Elsa stood in the falling snow. The sounds of the world were muffled by the airy flakes. Such a pretty, sparkling layer of white; she marveled that she could still find beauty in nature. As she headed down into the root cellar, she heard Bella’s low, mournful moan. The poor cow was as hungry and thirsty as the rest of them. Shivering with cold, Elsa stared at the empty shelves. There should be boxes of onions and potatoes, mason jars full of fruits and vegetables; instead there were bare shelves.

And now . . . this news from the government expert.

Elsa had thought of the plains pioneers, people like Tony and Rose, as indomitable, invincible. People who had come to this vast, unknown country with nothing but a dream and who had tamed the land with grit and determination and hard work.

But apparently they’d misjudged the land. Or, worse, misused it.

She thought about their daily chores, done this week in a bitter, skin-biting cold, and tonight there would only be a slice of bread, a few of last season’s soft potatoes, and a bit of smoked ham for supper. Not enough to fill any of their bellies. And then it would be time for bed and they would each go their own way, into their own black, frigid rooms, unwilling to waste precious fuel or money for anything as fanciful as light, and they would crawl into beds that always felt gritty no matter how often they changed the sheets, and try to fall asleep.

Now she took three shriveled potatoes from the box, trying not to notice how few were left, and walked back out into the falling snow.

“Mom?”

Elsa turned.

Loreda wore layers of ill-fitting clothes, and two pair of knee socks, which no doubt increased the discomfort of wearing outgrown shoes. In the past few months, Loreda had let her bob grow out and so her hair was almost to her shoulders. An uneven fringe of bangs hung past her nose and continually covered her eyes. She said it didn’t matter what she looked like anymore because she had no friends.

Even so, her beauty was remarkable. No bad haircut or cheap frock could dim it. She had inherited her father’s olive complexion and elegant bone structure and luxurious black hair. And those eyes, like Elsa’s and yet more intensely blue. Almost violet. Someday men would see her across a crowded street and stop in their tracks.

Loreda’s cheeks were bright pink; melted snowflakes glistened on her dark lashes and full lips. “I want to talk to you.”

“Okay.”

Loreda led the way up to the porch and sat down on the swing.

Elsa sat down beside her.

“I’ve been thinking,” Loreda said.

“Oh, no,” Elsa said quietly.

“I’ve been a crumb to you since Daddy . . . you know, made tracks.”

Elsa was shocked by the acknowledgment. All she could think of to say was, “I know how much he hurt you.”

“He isn’t coming back, is he?

Elsa longed to touch her daughter’s hair, brush it back from her forehead in the kind of intimate touch that had been possible years ago, back when Loreda’s body had felt like an extension of her own and Elsa had thought that her daughter’s bold heart must surely strengthen Elsa’s weaker one. “I don’t think so. No.”

“I gave him the idea.”

“Oh, honey. Don’t take responsibility for his actions. He’s a grown man. He did what he wanted to do.”

Loreda was silent for a long time before she said, “That man from the government, he says this land is ruined.”

“That’s his opinion, I guess.”

“It isn’t a hard thing to believe.”

“No.”

“I should get a job,” Loreda said. “Make some money . . . to help out.”

“I’m proud of you for that, Loreda, but half of the country is out of work. There are no jobs. We are the lucky ones, on the farms. We still have food.”

“We are not lucky,” Loreda said.

“In the spring, when it rains—”

“We need to leave.”

“Loreda, honey, I’d do anything for you—”

“But not this.” Loreda stood up abruptly. “Not leave. You’re saying no to me, just like you said no to Daddy.”

Elsa released a heavy sigh and stood. “I’ll say to you what I should have had the courage to say to your father: I love this land. I love this family. This is home. I want you to grow up here, knowing that this is your place, your future.”

“But it’s dying, Mom. And it will kill us where we stand.”

“How do you know it’s better in California? And don’t give me that land-of-milk-and-honey nonsense. You saw the newsreel the other day. Half the country is out of work. Soup kitchens can’t keep up with the demand. At least here we have some food and water and a roof over our heads. I can hardly get a railroad job as a single mother. And your grandparents . . .”

“They’ll never leave,” Loreda said.

Elsa unwrapped Rafe’s shirt from around her throat. “I’d like you to have this. It’s rather old and tattered, but it was made with love.”

Loreda took Rafe’s shirt carefully, as if it were made of spun dreams, and wrapped it around her neck. “I can still smell his hair pomade.”

“Yes.”

Tears brightened Loreda’s eyes.

“I’m sorry, Loreda,” Elsa said.