The Well Below the Valley

The Well Below the Valley

Katherine E. Lampe

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2014 Katherine E. Lampe

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This e book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book, and did not purchase it or it was not purchased for your use only, please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author

By Katherine Lampe

The Caitlin Ross Series

The Unquiet Grave

She Moved Through the Fair

A Maid in Bedlam

The Parting Glass

The Cruel Mother

Demon Lover

The Well Below the Valley

Dragons of the Mind: Seven Fairy Tales

The Well Below the Valley

A Caitlin Ross Adventure

The Well Below the Valley copyright © 2016 by Katherine Lampe. All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews. For permission, contact the author, PO Box 1471, Paonia, CO, 81428. Gordarosa is a fictional place and all characters contained in this work of fiction are intended to be fictional. Resemblance to any real person, living or dead, must be attributed the to bubbling primordial stew of the author’s subconscious.

Cover art by Matt Davis, rockandhillstudio@gmail.com

The lines of poetry appearing in the prologue and elsewhere throughout the book are from The Wasteland by T. S. Eliot. Published in 1922, The Wasteland is in the public domain in the United States.

Caitlin’s words in the epilogue are paraphrased from the Buddha’s Fire Sermon, translated by Ñanamoli Thera.

All songs traditional.

The Well Below the Valley

A Caitlin Ross Adventure

Katherine Lampe

For All Who Have Kept Me Going

Especially you.

Yes, you.

"I’ll be seven years a-ringing the bell

But the Lord above will save my soul

From courtin’ in Hell

At the well below the valley-o

Green grow the lilies-o

Right among the bushes-o."

The Well Below the Valley, Traditional

Prologue

At the sun’s rising, I tread a path through decay. All around, crumbling ruins rise from sand the grey mustard color of corrosion. Here, a tumbled pile of mud bricks marks where a house once stood. There, a statue lies beneath a gritty blanket, mold-blind eyes raised to the cloudless sky.

I have been here before. I cannot remember when.

Dust cakes my feet and the hem of my garment raises whirlwinds, which deposit fine powder in its folds. My shadow stretches long before me; I’m walking west, the direction of endings. The direction of water, too. The sands here know no moisture, however. In this place, no rain has fallen in decades, perhaps centuries. No dew collects in the devastation’s shade, and scattered rock piles offer no coolness. A line of palms strides past the corner of my eye: desiccated, dead. An errant breeze pulverizes their crowns of leaves as I watch. The momentary draft smears grime on my face and brings no relief.

A few lines of poetry mutter through my head:

I will show you something different from either

Your shadow at morning striding behind you

Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;

I will show you fear in a handful of dust.

I stop, and stoop, and gather up a fistful of sand from the path. The texture of it against my palm evokes a memory of lost history better forgotten. Opening my fingers, I let the grains trickle back to the ground. Flowing free, they shape a message I don’t know how to read.

Fear in a handful of dust.

It really is too bad of you.

His voice gives the first indication I do not walk this path alone. I recognize it at once, before I rise, brushing hands together to rid them of the last, clinging granules. On my feet, I face him.

What is?

He’s a slender, brown youth, average height, with black curls and slanted, feral eyes. As usual, he wears wine-dark, baggy trousers, gathered close at the knee, and a cloak of leopard skin. A gold belt wraps his slender waist. Thrust through it, an aulos, the shepherd’s double flute. The fingers of his right hand curl about the staff of his thyrsos. Before I can dodge, he taps me on the shoulder with the pine cone at its end. I tense. No madness descends, so I relax. My patron god chuckles, not a nice sound.

You don’t call, you don’t write! A wreath of living vine twines his head. Clusters of deepest purple grapes dangle from it, in front of his ears. He shakes his head in sorrow, and the grape clusters bob. Today, of all days, I thought I’d hear from you.

With perfect intonation, he mimics a mother whose children have neglected her. Seeing the light of cruelty in his eyes, I know better than to offer apology or fall prey to guilt. He exploits weakness, dives through loopholes. Give him an inch, and he claims your entire life. I have reason to know.

Today?

I feel a tugging sensation beneath my breastbone, as if an unknown hand has set a hook in my sternum and now the time has come to reel me in. Once more I set off, following my shadow down the long, dry path. Using his thyrsos as a walking stick, the god trails after me.

It’s a holiday.

Not your holiday.

