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shook her head as the waiter refilled our tea glasses. “You and Dwight need time alone, honey. Any of us would be glad to keep him for you.”
    “I know,” I said, “and we will. Only not just yet.”
    Seth looked at Daddy. “Did you and Mama Sue have a honeymoon?”
    He gave a crooked smile. “With all of you young’uns? We couldn’t farm y’all out to one family and Sue didn’t want to split you up.”
    Every time I get to thinking how hard it is to be a stepmother before I was used to being a wife, I think of those eight little motherless boys: some too young to know what was going on, some shyly wanting to love their daddy’s new wife, two or three of them resenting the hell out of her, and all of them as wary as ditch cats waiting to see which way to jump. How on earth did she do it?
    “Did you ever tell Mother she wasn’t your mother and you didn’t have to mind her?” I asked Seth.
    He paused with a final forkful of steak and shook his head. “I was too little to remember my own mother. She was the only mother I ever knew.”
    “ ’Sides,” growled Daddy. “Anybody sassed her would’ve had to answer to me. That boy of Dwight’s sassing you, Deb’rah?”
    “No,” I said, reaching across to squeeze his calloused hand in reassurance. “Dwight wouldn’t let that happen either. It’s just that Cal’s so quiet sometimes. I’m never sure if it’s because he’s missing Jonna or because he wishes I weren’t in the picture.”
    “He probably doesn’t know himself,” Minnie said briskly. She waved off our waiter’s offer of a third round of tea and gathered up her purse and glasses. “We’d better get going if we want to get a seat.”
    “No problem,” I said. “Jamie Jacobson told me yesterday that they’d be meeting in the old courtroom. So many people turn out to speak for or against any of the items on their agenda these days that they haven’t met in their own room since Christmas.”
    Daddy and Seth had their usual squabble over who was going to pay the check. I didn’t bother to get into it, because Daddy always wins. I just put down the tip and waited for Seth to give it up.

CHAPTER 3
    Fields brown the dozer’s tread.
    Wood, nails, cement, a pile of bricks—
    With every hammer’s fall, a cul-de-sac.
    My farmboy throws up his hands. . . .
    They are farming houses right up to the creeks.
    —Paul’s Hill
, by Shelby Stephenson
    I love the old courtroom where the commissioners were to meet that night. Unlike the modern ones in our glass-and-marble annex, it embodies the weight and majesty of what the law should be. This is where I took my oath of office and, yes, a setting like this makes it feel much more binding when you swear that you will judge impartially without fear or favors. Even hardened criminals seem more subdued here.
    The floor is carpeted in deep red and gently slopes so that everyone can see any bit of evidence presented to the judge. The benches, doors, and jury boxes are dark solid oak. No drywall anywhere because the walls are lath and hand-troweled plaster. Plaster acanthus leaves fashioned by craftsmen long dead adorn the high vaulted ceiling. Hanging pierced brass lamps cast a soft golden glow that gives a natural solemnity. It’s almost like being in church.
    Tonight, however, there was nothing churchly about the indignant buzz that rose from the crowded benches. Some of it came from the people in our community who were appalled that the planning board had recommended approval of a stump dump just west of us. Others were just as upset that the planning board had also recommended a first step toward trying to slow some of the growth until the infrastructure could catch up. Limit growth? How dare they!
    It took us a while to get inside and sit down. Daddy doesn’t come into Dobbs all that often these days and it seemed as if every other person wanted to speak to him or shake his hand. Once we were seated, a vaguely familiar face down front caught my eye