Part 10
Three days after the collapse, Glen brought the green pickup to the hospital. Owen came out on crutches with a brace around his left ankle and instructions folded into his jacket pocket. Glen took the discharge bag before Owen could decide how to carry it.
“You can stay at my place,” he said.
“I’d like to see the house.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Owen lowered himself into the passenger seat. Fern’s hair clung to the jacket across his lap; Glen had brought it back dry, with mud still marking one cuff. Owen smoothed the sleeve and looked through the windshield.
“I’ll need help there,” he said.
Glen shut the door without making anything of the admission.
County workers had cut the fallen pine and cleared the road. Glen drove slowly over the wet places and told Owen he had already taken the dogs up that morning. They were inside the repaired yard; the lambs would stay at his farm until the damaged gate was sound.
Tucker was waiting when they reached the last bend. He ran the inside fence, barking at the pickup, and reached the passenger door before Owen had placed both crutches. He started to rear up, saw the brace, and dropped his front feet again.
Owen waited while he inspected the unfamiliar metal. Boone came next, smelling the hospital clothes and the injured leg. He moved to Owen’s unhurt side and stood close without leaning on him.
Fern appeared in the doorway. She crossed directly to Owen and put her head beneath his free hand. He closed his fingers in the fur and stood there, leaving Glen to take the bag inside.
Then he bent as far as the crutches allowed and rested his forehead against hers.
He had expected to say something. Fern’s ears moved beneath his hand, and the words did not seem necessary. Glen returned to the truck for supplies, giving them the time without looking over.
Owen inspected the temporary panel at the shed from outside the enclosure. Boone matched his slow progress. Tucker went ahead and came back, while Fern kept near enough that Owen had to watch where he put the crutch.
The north side was marked off well beyond his original ribbon. Warning stakes, barriers, and temporary protection around the opening kept the damaged ground out of use. Owen stopped on the sound path, unable to see the place where the beam had held him.
Price came with the survey crew the next morning. He had the old plans and the new findings together, but he took Owen to the boundary markers before discussing what they meant. Water had entered by two routes, he explained: the old northern drainage and a fresh channel cut by the storm. The second had carried runoff beyond the strip Owen had marked.
“The cabin and this shed are outside the affected area,” he said. “You can use the south ground. The north section stays closed.”
“How much?”
“About three acres at present. Possibly more until the remaining voids have been dealt with.”
Owen looked across the stakes. He had spent weeks making the fence continuous, and now a portion of the place would have to remain beyond it. Price waited while he examined the limit.
“Can the drainage be kept out?”
“That’s part of the work. Nobody goes in to have a look for themselves.”
Owen nodded. Glen stood behind him with the thermos, and this time Owen did not need him to repeat the instruction.
Over the following weeks, specialists arranged through the county stabilized the accessible workings, filled or capped the old openings, and redirected the problem drainage. A permanent fence replaced the temporary line. The northern ground remained closed even after the machinery left.
The old records offered no hidden fortune. They described a mine that had produced little, then left expensive trouble behind it. Owen let the engineers keep their copies and kept his animals on the south side.
While the county work was still underway, Glen finished the new gate and brought Briar and Willa back. The lambs inspected the entrance, walked past the clean boards, and began eating. Owen watched from the porch with his leg supported, unable to join Glen in carrying the remaining feed.
He tried issuing instructions instead. Glen listened, then did the job in the order he considered sensible.
“I can manage that latch,” Owen said one morning.
“I know.”
Glen closed it anyway. When Owen reached for the full hose later, Glen took it from him and asked where he wanted the water. Owen pointed, let go, and sat down before the ankle could punish him for the argument.
Russ called in Owen’s second week home, before the county crews had finished. Glen had told him what happened once Owen was safely in the hospital, and the old man worked through his questions without pausing for reassurance he had not yet received.
“Your leg?”
“Sprain. Nothing broken.”
“The dogs?”
“Boone stayed above. Fern came down with me. Tucker got to Glen.”
“And the lambs?”
“Both here.”
Owen could hear the cane touch the floor at Russ’s end. The silence that followed was long enough for him to check the screen, but the connection was still there.
“They’ve always wanted to keep track of each other,” Russ said finally.
Owen looked across the yard. Tucker was watching Briar chew something near the rail, while Boone walked the inside of the rebuilt fence. Fern lay beside his chair with one eye half open.
“They had a bigger job this time,” he said.
After the call, he brought the wooden box onto the porch. The county had copied what it needed, leaving receipts, old photographs, and the letters tied with cotton cord. Owen untied it and found an envelope with his name in Samuel’s handwriting.
For Owen, if he comes back up here to sulk.
He read the address twice before opening it. The old man had been gone for years, but Owen could hear the impatient affection with which he would have handed the envelope over. He eased the paper out rather than tearing the edge.
Samuel wrote about coming home young, after things had gone badly elsewhere. He had let people believe he preferred being on his own because it was easier than admitting he needed somewhere to stay. He knew how long a man could keep doing that if nobody disturbed him.
“I can’t claim I bought you good land,” the letter said. “You’ll know that as soon as you get the truck up the road. The soil’s thin, the wind gets in, and there’s always something asking to be fixed.”
Farther down, the writing grew less steady. Samuel explained why he had kept the place when selling it would have made more sense: somebody in the family might one day need a door that did not require an explanation before it opened.
“If you’ve gone there to get away from people, stay awhile before deciding that’s what you need. I’d like there to be somebody expecting you back when you go down for supplies.”
Owen lowered the page. Fern had stretched her chin onto the porch beside his boot. In the yard, Briar had discovered the cleaning cloth Tucker hid beneath the lower rail and was pulling it into the sheep pen.
Tucker arrived too late. He ran around the enclosure looking for a way to recover it without challenging the lamb. Boone observed from the gate, declining to become involved.
Owen laughed, and had to move the letter before his hand creased it.
He kept the last paragraph uncovered a moment longer, then folded the letter along Samuel’s old lines. He put it in his jacket beside the brass compass Judith had given him. The phone was still on the porch rail.
He called Russ back before he could begin rehearsing what to say. “When the road’s dry, you ought to come see them.”
Russ was quiet long enough for Owen to hear him shift the cane. Then he asked how to find the turn.
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