Still. Would it have killed you to light a stick of incense? Neglecting the gods is a bad business. They’re apt to return the favor when you’d wish otherwise.

The corners of my mouth tighten. I have too much experience with the silence of gods. They’re apt to return the favor whether you neglect them or not.

Well, yes.

We walk on through the waste. My shadow shrinks as the sun ascends, dragging ever greater heat from the tortured sands. Its rays beat down on my head. The silver crown I wear sears my brow, and ornaments at my wrists and ankles burn like molten lava. Unprotected from the glare, my eyes ache. The tissues of my mouth shrivel. I long for water.

There’s no water here.

The dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,

And the dry stone no sound of water…

Are you sure you want to go this way? the god inquires after a time.

I have to. There’s something I need to do.

Yellow eyes with square pupils, like a goat’s, drill into me, hunting out my secrets. I look away, uncomfortable; his gaze unnerves me at the best of times.

Oh, dear. His tongue clicks against his teeth, tsk-tsk-tsk. Yes, I suppose it’s time, isn’t it. After all, visiting a holy well at Lughnasadh is traditional.

Is it? The line attached to my breastbone jerks again. I stumble forward, golden earrings chiming.

You didn’t know? Once more, he examines me. Of course you didn’t. You’re not keen on wells, are you?

What do you mean? I snort, impatient with his questions. Wells are fine. I water my garden from a well every day.

My garden. Sudden longing fills my heart for its cool, green rows, for the beds of beans and beets, for the staked tomato vines, heavy with ripening fruit. The image of it shimmers before me for a single instant before dissolving in the sun. In that moment, I take in my surroundings as I have not before and understand they are alien, hostile. This desert is not my desert. Sagebrush grows in my desert, and snakeweed. Tiny flowers dye the hills purple after a rain, perfuming the air with nostalgia and musk. Here, nothing grows. Here, sand covers the past in drifts, and the parched wind reeks of copper and blood.

Where am I and how have I come here?

I’m so thirsty. My tongue cleaves to the roof of my mouth, clay.

I could stand to find a well about now. I try for a laugh. Instead, I croak. I’d like a drink.

You’ll reach it soon, I imagine. It’s getting close.

So dry. The hard-packed path bruises my feet. I stub my toes on half-concealed stones. Where sand sweeps across my way, it slices through skin and callus both. Sand is silica. Glass. I walk on fragments of mirror, my bloody footprints the only moisture for miles.

The hook in my breast tears my heart.

The past is never over, says the god. What we’ve forgotten isn’t dead, just waiting.

I’ve forgotten so much.

There’s something I need to do, I say.

I know. He pats my shoulder, sympathetic. Unfinished business and all. I’ll let you get to it.

You’re not coming?

I’m not the god you need.

What god do I need?

The gods of this place are dead.

Alone now, I struggle onward, step by slow step. My shadow contracts to a dark puddle, to nothing. Salty sweat trickles down my face, stinging my eyes, igniting a fire in my cracked lips. My collar of lapis and gold weighs on my chest; every breath stabs my lungs. The fine linen of my garment sticks to my thighs.

How have I come here, dressed as if for a feast?

I have something to do.

At long last, I hear the creak of a windlass. Shading my eyes, I gaze ahead. My nostrils flare to catch the faint whiff of water.

The well appears at the furthest edge of my vision. Ancient and eternal, it stands in a tiny patch of green, sturdy and solid amidst the surrounding wreckage. Blocks of unmortared stone comprise its body, each etched with letters like chicken scratches. Spool and crank dangle from a tripod of weathered poles, and a rope as big around as my wrist trails into the dark below.

This is my destination. Seven gates bar the way between it and me. They spring up like sudden weeds at my approach, clogging the path that, until this moment, lay clear. On lintel and side posts, scenes play out in bas relief: the ruins, the road, a queenly woman walking. Stars surround her head, and in one hand she carries the moon.

At the first gate, I pause. Empty ground stretches on either side. According to the rules of this place, however, I must go through, not around. Passage always comes at a price. What must I pay?

The stones whisper a question: What will you sacrifice to go on?

Simple enough to answer. Removing the heavy crown from my head, I lay it at the gate’s foot. Absent the excess weight, my head sighs with relief. My neck straightens; my hair tumbles free.

The gate shivers and vanishes, accepting the offering. I walk on until I meet the next obstruction. A second time, the stones voice their challenge:

What will you sacrifice to continue?

