2 days later, the war came to Clara. Eli was working on the windmill, the metal gears screeching in the dry wind. Clara had walked down to the creek, the lower section that was still undeniably theirs, to wash the dust from the laundry. It was a quarter mile from the house, obscured by a line of cottonwoods. She was scrubbing a shirt against the washboard.
The cold water numbing her fingers. When the birds in the trees suddenly went silent, Clara straightened. She wiped her hands on her apron. She listened. The rustle of the brush was behind her.
She spun around, reaching for the small knife she now carried in her pocket. But she was too slow. A rope hissed through the air. A lasso loop dropped over her shoulders and tightened instantly, pinning her arms to her sides. She was jerked off her feet, dragging through the gravel and mud.
She didn't scream. She kicked. She twisted her body, fighting the rope. But the man on the other end was strong. She was hauled up against the trunk of a cottonwood tree.
A man stepped out of the brush. He was wearing a mask. A simple bandana pulled up over his nose. "This is a warning," the man whispered. He stepped close, smelling of tobacco and horse sweat.
He pulled the rope tighter, the rough hemp burning into her neck. Tell your husband to sell. Tell him the next time the rope goes over a branch, not around your arms. He drew a knife. Clara stopped breathing.
She stared at his eyes. Hard, flat, indifferent. He brought the knife up and slashed it across her arm, shallow, but long. A line of bright red blood on her sleeve. "Sell," he hissed.
He shoved her hard against the tree, loosened the rope, and vanished back into the brush. Clara sank to the ground. She touched her throat. It was throbbing. She looked at her arm.
The cut was stinging, but it wasn't deep. It was precise. It was a message. She scrambled up, grabbing the knife she had dropped, and ran back to the house. When Eli saw her, he dropped his tools and ran to meet her.
He caught her as she stumbled up the porch steps. "Clara? " he saw the blood on her sleeve. He saw the angry red welt circling her neck. His face went terrifyingly blank. "Who? " he asked.
"Masked? " Clara gasped, leaning against him. "One man down by the creek. " He said, "He said to sell. " Eli did not speak. He helped her inside. He sat her down and cleaned the cut on her arm with trembling hands. He put a cold compress on her throat.