewood.
“I see,” I said.
“We’re trespassing,” the father said. It was not a question. He took off his glove and reached for his son’s rifle strap. “Ethan, unload the gun. Put the safety on.”
“Hold on,” I said.
Both of them stopped.
“Did Cody tell you to text him when you got into the stand?” I asked.
“He said to shoot him a message once we were set up so he knew we got through the gate,” the father said.
I poured coffee into the second and third cups. I handed one to the man and held the other out to the boy. The boy looked at his father first, got a small nod, and took the plastic cup with both hands to warm his fingers.
“You have cell service down here?” I asked.
“Two bars,” the man said.
“Take your phone out,” I said. “Text Cody. Tell him the chain on the gate jammed when you locked it behind you, and you can’t get the padlock to snap shut. Tell him you’re sitting in your truck at the road waiting so nobody else drives in.”
The father looked at the steam rising from his cup, then down at the receipt in my hand. “Ma’am, I don’t want any trouble with the county sheriff.”
“Deputy Schmitt is sitting a mile north in a patrol cruiser with his heater running,” I said. “He stood up as best man at my wedding. You aren’t in trouble. But my nephew has got six hundred dollars that belongs to that boy.”
The father pulled his phone from his pocket. His thumbs moved fast across the screen.
“Sent,” he said.
“Drink your coffee,” I told them. “Then we walk up to the gate.”
The timber was quiet as the three of us walked the two-track trail toward the county road. Ethan kept his rifle pointed at the frozen ground, his sack lunch tucked under his arm. His boots made a dry crunching sound in the frozen grass.
When we reached the gate, I pulled my flip phone from my chore coat pocket and dialed the direct number to Schmitt’s cruiser.
“Marlene?” he answered on the second ring.
“Come on down to the south approach, Harlan,” I said. “Bring your notebook.”
“On my way.”
Three minutes later, Deputy Schmitt’s white cruiser rolled down the gravel road, tires popping against the loose stone, and turned broadside into the grass ditch just past the gate. Harlan stepped out, adjusting his gun belt over his winter parka. He touched the brim of his hat when he saw me.
“Morning, Marlene,” he said. He glanced at the father and the boy. “These the fellas Don was talking about?”
“This is Mr. Miller and his son Ethan,” I said. “They’re from Omaha. They handed Cody six hundred dollars in cash on Thursday night for a lease on Wes’s timber.”
I handed Harlan the receipt and the brass key.
Harlan looked at the paper, then at the key on the wire. He shook his head once. “Cody never was burdened with an excess of sense.”
Before Harlan could fold the paper into his pocket, the drone of a rusted muffler came down the section line from the east. Cody’s red Chevy pickup crested the rise, trailing a cloud of gray exhaust against the pale sky.
Cody pulled onto the gravel shoulder near the gate, leaving the motor rattling. He climbed out wearing a hooded sweatshirt with the sleeves pushed up, grinning until he cleared the rear bumper of his truck and saw Harlan’s cruiser.
The grin fell right off his face.
He stopped four feet short of the ditch. He looked at Harlan, then at the two hunters, and finally at me in Wes’s coat.
“Aunt Marlene,” he said. “What are you doing out here?”
“Waiting on you,” I said.
Cody swallowed. He put his hands into his front sweatshirt pocket, then took them back out.
“There was a mix-up with the gate,” Cody started, his words rushing out fast. “I told these guys they could look at the timber for some fallen firewood. I was just coming down to help them with the chain—”
“Shut your mouth, Cody,” Harlan said. The deputy took two steps forward, his boots heavy on the gravel. “I’m looking at a receipt with your signature on it for six hundred dollars to hunt private acreage. Marlene owns this land. Wes’s estate went through probate a year ago and you weren’t on the deed.”
Cody looked at the ground. “Uncle Wes always said I had run of the place.”
“Wes taught you how to shoot,” I said. “He didn’t give you the right to sell his memory out from under me for beer money. That boy standing right there mowed lawns from May until September to pay his three hundred dollars.”
Cody glanced at Ethan. The boy didn’t look away this time. Ethan stood right beside his father, holding his rifle barrel down against his leg, staring at Cody with cold fifteen-year-old eyes.
“I don’t have all of it on me,” Cody mumbled.
“You better find it,” Harlan said. “Because the alternative is grand larceny and theft by deception across county lines. I will put you in the back of my car right now, Cody. We can let the county attorney explain the arithmetic to your mother.”
Cody’s face flushed dark. He reached into his back pocket, hauled out a thick leather wallet, and flipped it open. His fingers were stiff with the cold as he counted out twenties and fifties.
He had five hundred and forty dollars in the wallet. He dug into the pocket of his jeans and produced three crumpled twenty-dollar bills from his change.
“That’s six,” Cody said, holding the stack out toward Harlan.
“Don’t give it to me,” Harlan said.
Cody stood there for three seconds, his jaw clenched tight. Then he walked over and held the bills out to Mr. Miller.
Mr. Miller took the money, separated the bills into two even stacks, and shoved one into his pocket. He handed the other three hundred dollars straight to his son.
“Put that in your coat, Ethan,” Mr. Miller said.
The boy zipped it into his chest pocket without a word.
“Give me the key, Cody,” I said.
Cody reached onto his ring, pried off a second brass copy, and dropped it into my open palm. It was cold against my skin.
“Get in your truck,” I told him. “If I see your tires on this section line again before spring, Harlan won’t be the one calling your mother.”
Cody didn’t answer. He turned on his heel, climbed into the cab of his Chevy, slammed the rusted door, and backed into the road. He threw gravel as he hit the gas, heading back toward the highway.
The dust settled slowly in the cold air.
Harlan adjusted his cap and looked at me. “You need me to stick around, Marlene?”
“No, Harlan,” I said. “Thank you.”
“I’ll tell Don you got the gate handled,” Harlan said. He nodded to Mr. Miller and the boy, stepped into his cruiser, and turned around toward town.
When the patrol car was gone, Mr. Miller looked down at his son, then at me. He unslung his rifle and rested the butt on his boot toe.
“We’ll pack our gear in the car, ma’am,” Mr. Miller said. “I’m sorry for the trouble we caused you.”
“Did you buy tags for this zone?” I asked.
Mr. Miller paused. “Yes, ma’am. Zone two. Both of us.”
I looked at Ethan. The boy’s knuckles were still red from holding the cold steel of his rifle, and his sack lunch was still tucked under his elbow.
“Wes built that stand wide enough for two people because he believed a young man ought to learn how to sit still in the timber with his father,” I said. “You’ve got your money back. The stand is empty. The gate is unlocked until sundown on Sunday.”
Mr. Miller looked at me like he couldn’t quite place what I was saying.
“Ma’am?” he said.
“Go hunt,” I told them. “Shut the gate behind you so Don’s cows don’t wander down the creek.”
Ethan’s face broke into a broad, sudden grin, the kind of smile that makes a fifteen-year-old look twelve again.
“Thank you, ma’am,” the boy said.
“Shoot straight,” I said.
I walked past them, through the open gate, and turned down the road toward Don’s place to get Wes’s pickup.
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