Hank tightened his grip on the coffee cup.
“Excavator?”
“Relax. Bell said they’re rebuilding that ditch edge and pulling bad soil from near the east shed.”
Hank almost snapped that telling a man to relax while he was two and a half hours from his land should count as bad manners in every state.
Instead he thanked Roy and hung up.
He called the number Patricia Hale had given him.
No answer.
He called again after lunch.
Nothing.
That evening Bell called back.
“The work is proceeding,” he said.
Hank sat on the bed and stared at the carpet.
“That sentence means nothing.”
“It means they’re moving fast.”
“Fast enough to save my harvest?”
A pause.
“We’re aware of harvest timing.”
Aware.
As though his crops were a meeting item.
“Can I speak to the crew lead?”
“No.”
“Can I come back for a day?”
“No.”
“Can you tell me what you’re doing to my property besides speaking around it?”
Another pause.
“The drainage line is being stabilized. Electrical corrections are underway. Contaminated material near the east structure is being removed. Additional items are being evaluated.”
“Additional what?”
Bell seemed to choose his next words carefully.
“Opportunities to improve long-term site safety.”
Hank leaned back against the headboard and laughed into the empty room.
“Wonderful.”
He spent the next three days walking the loop around the lake, eating food he barely tasted, and sitting through conversations with other temporary residents who thought the lodge was pleasant.
One man was there for pesticide training after a warehouse fire.
Another was a rancher waiting out a water contamination cleanup.
A woman from the bootheel was there because her poultry barns needed structural reinforcement after straight-line winds.
They all had stories.
None of them wanted to be there.
That helped a little.
Not much.
At night Hank took Ellen’s photo from the duffel and set it on the bedside table.
In the picture she wore a ball cap and no makeup and had dirt smudged on one cheek because Brooke had made her inspect mud pies as if they were serious engineering projects.
He found himself talking to the picture in low, embarrassed sentences.
“You’d hate this place.”
“The biscuits are too soft.”
“The coffee tastes like they’re afraid of it.”
“Brooke offered money.”
On the fifth night he added, “I’m scared.”
He said it fast.
Like if he said it slow it would become truer.
On the sixth day, Rachel called.
He recognized her voice before she gave her name.
“How are you?” she asked.
The question irritated him immediately.
“I’m at a lodge while strangers crawl all over my farm. You?”
Silence.
Then, “Fair.”
He sat up straighter on the bed.
“How’d you get this number?”
“Mr. Bell gave it to me after I asked if it was okay.”
“Huh.”
