have to do the same. You know that if left to fester, this thing will become enmity between you, and I can't let that happen. Jonathan, you were brothers long before I came between you. You have to be again. Maybe this time in Dakota was meant for you and Aaron to sort of sift the chaff from the grain in your lives while you sift in the fields. I'm like a bit of bother- some wind when I'm around. I blow the two together.
But now with me here and you two there, why not let the distance serve a purpose? Let it sift away your differences and get you back to being brothers again.
I've told Aaron that I'll stay true to you from now on. He knows, too, that the baby will be yours-that there is no other way. We all have to find peace for the unborn one. For you and Aaron that can't happen till you two talk. Then he can start in building his own life and so can we.
But now, for all of us, please do as I ask, Jonathan.
But mostly for your sake and Aaron's. Let me not add this to my guilt-that I tore you forever apart.
Please return my best to Aaron.
With deepest affection,
Mary.
Jonathan slipped the letter into his cambric pocket when Mrs. Getchner handed it to him, to wait until he was away from the kitchen flurry before he read it.
It was dark when they finished eating and headed for the barn. Jonathan claimed the lantern, sitting apart from the others, who jawed awhile before turning in. The floor of the loft was swept clean in a wide circle around the lantern to prevent fires. Jonathan knelt on the floor, holding the letter toward the lamplight, haunches low, hands high, as he strained to read the words in the flickering glow. A smile creased his eyes as he pictured Mary inviting Amos and Tony in for coffee. Nobody could make a cup of coffee like Mary, he thought.
But then his expression sobered as he progressed through the letter. When he finished reading, he lay it lightly on his lowered knee, holding it there loosely between two fingers. His other knee was raised, and he braced it with an elbow as he sat motionless, pondering. A picture of her as she must have looked while writing came to him. Then he looked toward the cluster of men, reclining in haphazard poses on the hay. Aaron was smiling, listening to Joe telling some story about how his kid had harnessed a chicken. A burst of laughter filled the loft, and as Aaron leaned his head back to join in, he glanced over to find Jonathan studying him. Jonathan's face was serious, unsmil- ing. Aaron's immediately became the same. He rose and came to Jonathan, asking, 'Everything all right at home?' He knew the letter was from Mary. 'Yup,' Jonathan answered, snapping out of whatever had sobered him. 'Mary sends her regards.'
The men settled down, climbed into their rolls, grunting and yawning and shifting around to get comfortable. Someone turned out the lantern, and Jonathan considered again what Mary had said. She was right, but he needed time to sort his mind. Tomorrow was Sunday. They'd work the day as if it were any other, for crops came before worship this time of year in Dakota. But they'd probably cut the day short. He and Aaron'd have time to talk then.
As Jonathan expected, they came in from the fields a couple of hours before sunset the following day. The men were in- vited to stay in the kitchen to pass the evening, and Mrs. Getchner got out the tin popper and popped corn at the range, where the men settled to enjoy both the corn and the warmth.
Jonathan was thinking of asking Aaron to walk out toward the barn with him when Aaron stretched and said he guessed he'd turn in early. It saved Jonathan from making unnecessary excuses for their leaving. They went to the loft together, going through the familiar ritual of lantern and bedrolls.
It was darkly quiet, the dusty, sweet smell of the hay pleasant and familiar. There were few night sounds to be heard, but Jonathan could hear his brother's breathing, could hear his own heart beating at a stepped-up pace. He wanted to say things right, knew that if he failed, it could drive the wedge deeper between himself and Aaron. He began, with the words still unsure in his mind, 'Aaron, you awake?' 'Yeah,' Aaron grunted. 'It appears we got some things to settle between us,' Jonathan began. 'I figured this was coming.' 'Yeah?' The way Jonathan said it, Aaron knew how hard this was for him. 'What took you so long getting around to it?' Aaron asked. 'Thought it might settle itself.' In his halting way he added, 'Didn't, though.'
Aaron wondered what Jonathan wanted of him, wondered what had finally prompted him to speak. He asked, 'Did Mary say something in her letter?' 'She, ah…' Jonathan cleared his throat, giv ing himself time to make his thoughts clearer. 'Ah…she thinks it's best we talk about it between us, sort of, settle the air a bit. 'He paused, then added, 'Reckon she's right.'
