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John came home in time for Christmas, his face thin, eyes haunted.

He refused to say much about his time overseas.

He refused to say what he knew, if anything, about James’s death.

Adele was dismayed at how easily they all papered over James’s absence by refusing to speak of him.

Mrs. Clemson no longer played his favorite songs in the evening.

Silence replaced the stories about James hiding in the corncrib and falling asleep, breaking his arm jumping out of the haymow, teaching two of the herding dogs to run an obstacle course of rails and barrels he’d built one summer.

James and John had been only thirteen months apart.

(“Your poor mother,” said Mrs. Maggs.) Adele had grown up thinking of them as a unit—one was never far from the other.

Sometimes they allowed her to play with them, but never as often as she liked.

Just like everyone else, her brothers expected her to spend her time with Pauline, seven years her elder and every bit their mother’s daughter in a way that Adele never would be.

Now that Claude was home, easily startled by loud noises but otherwise whole and healthy, Pauline and her sons had moved back to their own house.

It was just her and John now. Adele knew she couldn’t fill James’s place in John’s heart, but she’d hoped they could remember him together.

She asked John to go with her to Oklahoma City so that when she bought her car, he could drive the motor truck back home.

She’d decided on the Dodge Model 30, as opposed to the Model T.

It was faster. And she liked the way it looked—sturdy and sporty at the same time—and that it had a full back seat.

“I wonder what James would make of it,” she said to John.

“Me buying a car for myself. Do you remember when Daddy first let him drive the high wheeler and he—”

But John sighed. “I’m sorry, Dellie. I just can’t.”

They drove in silence the rest of the way. When they reached Broadway Avenue, John parked the truck and offered to accompany her into the dealership. Adele, smarting from his refusal to talk about James, told him that wouldn’t be necessary. He could go on and take the truck home.

“They might not deal with you,” he warned. “And then you’d be stuck here. I better come in too.”

“If they won’t deal with me, then they won’t get my money. I guess you can wait, but I’m going in by myself.”

She had worn a dress—not her best one, but close—and button-up calfskin boots that squeezed her toes. She’d marcelled her hair and pinched her cheeks. “Well, I hardly knew you!” said her mother when Adele came downstairs that morning. “You might make the effort more often.”

Adele had made the effort because it was what men expected. John was right. They wouldn’t want to deal with her, especially if they didn’t like the look of her.

The shop smelled of new leather and Simoniz wax. Men with pomaded hair looked up, their eyes searching beyond her for a husband, a father, a brother. She clutched her leather wallet, ran a thumb over its smooth grain, reminded herself that she had good money to spend.

“Hello, Miss. You lost? Looking for the hotel down the street, perhaps?” The man who greeted her had a shiny bald head and avaricious eyes that went immediately to the wallet in her hands. She took this as a good sign.

“Actually, I’m looking for that,” she said, pointing out the window to the gleaming Dodge Model 30 parked outside.

The bald man chewed his lip and regarded her with curiosity. His partner across the room, who was assisting two other men with their automotive needs, snapped, “Tell your husband he’ll have to come in himself. We only deal with buyers directly.”

“I am the buyer.” Adele patted the wallet. The men across the room stopped talking about last year’s Model T and stared at her.

The bald man said, “An automobile is a big responsibility. And a big purchase, Miss ...”

“Clemson.”

“Jim Clemson’s daughter? I sold him a motor truck two years back.”

“I know. I’m the one who changes the oil and the spark plugs on it.”

The bald man extended a hand and introduced himself.

Waves of angry disapproval and lemony pomade surged from the men across the room, threatening to swamp her.

She was accustomed to sensing this disapproval from women.

Men besides her father and brother usually just acted as if she didn’t exist. Her salesman took her elbow and guided her toward the door, toward safety, murmuring, “Now the Dodge Model 30 is a fine vehicle. Why don’t we step outside and look it over? Right this way, Miss Clemson.”

Adele slid out from beneath the Dodge and noted the slant of the sun’s afternoon rays.

She would be late to supper. Again. She dawdled in the near barn, putting away her tools.

Maybe she ought to just stay outside until supper was over.

