Jake rubbed his face.

  "We'll deal with this tomorrow," he repeated. "But I got a feelin'..."

  "A feeling of what?" I said, my voice a little sharp. I was afraid.

  "Nevermind," he said. "Where will we sleep?"

  "We?"

  The thought of him sleeping in my room, in this house, was suddenly shocking.

  "No one's home," he said. "But sleep where you like. A rug in front this stove serves me fine."

  Of course. We'd be better off together on a night this cold, unless I wanted to waste time with another fire in my own bedroom. I bit my lip.

  "Too proper to sleep with me?" Jake grinned.

  "Hush your mouth," I said.

  We dragged bedding down and collapsed on top of it.

  I woke the next morning to find Jake gone. The space next to me was cold, and his boots were missing. He'd gone out.

  I had grown too used to having him near me. I threw on Mama's shawl and went outside. Being alone in the unnatural-feeling house frightened me.

  Outside the rains were calmer, more of a spraying mist. The land looked muddy and utterly unfamiliar. The thorax weeds had come for Mama's garden at last, strangling whatever remained of her squashes. Just how long had she been gone?

  My eyes caught on Jake's white shirt in the distance. I sloshed through the tall grass barefoot.

  "Jake!" I called.

  Two men were with him. As I approached their gestures grew wilder. Jake's raised voice carried over to me.

  Before I would have hung on back and let them sort it out, their Men's Business. But all the strangeness had to have an explanation, and I wanted to hear it for myself.

  "What's going on?"

  Jake turned. Something was wrong; I knew it instantly. He had gone red under his tan. His hands were thrust into his belt.

  "See there? That's Cal Sampson's daughter. She owns this land by law, if her Pa and Ma ain't here to claim it."

  "A nigger?" one of the strangers snorted.

  I didn't recognize him, though I knew the other one. One of the Henley farmhands.

  "What do you want, Sir?" I asked.

  "Don't 'sir' him," spat Jake. "He ain't no sir. He's just a connivin' bastard looking to take advantage."

  "Only bastard I see here is you, McCoy," the man fired back.

  I repeated, "What do you want?"

  The two men looked at each other. They seemed to silently agree on the same thing.

  "Cal Sampson's been murdered out in Utah," the Henley man said. "And his wife's been driven off. We come to see what portion of the land we want to buy at the auction."

  I flared: "My Pa's not dead!"

  "Her Pa, she says," said the stranger. "Can she prove it?"

  "What do you mean Mrs. Sampson's been driven off?" said Jake, jumping at the point I'd missed.

  "She ran off."

  "Why? Who did it?"

  "Somebody," said the stranger, "Who didn't like the thought of a nigger sittin' so nice-"

  "A what?" I barked.

  I wished I had a shotgun. A bat. A razor. But all I had was my voice. Usually Jake found my anger funny. He wasn't laughing now. Neither were the men.

  “Where is Ada Sampson?” I said. “Tell me!”

  “Who knows?”

  “Didn’t want to sell the land, and someone taught her a lesson. Just like we’ll teach you a lesson, girlie.”

  "Nobody is selling this land," I said, in the same awful Voice.

  "Begging your pardon," said the first man, "But if there's no prior claimants to county property, it goes to auction. This is entirely legal."

  "You're looking at a prior claimant," I said.

  But they were done dancing around it.

  "Unless you can show you're the daughter of Cal Sampson," he said, "It don't matter a fiddler's fart. And beggin' your pardon, no judge will believe a girl as dark as you is a white man's blowby."

  "We are known through the town," I said. "Everybody knows my face."

  "Everybody knows your Daddy sits on the best land in the county," said the first man. "That's been left to fallow and rot."

  "That's right," I said. "And by rights I can kick you off. Good day."

  "We'll be back, Missy."

  We watched them clump away, Jake and me. I was trembling with rage. He eyed me sidelong.

  "They'll be fit to hang you."

  "You should have said something," I snapped.

  "Didn't I stand here for twenty minutes tellin' them to go to hell before you came along?"

  I brushed my eyes angrily. He was right. It wasn't Jake who had abandoned me, but my parents.

  "Stop crying," said Jake.

  "I'm not crying!"

  "You are. Quit it."

  He looked exceedingly uncomfortable, like I'd just grown scales and a tail. I swiped at my eyes viciously.

  "I can't make it stop."

  "I don't like tears," he said. "They're pointless, ain't they?"

  "Then don't look at them. I'll cry if I damn well want to."

  "You damn well won't cuss at me," he said.

  I tried out the word. "Fuck you."

  I stormed back to the house. My mother was gone, God knew where. Papa in prison. Jake...who knew. Who knew anything?

