“He hit her because she saw what he had done to my farm.”

Frank sat back on his heels.

“Then he knew,” he said.

“He filed it that morning, and by afternoon he knew she had it in her hand.”

I gathered the pages and squared them against the rug.

The stamp sat in the corner of the mortgage, purple, no bigger than a postage stamp.

Filed nine forty in the morning, November twelfth.

Two hay buyers had called that week about winter feed.