Her hands cracked.
Sleep came in pieces.
The wagon driver found her sitting beside the vat before sunrise.
“You're done.”
“No.”
“You can barely stand.”
“I can stand.”
“You fell asleep stirring.”
“I rested my eyes.”
He took the spoon.
“Sleep one hour.”
“No.”
“One.”
She looked at him.
He looked back.
Something had changed between them over eleven days.
Not romance exactly.
Trust perhaps.
The kind earned with work.
She handed him the spoon.
“If you scorch it—”
“I know.”
“If the curd—”
“I know.”
“If—”
“Go.”
She slept ninety minutes.
When she woke, the batch was good.
He had done it correctly.
That mattered too.
She could not build a livelihood that existed only while she never slept.
The final day before the debt deadline arrived with a storm forming west of the valley.
Heat broke.
Wind rose.
The homesteader counted money.
Fifty-four dollars and seventeen cents.
Short two dollars and sixty-five.
Close enough to make failure feel cruel.
The boarding-house owner owed nothing.
All invoices paid.
The creamery owner had taken his share.
The wagon driver had refused wages for the first week, but she had insisted on paying him two dollars after sales improved.
She could ask him to return it.
No.
Could delay paying creamery share?
No.
Could sell her broken silver brooch?
Maybe.
The brooch was inside grandmother’s cedar chest.
One of the few possessions from before.
She took it to the jeweler.
He examined it.
“Broken clasp.”
“I know.”
“Silver content low.”
“How much?”
“One dollar twenty.”
She stared.
“That’s robbery.”
“It’s value.”
She almost laughed at the word.
Value.
Again.
She took the brooch back.
One dollar twenty did not solve enough.
She walked outside.
Rain began.
Light first.
Then harder.
The merchant stood beneath his store awning.
He saw her.
Smiled.
“Tomorrow.”
She kept walking.
“Eight o’clock.”
She stopped.
He continued.
“If you cannot settle by eight, I begin collection.”
“What exactly do you collect?”
“Your wagon.”
“Two hens?”
He smiled.
“Tools.”
“Your press, perhaps.”
The homesteader’s stomach tightened.
He knew about the cheese press.
“Whatever satisfies the note.”
She walked toward him.
“You don’t want the money.”
“I certainly do.”
“No.”
Rain ran from the brim of her hat.
“You want me unable to continue.”
His expression became blank.
She continued.
“Why?”