Buffalo Valley Read Free Page B

said about their community. The people of Buffalo Valley had worked together to make this barren plot of land a place of which to be proud. “The land itself was a gift from Lily Quantrill,” she said. “Heath Quantrill, her grandson, is the president of Buffalo Valley Bank.” She pointed toward the brick structure at the far end of Main Street.
    â€œIsn’t there a branch in Grand Forks?”
    â€œThere are branches all across the state,” Carrie told him.
    â€œThe headquarters is here?”
    She nodded. “Heath moved everything to Buffalo Valley two years ago. I know it was a hard decision, but this is his home now, and he was tired of commuting to Grand Forks three days a week.”
    â€œIt’s an impressive building.”
    â€œHeath’s an impressive bank president. I hope you get the chance to meet him and his wife, Rachel.”
    â€œI do, too,” Vaughn said.
    â€œHeath donated the lumber for the children’s play equipment,” she said as they entered the park and strolled past the jungle gym, slides and swings. “But Brandon Wyatt, along with Jeb McKenna and Gage Sinclair, actually built all these things.” She realizedthe names didn’t mean anything to Vaughn, but she wanted him to get a sense of what the park stood for in this community. Each family had contributed something, from planting the grass to laying the concrete walkway.
    â€œIt looks well used.”
    An outsider like Vaughn couldn’t possibly understand how much the children of Buffalo Valley cherished the park. “My family owns the hardware,” she continued, pointing to the opposite side of the park toward the store. “We donated the wood for the picnic tables.”
    â€œI notice they aren’t secured with chains,” Vaughn said.
    â€œWe don’t have much crime in Buffalo Valley.” It distressed her to visit public areas where everything, including picnic tables and garbage cans, was tied down by chains to prevent theft. But no one had ever stolen from the park or any other public place in Buffalo Valley. There’d never been any real vandalism, either.
    â€œNo crime?” He sounded as though he didn’t believe her.
    â€œWell, some, but it’s mostly petty stuff. A few windows soaped at Halloween, that kind of thing. The occasional fight or display of drunkenness. We did have a murder once, about eighty years ago. According to the stories, it was a crime of passion.” Quickly changing the subject, she said, “The War Memorial was designed by Kevin Betts. I don’t know if you’ve heard of him, but he was born and raised right here.”
    â€œSorry, I haven’t,” Vaughn said with a shrug.
    â€œHe’s Leta’s son, and he’s an artist who’s making a name for himself.” Everyone in town was proud of Kevin. “This sculpture—” she gestured as they neared it “—was one of his very first.” She watched Vaughn’s expression when he saw it and was stirred by the immediate appreciation that showed in his eyes.
    Kevin was a gifted artist, not only because he was technically skilled but because his work evoked emotion in people. The bronze sculpture was simple and yet profound. Half-a-dozen rifles were stacked together, upright and leaning against one another, with a helmet balanced on top. Beside the guns a young soldier knelt, his shoulders bowed in grief. No one seeing the piece could fail to be moved, to respond with sorrow and a bittersweet pain.
    Vaughn stood before the memorial and didn’t say anything right away. Then he squatted down and ran his finger over the name of Vaughn Knight. “My parents still talk about him. He was the one who brought them together,” Vaughn said, and slowly straightened. “I’m glad he won’t be forgotten.”
    â€œHe won’t be,” Carrie assured him. “With this memorial, his name will