Gordon stared at the black letters for a long moment, then sank onto the tailgate as if his knees had quit. “Copper,” he whispered. His hands trembled against the cardboard. “I gave that calf to her myself.” The wind rattled the dry grass, and I realized Marlee had rolled down her window to listen.

Then his voice broke. “Nora, there is something I never told Ross, or you, or anyone. I did not shoot him because he was in my corn.” He pulled a folded envelope from his coat pocket and pressed it into my hand. My name was written across it in his cramped handwriting, and the flap had been sealed and torn open so many times it had gone soft. Before I could read it, a dusty blue truck turned down the lane, and Gordon went pale.