She felt the number settle inside her.
She knew about the debts.
But hearing the total spoken aloud made them feel enormous.
Daryl continued.
"Sell the cattle. Sell the equipment. Sell the ranch while somebody will still buy it. Take whatever equity remains and build yourself a life somewhere else."
Marlene looked at him.
Then said quietly, "I'm not selling."
Daryl stared.
He waited for her to change her mind.
She didn't.
Finally, he stood.
"You're making a mistake."
Marlene looked toward the door.
"Maybe."
He picked up his jacket.
"But if I am, it'll be my mistake."
Daryl stopped.
For a moment, his expression softened.
Then he said, "I don't want to bury you on this ranch the way we buried Dad."
Marlene's eyes filled.
She looked away.
Daryl hesitated.
Then he walked toward the door.
Before leaving, he turned.
"Call me when you're ready to be practical."
The door closed.
His pickup started.
And Marlene watched the silver truck disappear down the gravel driveway, leaving a long cloud of dust behind it.
For the first time since her father's death, she was completely alone.
That night, she opened the metal box.
It was olive-drab, dented along one corner, with a rusted handle and an old brass latch that stuck whenever the weather turned cold. Her father had kept it beneath his bed for as long as she could remember. As a child, Marlene assumed it contained property deeds, tax receipts, and the kind of papers adults considered important but never explained. She had never imagined it might hold the reason he'd refused to give up on their land.
She carried the box to the kitchen table.
Then she opened it beneath the yellow light.
On top were property records, handwritten letters, a 1961 survey map, and photographs of the ranch taken decades earlier. In those photographs, the stock tanks were full, the fences stood straight, and healthy grass covered stretches of land that now appeared almost barren. A younger Curtis stood beside a row of cattle, smiling proudly at the camera.
Marlene held the photograph for a long time.
Then she set it aside.
Beneath the papers lay a cheap green spiral notebook.
Its cover was stained with coffee, and several pages had been repaired with strips of tape.
She opened it.
The first entry was dated February 1982.
Rainfall: 0.41 inches. West pasture holds moisture longest after light storms. East slope dries by third afternoon.
Marlene frowned.
She turned the page.
Another entry listed rainfall, wind direction, temperature, and the condition of the pasture after a summer storm.