  To get my mind right I cleaned up the house. I hoped to find some sign of where Mama had gone, preferrably in writing, but there was none. Papa's spare pistol, I noticed, was not in the usual place. She had taken it. The only sign she'd left in a hurry.

  I was the mistress of the estate. The ranch lady.

  Some minutes later Jake came through the front door. He watched me flit about the kitchen, ignoring him.

  "You gonna wear something other than that nightshirt?" he said finally.

  I glared at him. Then I noticed he was wearing his old farmhand clothes, the ones he'd left in the barn, which were gray with age and ripped in places. Wearing Pa's clothes made him uncomfortable. But his farmhand rags now seemed incongruous with his handsomeness, and they annoyed me.

  “When you stop dressin’ like a beggar,” I replied.

  "The horse ain't well," he said. "Too beaten-down from the trip and the rain last night. I was gonna go to town and figure out just what the hell happened here."

  I put down the cleaning rag. "That would be helpful."

  "I suggest," he said, "You start looking for some proof of ownership. The land papers, titles. Stuff to prove you're Cal's daughter."

  "They're all in Papa's study."

  "Well gather them up. If those boys come back it won't be with a priest."

  Why was he telling me what I already knew?

  "Thanks," I said.

  He raised an eyebrow. "Of course I'll be a witness-"

  "An illiterate farmhand and a negress," I said. "We'll make a convincing case."

  There was an awful pause.

  "I'm sorry," I said.

  "It's alright."

  The silence expanded. I busily polished the mantelpiece.

  "You know," I said, almost to myself, "There's some things I can figure out on my own. I don't need you to instruct me."

  "Of course."

  "Not that I don't appreciate it."

  Jake said, "Maybe we ought to consider something else."

  "Like what?"

  "Fighting."

  “I can’t fight, Jake.”

  “Anyone can fight.”

  “I never learned. I don’t have it in me.”

  “That’s why you let folks push you around,” he said. “You won’t stand up and tell ‘em what’s what.”

  “I guess I should just cut everyone up with a razor,” I fired back, “And go to jail for my troubles.”

  “I never been to jail,” said Jake.

  “Then shut up,” I snapped, “Before I fix that.”

  We went around the house and took stock. Papa had never been a

  great collector of guns. His pistol, as I said, was gone. He'd had the pair of six-shooters with him when he left for Texas.

  "The rifle's in the shed," said Jake.

  We made for the shed. It was swinging wide open. A pair of man's boots were dangling out the door.

  I started back, but Jake stalked up and gave the boots a kick. The owner jumped.

  "Shug," said Jake disgustedly.

  I hurried forward. The old man was sprawled forward, his head resting on his arms. A sharp, acrid smell came off him. He was drunk, and the wet stuff under his cheek was vomit.

  "Mizzuh?" he groaned.

  Jake hauled him up.

  "Jakey," Shug croaked. "Land's easy, boy. What're you doin' in my house?"

  "Excuse us," said Jake.

  He hauled the man out and sat him in the soggy grass. Then he continued the search.

  "Got the bullets," he called.

  "Is that Miss Minnie?" grunted Shug, wiping his crusty cheek.

  "Why were you in the shed, Shug?"

  "Lookin' for the gun. Men got to Missus, she was in the house-"

  "Mrs. Sampson?"

  Shug nodded. "Sure. But my head was spinnin' too fast and it was dark. Shug, she says, go get that rifle, before they string us up on yonder tree. So I run off to get it, and hit my head there bang on the lintel."

  "What happened to Mama?"

  "Guess she run off or they strung her up after all." He suddenly looked miserable. "And I reckon it's my fault."

  "Found a piece," said Jake, emerging. "This one's about a decade old. I doubt it can shoot."

  It would have to do. Shug limped off to get sober, and Jake sat on the porch and methodically cleaned the ancient shotgun.

  Together we worked out what must have happened.

  Some men, likely working for Jim Henley's father, came to ask about the land. Or to claim that, since rumor had it Cal Sampson was dead in Utah, his land was up for grabs. Mama must have told them to go to hell. They came back with company and weapons. Mama had to run for it.

  She might have been hurt, or dead.

  And now here I was, showing up to upset the Henley plans. They would claim I was an imposter. A pretender. The real Minnie Sampson was gone. Maybe they would even say the real Minnie Sampson had never existed.

  "I need a lawyer," I said, the weight of it hitting me at once.

  "Who?"

  I went for Shug. If you could catch him sober, Shug could make short work of the mile and a half to town. And men knew him as one of my family's own.

  "Get Mr. Larssen," I said. "Please, Shug. Tell him Minnie's home and in dire need."

