His thoughts flashed back to that moment at the plough earlier that morning, when Iowa had seemed like the universe and he had made life appear infinitely good.
Lies.
Farm life was his natural state, he had pretended. He belonged behind the plough, here in Iowa.
Lies.
But—where did he belong?
He realized that he was acting irrationally. Loren's face hung before him, uncomprehending, frightened. The stranger seemed almost gloatingly self-confident.
"What did you mean by that?" Kesley asked, slowly. His voice sounded harsh and unfamiliar in his own ears.
"Have you ever been in the cities?" the stranger asked, ignoring Kesley's question.
"Once, maybe twice. I don't like it there. I'm a farmer; always have been. I came down from Kansas Province. But what the hell—?"
The stranger raised one hand to silence him. An amused twinkle crossed the cold black eyes, and the thin lips curved upward. "They did a good job," the stranger said, half to himself. "You really believe you're a farmer, don't you, Dale? Have been, all your life?"