September smelled of cut hay and school buses. Ruth started a small evening music hour at the library: folk songs, a little gospel, requests written on index cards. Walt attended every one and clapped too loud on purpose. One night, after the last parent had collected the last child, Ruth locked the library door and said, "I got another letter from Denver. Same producer. He wants me for a tour. Three months. Fall dates."
Walt felt the old corridor open—the one that led to releasing, to porch lights, to bus tickets with no expiration. He breathed through it. "What do you want?"
"I want to say no," Ruth said. "And I want you to believe me when I say no isn't about fear. It's about choosing. I chose this county. I chose that porch. I chose a rancher who keeps fiddle strings in his vest like some men keep luck. The tour would be good. This is better."
"You're sure?"
"I'm sure enough to say it out loud in a library, which is sacred ground for second thoughts."