Heart of the Sandhills by Stephanie Grace Whitson Page A

when you must remind me of the things I know:”
    “Do you think it’s all right for Aaron to come? I mean—with all the trouble here.”
    Daniel thought for a moment. “Jeb says things are better with the Quinns and the Baxters. If Aaron is anything like Elliot or Simon, he will be all right even if there is some trouble. He’s nearly a man now anyway.”
    “Pray for Meg,” Gen said.
    Daniel leaned back against the tree. Gen moved so that she was facing him, seated inside the circle of his legs. And they prayed.

    Abner Marsh crouched down behind his plow and, taking a handful of the freshly turned black earth, inhaled deeply. Nothin’ smells better than fresh plowed dirt . And this was his dirt. His farm. He stood back up, admiring the color and texture of the soil before dropping it and wiping his palm on his soiled overalls. Taking off his hat, he wiped his brow with his forearm before standing a moment and looking across the field toward the house. His house. His wife. His girls.
    Girls . Abner sighed. He loved his girls but wished to the gods almighty that Sally could give him at least one boy. She’d have done it, too, if it hadn’t been for the murdering Sioux. Sally had lost their baby boy right after they hightailed it off their old place up by Acton. She hadn’t wanted to go. Said she was feeling poorly and afraid what a long wagon ride would do. But Abner had insisted and, as it turned out, their place was burned to the ground the night after they left—at least that was what the neighbors told them a few weeks later. And nothing had been the same since. Sally lost the baby, and in the ensuing months she became thin and pale and hard. She didn’t complain and Abner never saw her cry, but she was nothing like the woman he had married. He’d come to accept that neither of them was anything like the doe-eyed couple in their wedding picture. Probably never would be again. As for Sally, all the quilting bees and understanding women in the world couldn’t change what had happened to her inside. Her religion, weak as it was, hadn’t been much comfort either.
    Plopping his crumpled hat back on his head, Abner shrugged the sadness off his shoulders by lifting the reins he’d draped over the plow handles and hollering to his mules to “gid-ap.” Walking the long, straight furrow revitalized him. When he turned the corner and headed back toward the house, he got a glimpse of the two men he’d hired to give Sally her railing and the other useless stuff she wanted on the house. He’d fought her on it, but not much. Sally hadn’t showed much interest in anything new in years. If it gave her pleasure to think on fancying up the house, Abner didn’t mind. He could afford it. Maybe granting Sally’s wish would give him a glimpse of the girl in the wedding picture. He wouldn’t mind seeing her again. He’d tell her all this was for her, that he was born to farm and he loved the land, but it wouldn’t mean much without someone to share it with. He’d tell her he was glad she stuck by him all these years. If the old Sally reappeared, that’s just what he would –
    The mules turned up a larger-than-usual rock. Something about its color or shape made Abner holler “Whoa!” Loosely tying the reins over one plow handle, Abner reached around and picked it up. It was a human skull. Catching his breath, he stared at it for a long time before noticing other, smaller bones scattered along the freshly turned split in the earth. Walking to the end of the furrow, he emptied his water bucket and returned to the plow, collecting bones and thinking: Red Cloud. Little Crow. Wabasha. Fetterman. Shakopee. Uprising. Massacre.
    When he had finished collecting all the bones he could find, Abner set the skull atop the pile in the bucket. He walked back to the edge of his field and set the bucket under a tree. Crouching down, he stared at it, shuddering when he realized that he might have just dug up all that was left of some