Seeds in the Thawed Earth

Ara pressed bean seeds into the thaw-soft dirt with her thumb. She tied twine between two pine stakes, stepped ten paces into the grass, and marked a second row.

Elias watched from the porch step, a drawknife resting across his knees. “That makes two gardens.”

“The outer row is for the deer,” she said.

“You plan to feed the whole mountain?”

“The deer will eat the outside,” she said. “They will leave the rest for the girls.”

He made a low sound in his chest and turned back to the cedar headboard. For three days he had worked the wood with a gouge, carving small flower shapes along the grain. When Ara asked about the petals, he said the wood split that way on its own.

A bay horse trotted into the yard at noon. Martha Bell swung down, pulled off her thick work gloves, and walked into the shade of the porch. She slapped a sheet of cream paper onto the pine table.

“The judge signed it,” Martha said, untying her bonnet. “The elders cornered Thomas outside the clerk’s office with Benjamin’s statement. Thomas signed the decree. He gave up all claim to the girls and agreed to stay clear of this valley.”

Ara walked to the table. Ink sat thick and black at the bottom of the page above Thomas’s mark. Her thumb traced the raised seal in the corner. Her shoulder muscles let go, dropping two inches.

“He signed it,” Ara said.

“He had no choice,” Martha said. “He cared more for his store credit than two daughters.”

When Martha rode out at sundown, the cabin smelled of dried pine shavings and boiled pork. Elias sat by the open window, rubbing grease into a leather trace.

“The dry road is open,” Elias said. “The wagon can take you to town anytime.”

Ara walked over and placed two fingers against the warm skin of his wrist. His hand stopped moving.

“I am not taking the wagon,” she said.

“That is your choice.”

“Yes,” she said. “It is.”

She turned toward the western ridge. Smoke drifted thin and blue against the setting sun, where hot summer wind rattled the dry timber above the creek.