When it came—a sharp crack—she jerked involuntarily. And then she listened, letting the knowing of sounds tell her what Noah Locke was doing. The car motor. The clattering of chain pulled across the car’s frame. The strain of the car dragging its weight. And then nothing. The nothing told her that Noah Locke had pulled the cow away, deep into the pasture, to a spot that would be soft enough for digging. She knew he would be working for many hours.

At one o’clock, Eleanor carried a meal of baked sweet potato, ham biscuits and iced tea in a quart sealing jar to Noah, following the trail of the car and the dragged body of the cow. The spot he had selected for the burial was in the edge of a stand of new pines, growing where older trees had been harvested for lumber mills. The ground was gray and sandy from wash-off of the mountain above it, making it surprisingly soft and free of rock, and the digging had gone well. He was almost shoulder-deep in a hole wide enough and long enough for the cow. The trace chain used for the dragging had been dropped over the side of the hole for climbing out and lowering himself back in.

He took the offered food reluctantly—in the fashion of rural manners—saying it was not necessary to feed him, but he was privately glad for it. He had not eaten well in days and the work had tired him, reminding him of a weakness in his back earned by lifting ammunition cartons into a Jeep. A pulled muscle, he had suspected, but it was more. He did not know what, but something more.

He knew being with him was awkward for Eleanor, could see it in the way she stood away from him as he sat eating, leaning against a hickory tree, letting its shade cover him. He knew it by her eyes making glances to and away from the cow. Knew it by the way she searched for words to bridge the silence between them. Knew it by the measure of his own discomfort, for he had not been alone in the presence of a woman for a long time.

Still, it was good to have a break from work and to have some company. People of the hills were often like skittish animals, staying to themselves the way they did.

The death of the cow was no surprise to her, Eleanor told him, being so old. She expected the mule to die soon, also. There had been another mule—younger, stronger—but it had been sold, since there was no longer a need for it with the farming stopped.

And the calf of the milk cow had been sold also, after it got to the weaning stage, she added. Not enough food to go around for all of them.

The old mule’s name was Fanny and it had been kept more as a pet than a working animal, she said. Even when it had been worked, it was too slow to be of much value.