They were before the cabin. Silas had already retrieved his horse from the stable. He stood ready to leave, his saddlebag stuffed with worn clothes, his hat on, his hand upon the horse’s flank, calming the animal in anticipation of their ride.
“Bring the boys here,” she said. “To me. I’d like to get to know them better. But I won’t be leaving Old Ox.”
He raised one of her hands to his face and kissed it briskly, then let it fall to her side.
“Remember,” she said. “I told you once I might have need to call on you. That hasn’t changed.”
“It’d be foolish to think I won’t be back to check in of my own accord,” he said. “I predict you’ll soon be calling on me to leave your home rather than come to it.”
“It will never be so,” she said.
He mounted his horse and gave her a wink.
“Just wait until you have my boys here raising hell.”
He reached back and patted the horse’s rear, then dug his boot heels into its side. Dust kicked up like smoke and he was gone before the cloud even fell back to the ground.
*
Alone now, she had no one to answer to but herself. Still, she was prepared to take on the task George had spoken of. She walked to town the following morning. The place continued to recover. It was odd, the spectacle of men and horses tramping over the ashen floor of what had once been the lumber mill, the abattoir, cleaning out everything that had been razed only weeks ago. The scene felt distant from her, like someone else’s dream, but Isabelle did not allow the sight to threaten her mood. An energy coursed through her, clamoring for her to take action. She carried signs she’d written in George’s study, ten in all, and she put them up proudly about town: a board against the furniture depot; a utility pole before the schoolhouse. She was determined that they be prominent—the words bold and the letters large—so that all who passed would take notice.
HELP NEEDED ON THE WALKER FARM.
ALL RACES, CREEDS, AND COLORS. FAIR PAY. EQUAL PAY.
When she’d run out of signs—her hands empty, her feet tired—she returned home. The only thing left to do now was wait.
*
The first man appeared several days later like an apparition formed from the morning light. A hunched fellow, hobbling with each step, not unlike George. Isabelle saw him out the bedroom window, coming up the lane, and she dressed and hurried downstairs.
When she opened the door she was met by a colored man wearing a cotton shirt jumbled at the collar and a blue suit jacket. A small yellow flower, already wilting but still bright against the jacket, spilled from his breast pocket. He was older than she was, perhaps sixty, and seemingly so wary that even after she greeted him he seemed reluctant to speak.
“Ma’am,” he said, finally. “I’m looking for the owner of the Walker estate.”
She told him that was her.
“There’s no mister?”
“Not any longer, no.”
Although reticent, he was not afraid to look her in the eyes. His own were largely hidden within the deep creases of his skin and yet they revealed themselves when he spoke, deep beds of hazel, each expression given gravity by their sudden emergence from beneath his furrowed brows.
“I’ve seen that sign in town,” he said. “If you’re still offering.”
She joined him on the porch and walked to the railing, thinking of the burnt land and all that lay beyond it down the hill. He followed her, still wary, keeping his distance. She told him what had happened. Then asked if had a skill with farming.
By way of an answer he held out his hands, so weathered that Isabelle could hardly make out the lines on his palms—whittled by years of toil.
“Tell me your name,” she said.
“Elliot.”
“Elliot, I own many acres beyond these ruined ones. More than I could ever manage myself. I don’t plan to sell any of them. What I will do is give you a proposal. I will allow you your own slip of land to farm. I won’t ask for any of your harvest, or any money. It’s yours to keep for a year, perhaps two—enough time for you to get on your feet before I give someone else the same opportunity. But in return, I want you to help me with that ruined land down the hill, that same land my husband tilled. I want you to give me a few days a week of your service. I’ll be out there, and I’d like you to join me, and together we’ll do everything in our power to make it not just beautiful again, but prosperous.”
Elliot was silent. His hair was one great tuft, and he ran his hand through it as he pondered her proposition.