Page 7

Dust hung where the chairs had been.

Wyatt remained at the rail, sale book open.

His pencil moved down the page.

Once.

Twice.

Stopped.

The number sat there between all of us, even from across the barn. Nineteen thousand five hundred for Lot 14. Best sale in four years. Strong prices through the whole set.

A good day.

Maybe a great one.

Wyatt closed the book.

Nobody said what we all knew.

Good and enough were still two different numbers.

And only one of them kept the ranch.

***

The kitchen smelled like brisket, coffee burned down to tar, and the defeat of thirty folding chairs nobody had volunteered to put away.

I came through the mudroom carrying the last box of sale books against my good side. Boone followed with a cooler in one hand and the big stainless coffee urn in the other, because God had made him enormous and Boone considered it rude not to use the full allotment.

Josie came behind him with the cash box hugged to her chest.

“I can carry that,” Boone said. He held out one hand.

Josie stopped in the mudroom and looked from his hand to his face. “This is not heavy,” she said.

Boone waited. There was nothing demanding in it. There never was. My brother could wait the sun into coming up early if he set his mind to it.

Josie’s mouth pressed into a line. She set the cash box on his open palm.

“Thank you,” Boone said.

“I’d like the record to show I remain physically capable.”

“Noted.”

She followed him into the kitchen, muttering something about stubborn men and selective hearing.

I set the books on the trestle table.

“You know, Jos, there are women in three states who’d pay money to have Boone carry their valuables.”

Boone put the cash box down.

Josie looked at me. “Do they know he’ll also reorganize the pantry while they sleep?”

“The man contains multitudes.”