“If I sell the beginning, I’ll never have the middle.”
She needed a breeding flock.
Not quick cash.
By June, the goslings had doubled in size.
By July, they covered the pasture like a moving pale cloud.
Their down became feathers.
Their voices deepened.
They followed Clara whenever she carried feed.
The old farm began changing around them.
Clara repaired fencing.
She converted the empty pig shed into shelter.
She planted extra forage near the creek.
She traded eggs from her hens for grain.
Mrs. Carter’s two sons helped build new gates in exchange for future goose meat at Christmas.
The flock survived.
Not all of it.
Foxes took three.
One bird injured a wing.
Several developed problems and were culled.
But by late summer, more than two hundred healthy geese remained.
That was when Harold Briggs stopped laughing.
The trouble began with a restaurant owner from Helena.
His name was Samuel Pike, and he supplied two hotels with meat.
He heard about Clara’s flock while passing through Willow Bend.
He drove to Whitmore Farm.
Clara showed him the geese.
Pike examined them carefully.
He weighed several.
He checked their feathers.
Then he asked, “What breed?”
“Mostly Embden crosses.”
“From Briggs stock?”
“Originally.”
“How many hens do you expect to keep?”
“Most of the strongest females.”
“And ganders?”
“Enough to breed next spring.”
Pike nodded.
“If you have surplus birds by November, send word.”
“How many?”
“As many as forty.”
Clara kept her expression neutral.
Inside, her heart jumped.
Forty birds could pay the tax bill.
Perhaps repair the roof.
Pike climbed back into his wagon.
Before leaving he said, “You manage these better than some professional yards I’ve seen.”
Clara remembered that sentence.
So did Harold Briggs when he heard about it.
Pike stopped at Briggs Hatchery next.
Harold knew him.
They had done business before.
“You went to Whitmore’s place?”
Pike nodded.
“Good birds.”
“Mine.”
Pike glanced at him.
“Were yours.”
Briggs frowned.
“They came from my breeding stock.”
“So do half the geese in the county.”
“Different matter.”
“How?”
Harold did not answer.
Pike shrugged.
“She has a fine flock.”
After Pike left, Harold walked behind his hatchery to the old refuse trench.
Nothing remained of the broken eggs.
Months of dirt and rain had erased the evidence.
But not the memory.
Five hundred eggs.
His eggs.