Another easy decision. My earrings serve no purpose; I lay them in the dust. Once again, the gate trembles and dissolves.

At the third gate, I set aside my lapis collar. My chest expands with the first free breath I’ve drawn since my journey’s beginning.

The fourth gate requires the ornaments from my wrists and ankles. I pass it in unaccustomed silence, regretting their friendly chime.

Standing before the fifth gate, I loosen the girdle from my waist. It trickles from my fingers like a snake’s shed skin. Unbound, my garment billows about my body, admitting a gust of burning air. I steel myself against the sensation of uninvited fingers claiming my skin, and go on.

At the sixth gate, with little left to give, I relinquish my garment itself and make my passage with breasts and thighs bare to the unrelenting sun.

One last gate stands between me and my goal. Reaching it, I hesitate. In this place many, having given most but not yet all, falter. If I turned now, if I reversed my steps and reclaimed what I’ve left behind, I could go back.

Back to what?

Words flit through my mind: House, husband, safety, child. The syllables paint no pictures. I remember nothing besides the wasteland, the endless trek through boiling sands. The beat of the sun on broken idols scattered in vast spaces of decay.

Behind me, nothing. Before me, the well’s green promise.

No choice. With steady fingers, I unwind the cloth from my loins and cast it away. The final gate shatters, admitting me to the cool perimeter. Meeting damp grass, my weary feet rejoice. Naked, I dance to the timeless stones and bend over them. My reflection smiles up at me. In haste to drink, I plunge my arms in to the elbows, forsaking bucket and crank. As I raise cupped hands to my lips, they scatter sheets of silver like schools of fish. Joyous drops impact the surface with a musical chuckle, spreading smiling ripples.

I drink. The taste of life spreads over my tongue.

Giant paws burst from beneath the water. In the split second before they seize my wrists, I see them: webbed like a frog’s, wearing weeds for bracelets, trailing moss and slime. They yank; pulled off balance, I topple over the well’s rim and sink with scarce a splash. In the chill, my overheated body turns to ice in an instant. Stiff and unresponsive, my limbs refuse the will to struggle. The water I longed for fills my mouth; my startled scream dies unvoiced. It floods my nose and ears, seals my eyes. All my senses fade to black. Only the inexorable downward drag remains.

This is the truth waiting in the shadows, the whisper each beating heart denies. The end of every journey is death. It lurks in the pause between breaths and creeps through comfortable sleep. Every action brings us closer until we face it naked and alone. With luck, we taste honey before we fail. Without, all our yesterdays add up to bitterness and regret. The span of years knows little of justice, and everything of necessity.

In my last moment of consciousness, a person I love calls my name.

Chapter One

Caitlin. A gentle shake accompanied the half-familiar lilt. Caitlin, love. Wake up. You’re dreaming.

Uh! My eyes flew open as breath long delayed wheezed into my lungs. The darkness from the bottom of the well still surrounded me. Blinking to banish disorientation, I flailed out with one arm, searching for something solid. My hand smacked flesh.

Ow.

Strong fingers circled my wrist, evoking the touch of cold, slimy hands twined with weeds. I gasped, struggling against terrible strength holding me immobile.

It’s all right, Caitlin. It’s all right. I’ve got you.

A patch of white loomed over me, startling a shriek from my throat. I sat bolt upright, struggling to find purchase for my feet and make my escape. Arms wrapped my shoulders and pulled me close.

Hush, now. Hush. You’re safe. You were having a nightmare.

The reassuring scents of sage, musk, and sawdust banished the lingering memory of water. Warm skin caressed my cheek, not chill liquid. My body had weight.

Dream. I’d had a bad dream.

I’m okay. My words came out muffled against his chest. I’m okay, now, thanks.

With a grunt and a final pat on my back, he released me. I drew apart from him, glancing around to get my bearings now my eyes had acclimated to the gloom. The long row of windows at the back of the house admitted a view of the star-pierced sky. Below them, nebulous blobs of potted plants crowded the top of a waist-high bookshelf. A pair of armchairs bulked in the corner. Within reach crouched the stack of document boxes I used for a nightstand; on them stood the square, white baby monitor with its green power light, the novel I’d been reading before bed, the small oblong of my phone. Reaching for this last, I flipped it open. The display read one a.m.; I’d slept no more than a few hours.

You were greetin’ in your sleep. I heard you down the hall.