That way she wouldn’t have to listen to her mother’s nightly account of everything wrong with her: her ragged nails, unstyled hair, and unfashionable wardrobe.

And these were the things Adele could at least do something about—unlike her unfortunate height and the fact that she had her father’s nose.

The night before, John had defended her, saying Adele’s nose made her look regal.

Imposing. That men would think her handsome, if not pretty.

Their mother had waved this off and said that if Adele would simply do something with her hair, pinch some color into her cheeks, direct some of her mechanical inclination to the sewing machine .

.. Adele hated the sewing machine. She was beginning to hate suppertime too.

But she was hungry, so she stalked into the dining room, wearing John’s old trousers, a grease streak over one eyebrow, and a scowl, only to find that they had company. John had invited Charles Ector, the card-playing soldier, to supper.

Her mother glared at her but said nothing, just passed Adele an insufficiently laden plate. John said, “Charles, this is my sister, Adele. The family mechanic.” Mrs. Clemson let out a sharp puff of breath.

John continued, “Adele, Charles Ector. We met in France.”

“I remember from the letters,” said Adele. “You played a lot of cards. And what do you do now, Mr. Ector?” If she could get him talking, maybe she could focus on her dinner while making encouraging noises between bites of food.

“I’m in oil.”

He was not, it seemed, inclined to elaborate. Adele, starving, looked mournfully at the forkful of pork roast that was halfway to her mouth.

John came to her rescue. “Charles is being modest. He’s not just ‘in’ oil. He’s on the verge of becoming one of the most successful wildcatters in northern Oklahoma.”

“I don’t care for that term,” said Charles. “There’s nothing wild about it. I use scientific methods to decide where to drill.” He went on about the importance of soil samples, topographic maps, and geologic analysis while Adele cleaned her plate.

“But enough about all that,” said Charles as she dabbed her mouth with her napkin. “I hear you bought a car.”

Adele cut her eyes at John. Her brother looked strangely pleased with himself.

“Oh, I didn’t hear it from him,” said Charles.

“John only talks about cattle.” Adele had noticed this herself.

“Everyone else in the county is talking about it. A young lady walking into a dealership all by herself, buying her own car. It’s all anyone can talk about. The girl who bought the Model T.”

“It’s a Dodge, actually,” said Adele, and Mrs. Clemson huffed again.

“Even better. Superior horsepower. I’d love to see it.”

She allowed herself to take a good look at Charles Ector.

He was James’s age, she recalled, her chest aching at the thought of her brother.

He had a dark beard and dark eyes, and despite all his talk about maps and analyses, which sounded like desk work, he had a wind-reddened complexion.

Good shoulders. Adele suddenly realized he was looking her over too.

Her cheeks got hot. She ran a hand over her hair, wondering how mussed it was, but quickly gave up. She was what she was.

Mrs. Clemson’s voice turned bright and cheerful. “I’m sure Adele would be happy to show you the car. After dessert, of course. No, Adele, you sit and entertain our guest. John will help me clear.”

After the pound cake and peaches, they retired to the parlor, where Mrs. Clemson played them an interminable series of romantic ditties and Mr. Clemson puffed on his pipe and looked anywhere but at Adele.

John reached for a deck of cards, and Adele, before her mother could play yet another song or John could propose a game, stood and said, “Light’s going.

We’d better go have a look at the Dodge if you’re still interested, Mr. Ector. ”

“Charles, please. And may I call you Adele?”

“Everyone does.” She immediately regretted her sharp tone. “Yes, I’d like that.”

The light was nearly gone, but he knew enough about cars to comment on the Dodge’s floor-mounted gearshift and three-speed transmission.

When he finished his inspection, they leaned against the car and watched the orange fade from the horizon.

In the darkness, Charles said, “I’m sorry about James.

We met at the cattle market once or twice. I liked him. He was easy to talk to.”

“Yes, he was,” agreed Adele, her voice shaky. “He loved books, you know. He read me Treasure Island one winter. And Captains Courageous the next. I didn’t expect to like them, but the way he read them—well, it felt like I was part of the adventure.”

“That sounds wonderful.”