“And if that barn falls on you—”
“I’ll be careful.”
“You will do better than careful.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Sarah took a breath.
“All right.”
Auction morning brought nearly two hundred people.
Most came for the usable equipment.
A good hay rake sold early.
Then a pickup.
Then tools.
Then wagons.
Graham Whitlock bought more than anyone.
He farmed nearly two thousand acres and owned newer machinery than most families in the county would ever afford.
Graham knew Noah.
Everyone did.
He had known Eli too.
But unlike many farmers who respected the old mechanic, Graham considered Eli old-fashioned.
When he saw Noah studying Lot Eighty-One, he laughed.
“You after lumber?”
“No.”
“Scrap?”
“Maybe.”
Graham looked toward the barn.
“Nothing under those covers worth dragging home.”
“You looked?”
“Don't need to.”
That sentence stayed with Noah.
Don't need to.
The auction reached the west barn shortly after two.
Opening request:
Three thousand dollars.
No bids.
Two thousand.
Still nothing.
One thousand.
A scrap dealer offered seven hundred.
Another man said eight.
Noah waited.
The price reached fourteen hundred.
The scrap dealer stopped.
Noah raised his number.
“Fifteen.”
People turned.
Graham laughed.
The auctioneer continued.
Sixteen hundred from another buyer.
Noah said seventeen.
Eighteen.
Nineteen.
At two thousand, the other buyer hesitated.
He was calculating labor.
Roof risk.
Removal.
The unknown tractors.
Noah raised again.
“Two thousand one hundred.”
Silence.
Then Graham called:
“Twenty-two.”
Noah looked at him.
Graham smiled.
He had no interest in the barn.
He was playing with him.
Noah knew it.
Sarah knew it.
The auctioneer probably knew it too.
But a bid was a bid.
Noah said:
“Twenty-three forty.”
Every dollar.
The crowd reacted.
Someone whistled.
Graham blinked.
That was a strange number.
Auctioneer Hal Benton asked:
“Twenty-four hundred?”
Graham looked at Noah.
Then laughed.
“No. Let the kid have his lesson.”
And minutes later, Noah owned Lot Eighty-One.
Now Amos Greene stood beside the uncovered tractor staring at brass plate number four.
He ran his fingers over the emblem.
A wheat head inside a gear.
Exactly as Eli had remembered.
“Morrow,” Amos whispered.
Noah’s heart hammered.
“You know it?”
Amos nodded.
“I've been looking for evidence one of these survived for thirty years.”
Graham scoffed, but there was less confidence behind it.
“One of what?”