More wheat. More money.

Chapter-one part-one  

  If only I could get two more tractors, then I can get more wheat, and then get more money, and then pay off some of this debt. This is a good plan. Slam, bam, knock. What’s that? Oh, it’s the gate outside. The wind has it whipping it back and forth. I tell myself.  Okay. I’ll repair that tomorrow. I’m too tired. Hopefully the wind doesn’t blow too hard. I can’t even sleep. How long has it been? I’m just laying here. It’s so hot in here.
 I’ve got to quit thinking about this stupid debt and go to sleep. Hold on. What is that? I reach my hand over to the other side of the bed to see if Margaret’s there. No. Margaret’s not there.
 I go stiff. Totally rigid. One hundred percent, someone is having a conversation in the living room, and Margaret is not in the bed. What time is it? Easy, I think. Someone is definitely in the living room. I can hear them talking. I was almost asleep, too. Maybe thirty minutes. Who is that? I don’t know.
 I reach over to the nightstand and slowly pull open the drawer. I take out the pistol. There’s just enough light coming in from the living room for me to see. I can hear mumbling out there. A man’s voice. Western accent. Easy does it.
 I slide out of bed and slowly push the drawer shut. Three steps to the door. I ease up close enough to listen. Easy. Is it? I’m not sure yet, but there’s definitely a grown man in my living room in the middle of the night. I get ready. It’s certainly no one I recognize.
 I gently creep up to the door and look through the crack. It’s open just enough to let some of the kerosene light through, and I can make out two shadows in the living room, talking. When you live this far out in the middle of nowhere, you just never know what's gonna happen. I slowly put my hand against the door and ease it open just a little farther, then close my other hand around the pistol tucked into the waistband of my underwear, straining to hear what they’re saying.