Elsa had always loved this chore. It had taken her a long time to catch on in the beginning; she had heard a hundred tsks from Rose as Elsa tried to master the technique, but master it she had, and now it was one of her favorite chores. She loved being with Bella, loved the sweet smell of fresh milk, the hollow clanking as the first stream hit the metal bucket. She even loved what came next: carrying the bucket of fresh, warm milk to the house, pouring it into the separator, cranking the machine by hand, skimming off the rich yellow cream, saving the whole milk to feed her family and using skim milk for the animals.

Elsa reached out for the cow’s barely swollen udder, touched the wind-chapped teats gently.

The cow bellowed in pain.

“I’m sorry, Bella,” Elsa said. She tried again, squeezing as gently as she could, pulling down slowly.

A stream of dirt-brown milk squirted out, smelling fecund. Each day, it seemed, milking took longer to reach white, usable milk. The first streams were always dirty like this. Elsa dumped out the brown milk, cleaned the bucket, and tried again. She never gave up, no matter how sad Bella’s moans made her or how long it took to get clean milk.

When she finished, getting less than they needed, she turned the poor cow out into the paddock.

As she passed the horse stalls, Milo and Bruno both snorted heavily and bit at the door, trying to eat the wood.

As she locked the barn door behind her, she heard a gunshot.

What now?

She turned, saw her father-in-law at the hog pen. He lowered his rifle as their last hog staggered sideways and collapsed.

“Thank God,” Elsa murmured to herself. Meat for the children.

She waved at him as he hefted the dead hog into a wheelbarrow and headed to the barn to hang it for slaughter.

A tumbleweed rolled lazily past her, pushed along by a gentle breeze. Her gaze followed it to the fence line, where the Russian thistles survived against all odds, growing stubbornly even in the drought, against the wind. The cows ate them when there was nothing else. So did the horses.

She took the milk into the house and then went outside again, crossing the expanse of dirt that lay between the barn and the fence. The wind plucked at her kerchief, as if trying to stop her.

The Russian thistles were a tangle of prickles and stems, barely green. Wiry. Tough. Spikes as sharp as pins.

She pulled her gloves from her apron pocket and put them on. Making a bowl of her apron, she eased her hand past the sharp prickly ends and plucked off a green shoot.

She tasted it.

Not bad. Maybe they could be cooked gently in olive oil, wine, garlic, and herbs. Would they taste like artichokes? Tony loved his artichokes. Or maybe pickling them was the answer . . .

Tomorrow she’d get everyone picking them and find a way to preserve them.

At noon, when she’d picked as many as her apron could hold, she went back to the house.

Inside, Elsa found the children and Tony already seated at the table for the midday meal.

“I found some grapes,” Ant said, bouncing in his seat, beaming at his contribution.

Elsa tousled his hair, felt its texture. “Bath tonight for a little boy I know.”

“Do I hafta?”

Elsa smiled. “I can smell you from here. Yep.”

Tony pulled off his hat, revealing a strip of white skin across his brow, and sat down. He downed an entire glass of tea in two gulps, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

Rose came into the kitchen and poured her husband a glass of red wine.

Tony dug into his plate of arancini. It was a family favorite: rice balls filled with creamy cheese, swimming in a pancetta-and-garlic-flavored tomato sauce.

Elsa put her pile of thistles into a bowl and set it by the dry sink.

“What’s that?” Rose asked, wiping her hands on her apron.

“Thistles. I think I can figure out a way to make them palatable. They almost taste like artichokes.”

Rose sighed. “It’s come to that. Italians eating horse food. Madonna mia.”

“Where’s Rafe?” Elsa asked, looking around. “I need to talk to him.”

“Ain’t seen him all day,” Ant said. “I looked, too.”

Elsa walked out to the porch, rang the bell for the midday meal, and waited, looking out over the farm.

The horses and wagon were here, so he hadn’t gone to town.

Maybe he was in their room.

She headed back into the house and went into their bedroom. Sunlight made the pale white walls look golden. A large framed portrait of Jesus stared at her.

The room was empty—just the bed and the chest of drawers she shared with her husband and the washstand with its oval mirror that captured her image. Everything was as it should be, except . . .

There were marks on the floor, coming out from beneath her bed, as if something had been put under the bed or taken out from underneath it.

She lifted the quilt and looked underneath the bed. She saw her suitcase, the one she’d brought into her marriage, and the box of baby clothes she’d saved just in case.

Something was missing. What?

She dropped to her knees for a better look. What was missing?

Rafe’s suitcase. The one he’d packed all those years ago to go off to college. The one he’d unpacked when her father left Elsa here.

She glanced sideways. His clothes were gone from the hooks by the door, as was his hat.

She got up slowly and went to the dresser, opened the top drawer.