I’m sorry if I disturbed you.

Timber shrugged. No matter. I wasn’t sleeping. In any case, I’ve disturbed your rest often enough.

An awkward silence fell between us. I scooted farther up the mattress, until my back hit the brass headboard rail. Folding my legs under me, I gazed across the tumbled sheets at the man who still shared my life, but no longer my bed.

He’d never recovered from what he’d suffered at the hands of his former lover. Strong, tough, and goddess-blessed he might be. None of it protected him from the trauma of imprisonment and rape.

At the start, we’d managed all right. After our daughter’s birth, when the dust had cleared, we’d settled into our usual routines with little trouble to show for a difficult winter and the addition of a new family member. Sibeal, to our fortune, proved an easy baby, who slept a lot, fussed little, and received my fumbling attempts at mothering with age-inappropriate stoicism. Timber made an excellent father, who doted on his daughter’s every gurgle and loved showing her off around town. As for me, chapped nipples and interrupted nights seemed a small price to pay for our newfound bliss. By the end of Sibeal’s second month, I barely remembered life as a couple. Aisha Touissant and the bad weeks she’d caused at the end of January faded in significance to a mere blip on my radar.

Then, around Beltane, Timber started having nightmares. I recalled the first as if it had been yesterday. We’d entrusted our friends, Breda and Aurora, with Sibeal for the evening and gone to see a new music group, one of the handful that spring up around the county every year, like flowers when the snow recedes. A Blues band, they’d played a lot of slow grooves, perfect for a bit of bump and grind. After the business with Aisha, Timber had stopped refusing to dance. Apart from a single date, though, we hadn’t had an opportunity to take the floor. By the end of the evening, we’d both had one thing on our minds, something else we hadn’t engaged in as often since the baby. We’d put her to bed as soon as we got home, and spent a delightful hour or so reacquainting ourselves with the pleasures of the flesh.

His screams had jerked me from a dead sleep about three in the morning. They’d woken Sibeal, too. No need for the baby monitor; her cries had penetrated the closed bedroom door. Torn between my husband’s need and my daughter’s, I’d dithered until, pulling himself together, Timber had waved at the door.

Go. I’m all right.

I’d gone. By the time I’d settled Sibeal and returned, he’d lain down and pulled the duvet over his head. I’d known at the time he’d been pretending. His unnatural stillness and the rapid rhythm of his breath had betrayed him. Exhausted, I’d let it pass without challenge.

I regretted it now. Maybe if I’d made a more concerted effort, things never would have progressed to the current pass.

The memory of his body lingered in my flesh. My skin sighed for his touch. He’d shown no qualms about comforting me after my nightmare. But I’d sensed no desire in his embrace. He’d have done the same for anyone. I’d seen him console our daughter in the exact way, many times.

Over the summer, Timber’s bad dreams had continued. Three or four nights a week he woke me screaming. He never confided in me. It didn’t matter; I could guess what haunted him. Inevitably, the terrors occurred after we’d been intimate, or tried to be. More and more, our lovemaking stopped with petting, or petered out in sleepy cuddles. I hoped the undemanding contact would reassure him enough to find his way back to trusting me. So far, it hadn’t. In fact, as time went on, even sharing a bed became too much for him to bear. To give him space, I took up sleeping in the reading nook at the back of the house. We never discussed it. I presented the idea to him as a decision already made. He tried, and failed, to hide his relief.

To a degree, it worked. He suffered fewer nightmares. I slept better, without worrying my presence would trigger him. Often he remained wakeful into the wee hours. Since he looked after Sibeal when she needed it, his restlessness proved to our mutual advantage. In turn, I got up earlier, allowing him to sleep later in the mornings. He went from rising before dawn to staying abed until the last possible minute, sometimes cutting his schedule so fine he scarce had time to grab a cup of coffee before rushing off to work.

We adjusted. But, gods! I missed him. I thought he must miss me too, or miss the sex, at the very least. Physical passion had always been a huge part of our life together, of Timber’s very identity. He never spoke of it, so I had no way of knowing what went through his head, nights when we lay at opposite ends of the house with the dark pressing close. Damn, stubborn Scot.

Timber cleared his throat. Aye, well. If you’re all right now….

He didn’t stir from the edge of the daybed. His pale face remained focused on me, and starlight sparked in his eyes. Stretching out a hand, I ventured a tentative touch on his arm.

