“You look like you just waded through a patch of wild blackberries, Amy,” Gordon said, putting his coffee mug down on the Formica table.

“Brad’s talking to anybody who’ll listen,” I said.

“I know it,” Gordon said.

He reached down with his right hand and gave his thick leather belt buckle a firm tug.

“He was at the Cenex at seven this morning telling the boys you were shutting out local hunters out of pure meanness.”

Across the aisle, two farm wives at the counter turned to look at our booth, whispering behind a paper napkin before turning away.

“Is he telling people he owns a piece of the ridge?” I asked.