“Money.”
“My money.”
“Trees.”
“My trees.”
His jaw tightened.
“This whole valley is going to see them.”
“They already have.”
“You don’t care that people are laughing?”
“No.”
That answer irritated him more than anger would have.
He released the bucket.
The Young Farmer placed it beside her boot.
The Older Farmer pointed toward his orchard across the fence.
Hundreds of dark trunks stood in long perfect rows.
“My trees have survived frost, drought, ice, insects, and bad advice from people who read one article and think they’ve discovered agriculture.”
The Young Farmer checked the small digital sensor attached to the post beside her.
“Tonight may not be like the others.”
He glanced toward the sky.
Clear blue.
Spring sunlight.
Hardly a cloud.
“It’s supposed to hit thirty-one.”
“That was yesterday’s forecast.”
“What is it now?”
“Twenty-four to twenty-six in the low pockets.”
He laughed.
“Not happening.”
She handed him her phone.
He did not take it.
“County station updated forty minutes ago.”
“Computer models are wrong every week.”
“Sometimes.”
He looked at her white trees.
“And this is supposed to save them?”
“No.”
That answer surprised him.
“What?”
“The coating is for the trunks.”
“I have other systems for the frost.”
He stared at her.
Then toward the men.
One smirked.
The Older Farmer laughed harder than before.
“Other systems.”
The Young Farmer crouched again.
“Yes.”
“What systems?”
She returned to painting.
The Older Farmer waited.
She did not answer.
He shook his head.
“Suit yourself.”
He started walking away.
Then turned.
“When you finally decide to sell, my offer drops every time you waste money doing something like this.”
The Young Farmer painted another section.
“I’m not selling.”
“You say that now.”
“I said it three times already.”
The Older Farmer’s face hardened.
“This valley is unforgiving.”
She finally looked over her shoulder.
“So am I.”
The three men went quiet.
The Older Farmer walked back toward the truck.
The Young Farmer continued painting.
Fifteen minutes later, a county agricultural vehicle came through the gate fast enough to throw dust behind it.
The Extension Specialist stepped out carrying a tablet.
He did not greet the Older Farmer.
He walked directly toward the Young Farmer.
“You saw the update?”
“Yes.”
“Station north of the river just dropped again.”
“How low?”
“Possibly twenty-three in the drainage basin.”
The Young Farmer set the brush down.
“How long?”
“Four hours below twenty-eight, maybe longer.”
The Older Farmer stopped beside his truck.
The Extension Specialist looked at the white trunks.
Then toward the young buds.
“You’re farther along than I expected.”
“I started last week.”
“Lines tested?”
“Yesterday.”
“Pumps?”
“Both.”