Still, Jonathan didn't mention the baby. Did he want Aaron to admit he was the father or what? Aaron knew how hard this must be for his brother, and at last Aaron promp- ted, 'About the baby?' 'Yes.' But still Jonathan didn't say more. He wanted to but couldn't. They lay side by side in the dark, listening to each other breathe, make small movements, thoughts of Mary glimmering through their minds. Thoughts of their brother- hood came, too, of the rift they'd suffered, how the rift had become a chasm. The silence grew lengthy, and Aaron waited in vain for Jonathan to say more. Drawing a deep breath, feeling a mixture of trepidation and release all at once, he said, 'Mary said the baby is mine.' 'Yeah, I knew that,' Jonathan said, his heart hammering fit to burst. 'We didn't intend it, Jonathan. It just happened, that's all.'
Another silence weighted them down while both men sought for an understanding. 'I'm sorry, Jonathan,' Aaron said, reaching his own under- standing. 'I am, too,' came Jonathan's voice. 'I thought I wouldn't be, but I am.'
The trepidation easing, Aaron asked, 'What made you ask it of us?' 'At the time it seemed the clear way. I guess I talked myself into it being the clear way.'
'Have you got any idea the pain it caused Mary…and me? We didn't see it in the same light as you did, Jonathan.' 'I reckon I know that now. Even after I asked it I never thought you'd do it, you were so mad. But it's a funny thing how it worked out like I asked, anyway, about the baby and all. I can't say I ain't happy about the baby. Guess I gotta thank you for that.' 'If it was the other way around,' Aaron said, 'I don't think I'd be thanking you. If she were my wife, I'd kill the man who laid a hand on her.'
Jonathan, in the darkness beside his brother, realized then the depth of feelings he'd been author to. He'd been so sure there was nothing between Aaron and Mary before the start of this. Chances are there hadn't been. But what a fool he'd been to think a thing like that could happen and leave people the same afterward. 'You love her, then?' he asked, dreading the answer.
Should he lie and add to the damage already done? Or would the truth do more damage? Aaron plunged the rest of the way. 'I love her, Jonathan. I can't deny it. I reckon she's what I was looking to find-only I never knew it till this happened. She was always too close for me to see.'
A pang of sudden regret and fear hit Jonathan, his fear of losing Mary becoming a real possibility. 'What about you and Priscilla?' he asked hopefully. 'We tried, Jonathan, but it just wouldn't work for us.' After a pause he admitted, 'We never really loved each other. We were just convenient, I guess.' 'Seemed for a while there, you two got on just fine,' Jonathan offered, but he knew it was wishful thinking. 'It's not hard to get on fine with half of Moran Township marching you up the aisle before you know what's happen- ing. With everybody pushing and shoving at us, I guess I thought she was probably the right one for me. Aw, hell, I don't know, Jonathan. Sometimes I thought maybe I loved her. But I guess we don't always pick who we love. If we could, Pris and I would be married by now.' 'You don't intend to patch it up with her, then?' 'No. Priscilla just doesn't measure up anymore. Mary's your wife. You should know she's not a woman you…' But Aaron found that any way he tried to say what he meant would reveal too much. 'Aw, hell, Jonathan. I just need some time to get over this, that's all. I could no more rebound back to Pris right now than you could tell the good citizens of Moran that the baby is mine.'
Oh, that hurt, but Jonathan guessed he deserved it. He knew it meant an even deeper involvement than he'd first suspected. At least on Aaron's part. And in spite of himself, he wanted to know the truth about Mary's feelings, too. 'And what about Mary?' he couldn't help asking. 'Does she love you, too?'
Aaron found he couldn't strip every shed of pride away from Jonathan by saying yes. 'Like I said, she's your wife. That's for you to ask her, for her to say. What did she say in her letter?' 'That there'll be nothing more between you and we'll say the baby's mine. She says you'll find things will work out best this way.'
Of course that's what she said, Aaron thought. Hadn't she already told him the same thing that night in the barn? She was right, of course, but that didn't make it any easier. Still, it was up to him to confirm it to Jonathan. 'That's how it'll be, then, Jonathan, and I swear that's the truth.'
They could hear voices near the barn and knew the others would be mounting the ladder soon. But there was