  But the lawyer didn't show up that night, and neither did Henley's men. Shug never returned. At dusk I considered going over to the Henley property to forge some kind of diplomacy. I'd known Mr. Henley all my life. He and Papa were almost friends. Surely this was all a misunderstanding.

  But it started to rain again. With Jake sitting in the corner like a sentinel, I tore Papa's study upside-down. The Will was at the bottom of the oak desk, written in Papa's unsteady hand.

  The ranch, the animals, and all of Papa's money would go to his issue and his/her family.

  Papa had held out hope he would one day have a son.

  I showed Jake the document. His eyes scanned it vaguely, unable to read the important marks.

  "That's the Will?"

  "Yes."

  "That little piece of paper?"

  "If I take this to the lawyer, I can get a land title written up. Proof. Evidence."

  "If you say so."

  But it was never so easy. For a week I could not get a word with Mr. Larssen. He was avoiding me. When Jake went in person to summon him, he was told:

  "Mr. Larssen is more selective of his clients these days."

  "You mean," said Jake, "Because the lady's a negro, he don't want to help her?"

  Mr. Larssen's secretary puffed up like a little bird. "He has a right to choose his clients. It's a free country."

  Jake said, "The lady is outside. She came all the way here to see him."

  "I can't help her."

  Jake looked at the little man. Then he turned on his heel and went outside, where I was waiting. His eyes were a little brighter than usual.

  "He says Larssen is busy. It's a heap of lies."

  Jake fumbled for a cigarette, realized he was out, and swore.

  I adjusted my hat and went inside.

  "Where is Mr. Larssen?"

  "Get out," said the secretary.

  "Where is he? I came to see a lawyer. I came three miles to see him."

  "Get out or I'll have you removed," said the secretary.

  I looked outside. Jake was still standing there, his hands in his pockets, staring out at the street. He leaned against the building, shuffling his thoughts around. Comfortable in the world. His world. The world of a white man. Any white man, even a dirty McCoy, could have the earth at his beck and call.

  I turned back to the secretary. He was white, too. I wanted to wipe the sneer off his face.

  "Mr. Larssen's almost the richest man in town, isn't he?" I said.

  The secretary said nothing.

  "Papa helped him get settled here," I said. "He was running from some scandal back East. He never would have made it here without Papa. Cal Sampson."

  The secretary said nothing. He had a mug of coffee sitting at his elbow. Everything neat and in place, with a neat and in place little smile. The smile said, get out nigger, before I whip you up the street. Invoking Papa’s name was useless. It didn’t matter who my daddy was. Only who I was, in this moment.

  The secretary took a sip of his coffee and waited for me to finish. When he set the mug down I reached out and lifted it up and poured it all over his neat little papers and neat little inkwell and neat little smile.

  The screech he gave was inhuman. I tumbled from the office. The man howled all kinds of things. I turned and howled back at him. The words wrenched out from some deep, rotten pit of hate inside me. Never in life had I raised my voice as I did then, and all of the curses I’d stored up from Mama came roaring out and dancing up the street.

  The scene blurred. Jake was holding the man back, folks were coming out into the street to watch, even a stray dog stopped mid-piss and stared. The man broke free from Jake and hurtled at me, his hands like claws. Jake got him by the collar and flung him back against the building.

  Three white men peeled themselves off a wall and started for our commotion. Jake saw them before I did.

  "Minnie!"

  With that instinct common to black folks everywhere, I knew I'd better scram.

  The nice hat fell off my head. My scarf trailed behind me. I got all the way to the top of the road and hid in the bushes. Behind me was a massive pine. Visions of nooses and fires danced through my head. I believe I only fainted once.

  Jake came up the road an hour later, leading the horse we had ridden in on, ruffled and black-eyed and more than irritated. I stepped out of my hiding place. I looked even worse than he did, because I had been crying.

  He stopped.

  "You've done it now."

  "Did they come after you?"

  "They almost lynched me."

  "I'm sorry."

  He stared at me. "You were crying?"

  "No."

  "Wipe your eyes."

  I did. He scowled, as if annoyed, but he took my hand and helped me on the horse.

  Our land opened before us like the valley of Canaan, green and lush and inviting. At night the sky rose up in a wash of royal purple and covered everything. I watched it from the porch, with Jake. In town we had planned to stock up on bullets for his gun after going to the lawyer. The commotion had made that impossible. It was a mistake we were regretting.

  “I hate it,” I said, my voice still choked.

  “Hate what?” murmured Jake.

  “I could have gone in there dressed like Queen Victoria. And you know what? He would have still turned me out.”