“People remember.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
He wiped the counter.
“He’s saying you misunderstood permission.”
Clara felt heat rise behind her eyes.
“Permission to do what?”
“To attempt hatching them.”
She laughed in disbelief.
“He says the surviving birds were supposed to be returned?”
The storekeeper did not answer.
That was answer enough.
Clara walked out.
By afternoon, a different version of history had begun spreading through Willow Bend.
Harold Briggs had generously allowed struggling Clara Whitmore to experiment with damaged eggs.
Clara had then refused to return the successful birds.
The story was ridiculous.
It was also dangerous.
Harold had status.
Money.
Employees.
Customers.
People sometimes chose the version of truth that belonged to the richer man simply because it felt safer.
Clara rode directly to Briggs Hatchery.
Harold stood outside the main building.
He did not look surprised.
“You’re telling people I stole your birds?”
“I’m explaining the misunderstanding.”
“There was no misunderstanding.”
“That’s your position.”
“You called the eggs garbage.”
“I was upset about the accident.”
“You ordered them dumped.”
“For disposal.”
“You told me to take them.”
“For an experiment.”
Clara stepped closer.
“No.”
Harold’s voice remained calm.
“You have no document saying otherwise.”
“You had witnesses.”
“My employees.”
There it was.
Not denial.
Confidence.
Clara understood suddenly why he had spoken differently in town.
He believed his workers would support him.
Perhaps they needed their jobs.
Perhaps he had already spoken to them.
Harold leaned toward her slightly.
“I’ll increase my offer to fifty dollars. Return half the flock and we end this.”
“They are not yours.”
“If we go before a judge, are you certain of that?”
“Yes.”
His eyes hardened.
“You should consider what happens if you lose.”
Clara did.
She imagined men entering her pasture.
Taking the geese.
Taking the foundation of the farm she had nearly rebuilt.
She imagined starting again with nothing.
Then she remembered the hatchery worker holding the cracked crate.
The one who had asked if they should dump the eggs.
Tom Vance.
She turned away.
Harold called after her.
“Fifty dollars is generous.”
Clara did not look back.
“I wouldn’t sell you one feather.”
Finding Tom Vance was easy.
Getting him to talk was not.
He lived in a small rented cabin near the edge of town.
Clara knocked after sunset.