By the summer of 1887, most of the valley had forgotten that terrible season.
People have a way of forgetting pain when the sun shines and their stomachs are full. But Marth hadn’t forgotten.
I watched the birds. The swallows had left early that year, two weeks before. I watched the squirrels. They were gathering food with frantic energy.
He felt the wind change at the end of July, blowing down from the northern peaks with a chill that didn’t belong in summer. The earth was whispering again. No one else was listening.
However, the judge and Blackwell came up to his cabin one afternoon, dressed impeccably in black despite the heat. He looked at his drying racks with barely concealed disdain. He offered again to buy his land.
Voir la suite sur la page suivante:
