The house, of rough-hewn lumber, had gone for years without fresh paint. Remnants of white still clung, emphasizing patterns of grain in the exposed and darkened wood. Like much else he saw, it bespoke a long, slow fall from prosperity.

In front of the house stood a wooden carving of a boy in a jockey’s uniform, holding a brass ring for tying a horse. Like the house, the carving had lost most of its original paint. Rusty dismounted and tied Alamo’s reins to the ring after first checking to be sure the hitching post had not rotted off at ground level. One of the plank steps yielded under his weight. It was cracked and needed replacement.

Beyond the front door a woman stood in semidarkness just inside a hallway. He tipped his hat. “Miz Brackett?”

The woman moved closer, into brighter light. “I am Miss Brackett. Is there something we can do for you?”

“I’m lookin’ for Jeremiah Brackett.”

He could see now that the woman was actually a girl of perhaps fifteen or sixteen years, too young to be Brackett’s wife.

She said, “My father is somewhere out in the fields. He’ll be home directly for dinner. You’d be welcome to stay and eat with us.”

Rusty was hungry, but he felt his mission was too awkward for him to break bread with these people. “I’m much obliged for the hospitality, ma’am. I’m afraid I can’t stay.”

She said, “You’d be Mr. Shannon, wouldn’t you? I’ve seen you over in town.”

Rusty could not remember that he had ever seen the girl before, though he probably had. She was in that period of rapid change that comes just before womanhood. He found her face pleasant, her faint smile rein-forced by friendly brown eyes.

He said, “I don’t recollect hearin’ that Mr. Brackett had a daughter.” Unmarried ladies were scarce, even ones this young. They were outnumbered by unattached bachelors persistently striving to alter their marital status. Unless a woman wras homely enough to frighten hogs and had a disposition to match, she stood scant risk of becoming a spinster.

“My name is Bethel,” she said. “It comes from the Bible.”

“Mine is Rusty. I don’t expect you’ll find it in the Book.” He turned to look toward the fields. “I’ll go hunt for your father.”

She raised her arm to point, and he noticed that her sleeve had been mended, its cuffs fraying, the fabric faded. She said, “I think you’ll find him over yonderway, in that field past the oak trees.”

Turning away, he thought there ought to be at least enough money to buy that girl a decent dress. But he knew the reality was otherwise. Six years after the war, much of rural Texas was still flat on its back. Or, at best, up on one elbow.