Chapter 24: The Porch

By the first Saturday of the next month, the hill under the cottonwood had four corner posts and a smell of cut pine.

I stood on a ladder with a hammer in my hand and sawdust in my hair.

Below me, Poppy sat on an overturned bucket in her pink hat, sorting nails by size.

She had been in charge of the nails for three days, and she took it seriously.

"That one's too big," she said, holding one up. "And that one's bent."

"Throw out the bent one."

"I'm keeping it. It has character."

"It has a bend in it."

"That's what character is," my daughter said.

I laughed so hard I nearly dropped the hammer.

Up the slope, Ironside's grave had a flat stone at its head and a ring of wildflowers that Carys had planted in the spring.

She said she did not plan to visit it every day.

She did, just the same, and I did not mention it.

Dust rose on the gravel road.

A red truck and a stock trailer turned in at the DUNNING STOCK gate and came up toward the house.

Poppy jumped off her bucket.

"She's back! She's back with Rope!"

She ran down the hill with her arms out and the hat hanging by its string.

I climbed off the ladder and followed her.

Carys climbed out of the cab in her canvas jacket with her braid over one shoulder.

She had spent the week in Austin, at the state association's hearing on the Faulk Rodeo.

She looked tired, and she looked happy.

"Did they do it?" Poppy asked.

"They did it," Carys said. "The whole board voted. The Faulks will never hold a sanctioned rodeo again."

"Good."

"Their lawyer cried."

"Poppy," I said.

"He's a mean man who cries," Poppy said. "That's allowed to be good."

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