January 1989 arrived in central Iowa with snow hard enough to erase the county roads by evening.
By sunrise, the wind had packed that snow against fence lines, machine sheds, abandoned corncribs, and anything else stubborn enough to remain standing across the flat country outside Eldora.
Clara Kessler was already driving.
Her father's faded 1974 Ford F-250 shuddered whenever she pushed it past forty-five miles per hour, and the heater worked only when the engine was warm enough to make the cab smell faintly of antifreeze.
Clara kept both gloved hands on the steering wheel.
A chain rattled in the pickup bed behind her.
She was twenty-nine years old, with chestnut-brown hair braided over one shoulder, green eyes, and the strong, balanced build of someone who had spent more time carrying feed sacks and tractor parts than sitting behind a desk.
People in town called her pretty when they thought she could not hear.
Most of them followed that compliment with something less generous.
Pretty girl.
Hard life.
Too stubborn.
Should have married.
Should have sold.
Should have left farming to somebody better positioned to lose money.
Clara had become very good at ignoring sentences that began with should.
That morning, she was headed toward Big Earl Voss's salvage yard behind the old grain elevator east of Eldora.
She had been there twice already that month.
The first time she asked Earl for cracked tractor engine blocks, he thought she was joking.
The second time, he assumed she wanted them for scrap art.
The third time, he stopped asking.
He merely laughed.
Clara saw the salvage yard through blowing snow shortly after eight.
Rows of dead machinery sat half-buried behind a leaning wire fence.
Combine headers.
Axles.
Transmission cases.
Tractor hoods with faded red, green, and orange paint.
Bent drawbars.
Pulleys.
Flywheels.
And engine blocks.
Most were there because someone had finally decided repair cost more than replacement.
Clara parked beside Earl's office.
The front door opened before she had climbed from the truck.
Earl stepped outside wearing insulated overalls, a brown cap, and a grin he had probably been saving since he saw her turn down the lane.
"Morning, Clara."
"Morning."
"You here for more garbage?"
"Depends."
She shut the truck door.
"You got more?"
Earl laughed.
Two farmers standing near the shop doorway joined him.
Clara recognized them immediately.
Dean Holloway farmed three miles north of the Kesslers.
Marty Sloan raised hogs and ran some corn west of town.
Neither man disliked Clara.
That almost made the laughter worse.
People are easier to dismiss when they are cruel.
Dean pointed toward the back fence.
"Earl's got a cracked 706 block back there. Might be perfect for your collection."
Marty grinned.
"Building yourself a tractor out of broken pieces?"
Clara pulled on heavier gloves.
"No."
"What are you building?"
"Patience."
Dean laughed harder.
Earl slapped his thigh.
Clara walked past them.
Behind the office sat an International engine block with a crack running along one side of the water jacket.
Rust had formed around the fracture.
One cylinder showed scoring.
The whole thing weighed more than Clara could safely handle without equipment.
Exactly what she wanted.
She stared at it for several seconds.
Earl came up behind her.
"That block is done."
Clara crouched.
"How long has it been here?"
"Year, maybe two."
"Freeze crack?"
"Probably."
"Ever repaired?"
"Somebody tried."
Clara saw rough work near one end of the fracture.
Bad weld.
Too much heat.
Uneven cooling.
She touched it with one glove.
"What happened afterward?"
Earl shrugged.
"Cracked again."
"Where?"
He pointed.
Clara studied the secondary crack.
Interesting.
She pulled a small notebook from her coat pocket.
Dean appeared behind Earl.
"She's taking notes again."
Marty said, "Maybe she'll publish a book."
Clara ignored them.
She wrote:
706 block. Old weld repair. Secondary crack adjacent to heat zone. Ask Earl when failed.
Then she stood.
"How much?"
Earl laughed.
"For that?"
"Yes."
"Clara, if you want scrap iron, I've got better scrap."
"I want that one."
He looked at her for several seconds.
Finally he waved one hand.