“Though,” she said, “if you’d told me serving coffee to a stranger would lead to my living my life out here in Montana . . .” She shook her head. “Not that staying hasn’t turned out good, mind you.”

Then another customer came in.

Maggie gazed after Mrs. Jensen a moment and then turned to me. “How about you, Moss?” she asked, just loud enough for me to hear her over the radio Mrs. Jensen had playing. “Are you thinking about staying up here?”

The question caught me by surprise, and I blurted out, “Oh no. This is just temporary, until—”

I caught myself. Until what? With a start, I realized it had been some time since I’d thought about leaving. The good smell of chili reminding me of Muddy Springs notwithstanding.

“At least I guess it’s temporary,” I finished. “Though I got to say, I’m liking this country a lot, especially now it’s warming up.”

“You think you’ll go back to farming?” she asked.

“I wasn’t—” I began, and then once more I broke off. I was going to say I wasn’t ever a farmer, but that wasn’t wholly true. I grew up farming, even if my stint at the airport did do me a turn into other work.

I said, “I’m not planning to, though it’s kind of hard to see much into the future.”

Mrs. Jensen, turning up the radio volume, called, “Listen. This is about you.”

It was Mr. Fechner, the director of the whole CCC, reading a message President Roosevelt had sent CCC’ers about all we’d accomplished so far. “‘You and the men who have guided and supervised your efforts have cause to be proud . . .’”

“He’s right,” Maggie said, when the broadcast ended. “The country is turning around, and the CCC’s helping it to. Just like our place is going to turn around, with all the changes Dad’s making. There’s a future there.”

“Well, sure,” I said.

“For someone who wants to farm it,” she said. “But I don’t think Nate does.”

“No,” I agreed.

Maggie examined her piecrust like it was the most interesting thing she’d seen all day, and then she suddenly said, “Nate said you had a girlfriend down in Texas. With an unusual name.”

“Beatty,” I responded.

“What’s she think?”

“About what?” I asked cautiously. I wasn’t sure where Maggie was heading, but I doubted I was going to like getting there.

“Well, about you seeing me.”

“I don’t know,” I answered. “She doesn’t—”

“Moss,” Maggie said, her voice sharpening. “You are being honest with Beatty and me, aren’t you?”

“Well,” I said again, grasping for something that wouldn’t make me sound too bad. “I haven’t exactly written her . . .”

“About me?” Maggie asked. Then a look of disbelief crossed her face. “Or haven’t you written her at all?”