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“I understand that now.”

“Do you?” She didn’t say it unkindly. She got up, took a horse blanket off the rail, and folded it over her arm with the care you’d use for somebody’s coat. “I’ve got a list in the kitchen drawer. Every ride since 1986—who was in it, what the weather did, whether anybody cried. Two hundred a year, give or take.” She looked at the sleigh instead of at me. “I’m seventy-three, Mr. Cole. Somebody’s going to inherit that list. I’d like to know what they’ll think it’s for.”

The wind found a gap in the north wall and went through it.

“My father built strip malls,” I said. “Forty-one of them in three states. Every one went up on top of something like this. A drive-in. A grange hall. A block with a bakery on it.”

“And you came here determined not to become him.”

“I came here certain I wasn’t. I’m not certain anymore.” Chester shifted in the nearest stall, and the boards creaked beneath his weight. “My father used bulldozers. I use schedules. The buildings still come down.”

Mrs. Morrison made a doubtful sound.

“That’s a start,” she said. “Richard used to say you could tell what a man was building by what he was willing to be slow about.”

The portable stalls were stacked along the west wall under a tarp, four sections of panel and gate that broke down onto a flatbed and went up in the town lot every December.

I pulled back the tarp and crouched beside the nearest base rail. My thumbnail sank into the end grain.

“Those are Richard’s too,” Mrs. Morrison said.

“I can see that. He used the same bracing method as the sleigh.” I pressed another section. The wood gave again. “Mrs. Morrison, two of these four base rails are rotten all the way through.”

Nora’s head came up.

“They’ll stand in the lot for the three festival days. But one February a horse is going to lean against the wrong section, and the rail will give.”

The barn was quiet except for Maple chewing.

“How long have you known?” Mrs. Morrison asked.

“Since my thumbnail went through the wood.”

“Richard built those in ninety-four.” She came over and studied the damaged rail without touching it. “What will it cost to fix?”

“Two rails and one day. I’d attach new wood to the existing posts instead of replacing them because Richard’s tool marks are on the posts. You would keep everything he built except four feet of damaged rail.”

“And you’d do this.”

“I’d do it in January when nothing else is happening, and I’d do it here, and you’d stand over me the whole time and tell me I’m doing it wrong.”

Mrs. Morrison looked at Nora, and they shared a look I couldn’t read. “Well,” she said. “That’s the first honest quote I’ve had out of a man in some years.”

The snow got serious while we weren’t watching it.

Nora got the barn door open, and the wind nearly tore it from her hands. The gravel drive had disappeared beneath the snow, and the field beyond it had gone flat and white.

“That came up fast,” Nora said.

The bare bulbs overhead flickered once and went dark. A few seconds later, a generator coughed to life beside the farmhouse.

“And there goes the power,” Mrs. Morrison said. “The road back follows the ridge. It will close within the hour, so you’re staying.”

“For how long?”

“Could be an hour. Could be until the plows come tomorrow.”

She nodded toward the house. “You’re welcome inside, but the generator only keeps the pipes from freezing and the refrigerator cold. The furnace is electric, so it’s already colder in there than it is here. The tack room has a vented propane heater, and the horses keep the barn warm.”