You don’t have to go.

He glanced away, not before I caught the ghost of a smile on his lips. Och. I’d never fit in this wee crib.

Still, he made no move to leave. Nor did he invite me back to the bedroom, where there’d be more than enough space for both of us. If anybody were going to break this impasse, it would have to be me. But his uncertainty filled the air like smog, and I didn’t know the way through. I closed my eyes, remembering former times when we’d both fit in the daybed very well.

How were we going to find our way back to each other?

Just as I made up my mind to kiss him, the baby monitor emitted a thin wail. Both our heads turned toward the sound by reflex.

Her Highness calls. Timber popped to his feet like a Jack-in-the-Box. My cue. You go on back to sleep.

Between the unaddressed sexual tension and the remnants of my dream, I had never felt less like sleeping. I rose as well.

I’ll get her. You have to work in the morning.

No worries. The nursery’s on my way.

I…. With a sigh, I shut my mouth, protest unspoken. His body language made it clear he craved escape from this weird stalemate, and Sibeal had provided the perfect excuse. Okay, then. There’s breast milk in the fridge if she’s hungry. I pumped earlier.

Unnecessary information. In case of these exact circumstances, I pumped every afternoon, and he knew it as well as I.

She doesn’t sound hungry, just scared. Perhaps she’s had a nightmare, too.

Gods forbid. First Timber, now me. If bad dreams started troubling the baby, we’d all be short on sleep for a long time to come.

My husband’s white back faded from view as he padded down the hall. Soon, soothing low words of Gaelic drifted from the nursery.

"Bà, mo leanabh, mo cuisle beag…"

I stared at my lonely mattress, sharp fragments of dream prodding my brain. Once more the desert sun scorched my skin; once more I gasped for breath at the bottom of the ancient well. I didn’t want to lie in the place where the dream had found me. I didn’t even want to be in the same room.

In the nursery, my husband sang a lullaby, one I’d sung to him, ages ago, it seemed. Then, I’d brought him back from despair and the edge of death. Now, I had no idea what to do. He ran from every comfort I knew how to give. For all my abilities, I had no power to bridge the abyss between us. Every path led the same direction, and every choice was a bad one. Though the situation exhausted me more than caring for a newborn, I had no option other than to plod on and pray I’d one day find relief.

Plod through the desert in search of a life-giving well. I shuddered, needing no oracle to interpret. If only my subconscious offered a solution.

Sighing, I sought my bed. These days, my alarm rang at six, and the hour would arrive all too soon. Nightmares or no, sleep provided the single comfort I could count on. Once I’d relied on strong arms for solace. Blankets made a poor substitute, but they were all I had. Pulling them over my head, I curled around my breaking heart and closed my eyes. In time, pretense of sleep merged with reality. The velvet baritone of my husband’s song followed me into darkness and left me there, alone.

Consciousness crept up on stealthy feet, a thief keen to rob me of ease. Little by little, I entered the realm of sensation. Awareness of the pillow beneath my head dawned. Then, knowledge of my body’s heavy languor. Something warm nestled at my back, probably a cat. Did I need to pee? Maybe. Not urgent. With a sigh, I rolled over to catch a few more minutes.

A tiny paw batted my nose. I hid my face in my pillow.

Knock it off, McGuyver.

Gah! Gurgling, the cat prodded my ear.

My brain took a moment to process the sound and assign it a value: Not a vocalization common to cats. I opened my eyes. My daughter’s gummy grin filled my field of vision. She lay on her back beside me, secure between my body and the wall. As I blinked at her in confusion, she grabbed a bare foot and stuck her toes in her mouth.

Shit. What time is it? I grabbed my phone and flipped it open. Eight o’clock. I’d slept through my alarm. Shit!

Bah! Sibeal agreed.

A yellow sticky note fluttered from my phone to the ground; I leaned over to retrieve it. A few lines in my husband’s untidy scrawl slanted across the page:

You were dead to the world so I dealt with the wean. She’s clean, but she didn’t eat much. I took the leftover curry for lunch. You owe me one. T.

Woke your da up, did you? I poked my daughter in the tummy, hoping she’d held off long enough for Timber to get a decent rest. The idea of him working with power tools on as little sleep as he’d been getting worried me. Naughty girl. Right, then! Let’s see about some breakfast. We’re going to see Doctor Sue later, so you need to keep your strength up.

