His voice was smooth and warm, the way he used to talk when he wanted something wrapped up quick.

I stood by the stove with my hands clenched together.

“That box stayed in the machine shed when you cleared your tools out.”

“I cleaned it up for you,” he said.

He tapped his gold signet ring twice on the glass of the kitchen window and then turned to face me.

“Look, Amy.

We don’t need to fight over eighty acres of trees.”

He reached into his breast pocket, took out a blue paper check, and laid it flat next to the wooden toolbox.