When Klara woke the next morning, a raw wind was blowing through the village. It carried off everything that wasn't tacked down: wheat chaff, fallen leaves, Stjepan Levak's lost cap, a ball of fishing line from the river's edge, corks, school papers, and apple cores. It opened shutters and closed them again. It whipped Mrs. Rakovic's skirt above her head and moved a team of horses from one side of a field to the other. That mighty wind even lifted old Widow Zlata right off the ground as she walked down the path to milk the cows. The story later went that if her mind had been as withered as her body, she might not have thought quickly enough to grab onto a tree limb on her way up and might have traveled all the way to the moon.

Like a lost animal, the wind roared and whistled, and despite the fact that they didn't bring rain for a few days, thick gray clouds gathered overhead. Life was changing; Klara sensed it. God had knocked on her door and offered an answer to her prayers, and although she was surprised to discover he had dropped that answer at her doorstep in the shape of a man, she recognized it immediately. "Appreciate a good thing," she'd heard her mother say whenever one of the children complained. "God never delivers in the way we expect him to." So after washing her face and hands, Klara decided to heed her mother's words, and for emphasis, sprinkled lavender water in the space between her breasts and pinned her hair back so that long ringlets framed her face.

After breakfast, when Klara's father and older brothers had gone to the fields and the little ones were settled in the corner with blocks and dolls, Drago sat down with Klara in front of the fire. Weather darkened the room, and shadows played as if it were nighttime.

"Imam poklon za tebe," he said.

"A present?" Klara leaned forward. "For me?"

Drago reached into his pocket and pulled out a miniature horse that he had carved from a light, yellowy wood. It was shaped so that its mane and tail stretched far behind, as if the horse were caught in a swift gallop. He handed it to Klara, and immediately she saw that he had talented hands. The details were finely wrought.

"My youngest brother," he told her, "the one all the girls say was most handsome, was sliced in half last year by a piece of farm machinery. I found him in the field at dusk."

Klara glanced from the horse to Drago's face.

"We don't know how it happened," he continued. "He was alone. My mother was so distraught that she made us bury him in two sawed-off coffins--one for his upper half and one for his lower--set side by side in an extra-wide grave."

Klara didn't know what to make of this story. She felt Drago was telling her something important, something that spoke to the deepest part of his soul, but she didn't know what to do with it. She leaned across the table and covered his hands with hers. She had expected them to be rough, but instead found them to be rather soft, with raised scars here and there. Once again, that lovely heat spread across her chest.

The next morning, the wind had subsided a bit, and Klara asked Drago to walk with her through the pear orchard. They held hands under the gnarled, knotted limbs, and when they paused, Drago gave her another carving. This time, a wolf. It was made from a hard, dark wood, and the jaws and teeth were quite obviously over-pronounced. When she held it, a shiver shot up Klara's spine.

"My oldest brother, Josip, is a son of a bitch," Drago said.

Klara winced when he cursed. Kurvin sin. Son of a bitch. She'd heard such language from boys in town who gathered outside the general shop practicing their manhood, and from her father, who was rough and cruel and full of language she would like to forget. To ease the sting, she watched a fish leap from the river. His shiny back split the water.

"He's fleshy, my brother, covered with hair like a boar," Drago continued.

"Where is he now?" Klara asked, as the fish completed its flight and disappeared below the river's skin.

"He and his wife run the family farm. They have four boys and all the profits." As he spoke, Drago's voice grew thick with disdain and envy. His eyes darkened and his jaw clenched. Klara felt her stomach tighten and she wanted to run, but instead she leaned over and kissed him. The kiss was brief, but startling. When she pulled back, Klara covered her mouth with her hand and looked at the ground. Drago smiled. The darkness passed.

That night, the family gathered for dinner. At first, Klara's father was happy to have the stranger among them. He poured whiskey and offered a pipe. It wasn't until he saw Drago place a hand on the small of Klara's back that he realized it would be this man who took his daughter from him. And while his first reaction was anger, he remembered the widow from the next village over who had shown interest in becoming a wife. As long as he had someone to raise his children into farmhands, he was content. So he sat back in his chair, happy to be getting rid of a whiny, hungry mouth, and let fate run its course.

Finally, on the third day of Drago's visit, as a much-needed rainstorm burst overhead, Drago gave Klara an owl the color of dried cherries. "The owl has nothing to do with death as the gypsies would have you believe," he told her. "The owl is watchful and wise."

"It's my favorite," she said, turning it over in her hands. "Tell me about the brother you left out. You mentioned a third. What's his name?"

"Janko," Drago said. He smiled. "He is closest to me in age and friendship. When we were small, he protected me."

Klara relaxed. When Drago spoke of Janko, there was no sign of anger or darkness. He looked light and easy, as he had when she'd first opened the door of her home.

"Two years ago he went to America and settled in a town called Thirsty." Drago spoke slowly and pronounced the foreign names in English deliberately. He had worked hard to memorize each syllable. "Now he works in a mill where they make steel."

"Celik," Klara said. Steel.

"Hhhmm," Drago said. "Janko tells me in letters that the hills in this town are as steep and as lovely as those between your village and Zagreb." He turned in a complete circle, sweeping his arm in an upward arc. After a quick glance at Klara, who continued to study the fine details of the owl's awesome claws, he said, "Many of us," and he thumped his chest just once with a closed fist to indicate his fellow Croatians, "have already crossed and gathered in this town. Janko says there are many jobs."

Drago's lips twitched as he tried not to speak too ardently about America and a job on which Josip had no claim, but even so, Klara felt the urgency in him. His excitement was contagious, and once again, she felt that familiar longing to leave. She wasn't entirely comfortable with that urge, or any of the others she'd been feeling since Drago's arrival, so she was grateful that the owl gave her something to focus on.

The carvings and the stories were small presents. There were no jewels or fine dresses or bottles of perfume. But since the only significant gift Klara had ever received was the gold cross that hung around her neck--a present from her grandmother on the day she was born--Drago's earnest offerings quickly won whatever small places of her heart she had not already turned over to him on the stoop or in the bath. A few moments later, when he proposed marriage, Klara readily accepted.