Rainwater by Sandra Brown Page B

had ever known. She loved her husband, loved her children, loved her life. Ella hoped her innate happiness would sustain her and her family through this.
    Ollie was a salt-of-the-earth type, big-eared and bighearted. He’d struggled to pass from one school grade to the next because of all the days he had to miss in order to help his father work their farm, milking the herd before and after school and doing everything else required to maintain the place. But Ollie had given up school willingly. Know-how had been more valuable to him than book learning, and his hands-on experience had paid off. He took pride in how much the farm had prospered under his supervision.
    At least until the past few years, when he’d been forced to borrow money to sustain his herd and his family until the drought ended and his grazing pastures turned green again. What milk he could get from his underfed cows, he’d had to sell cheap, creating a need for another loan. That vicious cycle had put him and Lola deeply in debt and in danger of losing their farm.
    They would benefit greatly from the DRS’s program to buy their herd for pennies on the dollar, but at what cost emotionally?
    Mr. Rainwater said, “I’m afraid we’re too late.”
    Ella spotted the cloud of dust rising out of the roadbed almost at the same time he spoke. “What is it?”
    “A convoy, I suspect.”
    The distance between them and the column of swirling dust closed rapidly. They were almost even with it before they could pick out individual vehicles. In the lead was a cattle truck with dairy cows crammed inside. Following it were three black cars, all with insignias painted on the sides, dour-faced men inside. One man in the first car was standing on the running board, holding on to an open window, a rifle propped on his shoulder.
    “Are they the—”
    “Shooters,” Mr. Rainwater said, finishing for her.
    Over the roar of the passing cars, she heard another sound, which at first she thought was one of the cars backfiring. But when Mr. Rainwater said a swearword under his breath, she noticed how tightly he was gripping the steering wheel, how tensely his jaw was set.
    “What’s that popping noise?”
    “Gunfire.”
    She turned her head and watched as the government cars disappeared behind a swell in the road. The gunshots weren’t coming from them. So who was shooting? A cold knot of fear formed in her chest. To help stave it off, she said, “This is different from what happened at the Pritchetts’ place.”
    Mr. Rainwater turned his head and gave her a significant look.
    Protesting her own misgivings, she said, “That happened because of the folks in shantytown. But none of them would come out this far. They wouldn’t have any way to get here. So who’s shooting? And why?”
    She was still disturbed by images of the injuries she had seen inflicted on women and children. She remembered Brother Calvin’s account of the toddler being snatched from Mrs. Pritchett’s arms while Sheriff Anderson and his deputies did nothing. Suddenly she was very afraid for her friends.
    “Hurry,” she urged, leaning forward as though willing the car to go faster. “It’s the next left.”
    Just before they reached the turnoff to the Thompsons’ farm, a pickup spun out onto the road, made a sharp right turn, and headed straight toward them. The truck fishtailed in the loose gravel, almost throwing several men out of its bed before it straightened. It stayed in their lane until the very last moment, then, with a blast of the horn, it swerved to cross the yellow stripe.
    The truck buffeted Mr. Rainwater’s coupe as it zoomed past. Ella recognized the man at the wheel—Conrad Ellis. Crowded into the cab with him were three other men. There were a dozen or so in the truck bed, hanging on to each other and whatever else they could for stability. None seemed too concerned about the possibility of being pitched out. They were laughing, whooping, firing pistols and deer rifles into