back of my head for saying so. Every rut had a memory. Every bend had a reason. The land opened at the top of the ridge the same way it always had, rolling down into my southern pasture, dipping toward the spring, rising again toward the old stacked-stone fence that marked the boundary between Mercer land and the property south of it.
Only now, in the middle of that pasture, the sunlight flashed off water.
For a few seconds, my mind refused to understand what my eyes were seeing. I