“Eighteen pounds of prime loin steaks, wrapped and labeled at the locker in Menomonie.

That’s your half of the harvest.”

“You didn’t need to give me eighteen pounds,” I said.

Dale stood perfectly still on the gravel drive, his hands clasped low in front of his belt buckle.

“Arvid gave us fifteen years of peace on this hill when we got home from overseas,” Dale said.

“Some things you don’t sell, Amy.

These men have already paid.”

He turned back to his truck, opened the driver’s door, and stopped with one foot on the running board.