Not everybody approved, of course. Rural communities can extend grace and suspicion in equal measure. I heard the whispers. That we were harboring trouble. That some of the women were probably lying. That single men shouldn’t donate because there’d be accusations next. That George had been a fool. That I had turned widowhood into a cause because some women need attention. Every town has people who convert compassion into scandal because the alternative would require seeing their own indifference.
I learned to let them talk while the work outgrew them.
One afternoon in late March, nearly a year after George’s death, Deputy Torres came to the farm without calling ahead. She found me in the mudroom sorting donated winter coats by size even though spring had finally begun to soften the fields.
She held a file in one hand.
My heart sank and lifted at once.
“Say it plain,” I told her.
Torres leaned against the counter.