“You blame yourself when they are the ones to blame.” Rose gave her a steady, reassuring look. “Remember, cara, hard times don’t last. Land and family do.”

TWELVE

In November, the first winter storm battered them from the north, leaving behind a fine layer of snow. Clean, glistening, and white, it dusted the windmill’s rough blades, the chicken coop, the cows’ hides, and the land itself.

Snow was a good sign. It meant water. Water meant crops. Crops meant food on the table.

On this particularly frigid day, Elsa stood at the kitchen table, rolling meatballs in hands that were pink and swollen and pocked with blisters. Chilblains were common this season and everyone in the house—in the county—had raw, burning throats and gritty, bloodshot eyes that itched from too many dust storms.

She placed the garlic-seasoned pork meatballs on a baking sheet and covered them with a towel, then went into the sitting room, where Rose sat by the stove darning socks.

Tony came into the house, stomped the snow from his boots, and slammed the door behind him. He made a chapel of his gloved hands and blew into them. His cheeks were red and roughened by cold, scoured by wind. His hair stuck out in frozen shards. “The windmill isn’t pumping,” he said. “Must be the cold.” He walked over to the woodstove. Beside it, a barrel held their dwindling supply of cow chips. In these dust and drought years, the animals on the Great Plains were dying, and so this treeless land was losing the fuel source that the farmers had assumed would last forever. He fed a few into the fire. “There are still a few broken slats in the hog pen. I’d best go chop ’em up. We’re going to need a roaring fire tonight.”

“I’ll go,” Elsa said.

She retrieved her winter coat and gloves from the hook by the door and stepped out into the frosted world. Glittery, frozen tumbleweeds cartwheeled across the yard, breaking pieces off at every rotation.

She grabbed an ax from the wooden box.

Carrying it out to the empty hog pen, she surveyed the remaining slats and picked her spot, then lifted the ax, brought it down, and felt the thunk of metal on wood reverberate up through her shoulder, heard the craaack of the wood breaking.

It took her less than half an hour to destroy what was left of the hog pen and turn it into firewood.

THE SKY WAS SO gray it could smother a soul.

Elsa sat with Ant in the back of the wagon, bundled up in quilts. Loreda sat by herself, wrapped in blankets, her cheeks pink and chapped from the unseasonable cold. She had become increasingly silent and distant since Rafe had left. Elsa was surprised to realize that she preferred her daughter’s loud anger to this quiet depression. Rose and Tony sat up front, with Tony handling the reins. All of them were dressed in what tattered clothes could be called their Sunday best.

Lonesome Tree was quiet on this late-November day. Quiet in the way of a dying town. Snow covered everything.

The Catholic church looked lonely. Half of the roof had been torn away last month, and the spire had been broken. One more good wind and it would be gone.

Tony parked the wagon out front, tied the horse to the hitching post. He hauled a bucket over to the pump, filled it, and left it for Milo.

Elsa tugged a felt cloche down over her braided hair and gathered her children close. Together, they climbed the creaking steps and walked into the church. Several broken windows had been repaired with plywood, making the altar dark.

In good years there hadn’t been many Catholics in town, and these were far from good years. Every Sunday fewer came. The Irish Catholics had their own church, over in Dalhart, and the Mexicans worshipped in churches that had been built hundreds of years ago. But they were all losing members. Every church in the county was. More and more postcards and letters had begun to land in mailboxes in the Great Plains, containing notes from people in California and Oregon and Washington who had found jobs and were encouraging their kin to follow.

Elsa heard people coming in behind them. Unlike the old days, there was no gathering of women to gossip about recipes and no clot of men arguing about the weather. Even the children were quiet. The sound of hacking coughs rose above the squeaking of wooden pews.

In time, Father Michael stood before the altar and looked out at his much-diminished flock.

“We are being tested.” He looked as tired as Elsa felt. As tired as they all felt. “Let us pray this snow means rain to come. Crops to come.”

“God’s no help,” Loreda grumbled.

Rose elbowed Loreda hard.

“Tested does not mean forgotten,” Father Michael said, peering through his small round glasses at Loreda. “Let us pray.”

Elsa bowed her head. God help us, she thought but wasn’t certain it was exactly a prayer. More of a desperate plea.

They prayed and sang and prayed some more and then filed up for Communion.

When it was over, they looked at their remaining friends and neighbors. No one made eye contact for long. Each was remembering the food and fellowship that used to grace their Sundays.

Outside, the Carrio family stood by the frosted water pump.

Mr. Carrio broke free of his family and strode toward them, his face shuttered tightly. No one wanted to show too much emotion these days, afraid a little could become too much in an instant.

“Tony,” he said, pushing the hair back from his cold-reddened face. He was a shriveled, sinewy man, with a bulwark of a jaw and a thin nose.