At the mention of her pediatrician, Sibeal blew a petite raspberry. Coincidence, no doubt. She wasn’t old enough to recognize names.

I nursed her in bed while rehearsing our day in my head. Garden, downtown, doctor. Maybe some shopping in Triangle. Activity prevented me from dwelling on my marital woes, so I crammed as much as possible into every hour. When Sibeal finished her second breakfast, I chased Casper off yesterday’s clothes and dragged them on.

Downstairs in the kitchen, I gulped a cup of lukewarm coffee and crammed a piece of toast down my throat. Mindful of the needs of a breastfeeding parent, I dutifully followed my meagre repast with two glasses of water. Baby and I passed a pleasant hour in the garden, where she paddled in the dirt while I pulled weeds and harvested what had come ripe overnight. When it got too hot to work, we retreated to the kitchen. I unearthed the slow cooker and put together a fresh vegetable stew for dinner, since I expected to be late.

Keep going. Don’t think too much. Above all, avoid the hollow in your stomach, the place love once filled. The mantra looped through every motion, not quite audible but impossible to ignore. I’d never been good at denial. When something didn’t work or when words went unspoken, I confronted them head on. This time, I couldn’t afford to. Too much honesty would shatter me, and my daughter needed her mother.

I wished for a problem to solve, a puzzle requiring my particular talents. Since winter, however, nothing had cropped up. In the lazy Gordarosa summer, people camped and hiked, or made the round of local festivals. Kids raised animals for the 4-H competitions and ranchers tended their stock. No one remarkable had moved to town. No one had any use for magic, bad or otherwise.

Time for my daily rounds. A quick glance in the bathroom mirror assured me I hadn’t picked up too much dirt in the garden, and a sniff told me I didn’t stink. A damp cloth to Sibeal’s hands and face removed the evidence of her muddy play, at least enough to be getting on with. I loaded her into her stroller and set out.

First stop: the post office. I didn’t expect anything exciting, so the stack of bills and advertising circulars didn’t disappoint. A late card had come for Timber, who’d passed his fortieth birthday, without fuss, the day before. No return address. I recognized the writing on the green envelope, though. It belonged to Zee, our old friend from Boulder. He hadn’t passed our way in years, but we kept in touch. As I stashed it in my bag along with the rest of the mail, I allowed myself to hope the card might contain news of a visit. Maybe another man could connect with my husband where I failed.

I dropped some books at the library and continued down Main Street, pausing now and again to greet acquaintances and show off the baby. The Farm and Home had a few straggling annuals for half price in their flower annex, so I bought a couple six packs of petunias and snapdragons to put around the red oak we’d planted out front. Donna Sato, my friend Aurora’s mother and manager of KGOR radio, waved at me from the park next to the movie theater; steering the stroller back across the street, I chatted music with her for a bit. As usual, she asked when I’d be putting another band together. Also as usual, I said I was still recovering from the last one.

All so routine.

Outside Western Realty, I bumped into the owner-broker, Lars Jensen. He came out the door, not looking where he was going, with his cell phone plastered to his ear, and walked straight into Sibeal’s stroller. Though I saw him coming in time to pull back and avoid the worst, he still barked his shin. We spent a few seconds in an awkward little dance before we got untangled and he headed for his car, laughing off my apology. His good humor about the incident relieved me. I didn’t know him well, but according to the local grapevine, he had a temper. Once I’d seen him throw one of his agents through a plate glass window. Of course, they’d both been under a demon’s influence then, so it didn’t really count.

The episode upset Sibeal. She took most events with unusual stoicism for a six-month-old, but she didn’t appreciate being jostled. Or maybe she didn’t appreciate Lars taking off without stopping to pay her a compliment; she’d inherited her father’s vanity. She sent up a wail of outrage, and I had to pluck her out of the stroller to console her. While I rocked her, I gazed at the pictures in the realty office window. The housing market had slumped with the recession, and a couple other realtors had closed their doors. Right now, Western seemed to be doing okay. At my baby shower, my friend Debra had been worried she might have to move to greener pastures, so I was glad to spot her inside, as busy as ever.

She spotted me, too, and poked her head out the door.

See anything you like?

Just looking, thanks. Sometimes I daydreamed about a property out of town, with more room for livestock than our five acres. Even in a bad market the prices exceeded our budget by several decimal places.

Well, you know where to come when you’re ready. She came all