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“No.”

“How far?”

Wyatt’s gaze dropped to the yellow pad.

There were questions that wanted numbers and questions that wanted mercy. Boone had asked one of each.

“Far enough,” Wyatt said.

I studied him.

The gray at his temples had spread since winter. Not much. A few more threads. The rest might have been June light from the west windows, except June light didn’t make a man look that tired.

Wyatt had known about Big John’s secret mortgage longer than Boone or me. Not by much, but long enough to carry it alone while he decided how to ruin our lives in an orderly fashion.

I’d been angry about that.

I was still angry.

Anger had the advantage of being easier to lift than fear.

The telephone on the wall rang.

All four of us looked at it.

We had cell phones. Wyatt had an office line. The kitchen phone mostly received feed-store reminders, church ladies checking casserole dishes, and old men who’d known Dad long enough to consider mobile service a personal insult.

It rang again.

Wyatt stood and crossed the kitchen.

“Carrow Creek.”

A pause.

His spine straightened.

“Yes, Mr. Kroll.”

Boone looked at me.

I didn’t move.

Dennis Kroll of Meridian Ag Credit had a soft voice. I could hear the shape of it from the table without catching the words.

Wyatt listened, one hand braced on the counter beneath the phone. “The sale concluded this afternoon. Yes. Better than forecast.”

Another pause.

His eyes closed once.

“No. We have not allocated the net.”

He listened longer.

The kitchen clock ticked above the pantry. Josie stared at a knot in the tabletop. Boone’s face had gone blank in the way it did when there was too much behind it.

I stood.