“Loreda, help me carry these trays to the root cellar,” Mom said.
Grandma wiped her hands on her apron and headed back to the house.
Loreda knew that as soon as the cauldron was cool they’d have to roll it back to the barn, and the thought of it made her want to scream in frustration. Instead, she grabbed a tray full of unset soap and followed her mother down into the dark, relative cool of the root cellar.
Empty shelves.
After years without a wheat harvest or much of a garden, they’d been living on the bounty of better years, but those supplies were going fast.
She and Mom exchanged a look, but neither of them spoke. There was no comfort in pointing out their lack of food supplies.
Loreda followed Mom back out into the heat. She was about to ask for a glass of water when she heard a strange sound. She stopped, listened. “Do you hear that?”
It was coming from the barn.
Mom headed toward the barn, opening the barn door in a giant sweep of creaking wood.
Loreda followed her inside.
Milo lay on his side, his sunken belly wheezing up and down as he tried to breathe. Dirty mucus slid from his nostrils, pooling on the ground.
Grandpa knelt beside the horse, stroking his damp neck.
“What’s wrong with him?” Loreda asked.
“He collapsed,” Grandpa said. “I was leading him out of his stall to water.”
“Go to the house, Loreda,” Mom said. She walked over to Grandpa, dragged a milking stool toward him, and sat down. She placed a hand on his shoulder.
“I got to shoot him, Elsa. He’s suffering. The poor boy gave us his all.”
Loreda stared at Milo, thinking, No. So many of her good memories included Milo.…
She remembered when Daddy taught her to ride on this old gelding. He’ll take care of you, Lolo, trust him. Don’t be afraid.
Loreda remembered Daddy swinging her up into the saddle, and Mom saying, Isn’t she too little yet? And Daddy smiling. Not my Lolo. She can do anything.
Up on Milo’s back, Loreda had conquered fear for the first time. I did it, Daddy!
It had been one of the best days of Loreda’s life. She’d gone from a walk to a trot in one day, and Daddy had been so proud.
For years afterward, Milo had been her best friend on this vast farm. He followed her around like a puppy, nibbling at her shoulder, bumping her for carrots.
And now he’d fallen.
“Don’t just sit there, do something,” Loreda said, her eyes burning with tears. “He’s suffering.”
“I failed at all of it,” Grandpa said.
“You didn’t fail,” Mom answered. “The land failed you.”
“The government man said we did it to ourselves with greed and bad farming. If I’m a bad farmer, I got nothing, Elsa.”
Milo shuddered, wheezed, made a low, desperate moan of pain, and kicked out his fro
nt legs.
Loreda walked dully to the workbench and picked up her grandfather’s Colt revolver. She checked the chamber, closed it with a snap, and returned to Milo, who wheezed and snorted at her touch.