South forty.

No charge.

Welcome any time.

For thirty years, Arvid never took one nickel from any man who’d worn a uniform.

If a hunter turned up at his back door with grease under his nails and a military discharge paper in his pocket, Arvid gave him a brass key to the south gate and a cup of black coffee.

My name had been on the deed alone for two years now, free and clear since the divorce judge in Menomonie stamped the final papers.

Brad had packed up his clothes, his tools, and his hunting gear and left the farm for an apartment in town.