“That’s suspicious.”
“Take the damn gravel.”
She smiled.
“Thank you.”
He turned away.
Then:
“If you tell anyone I helped, I’ll deny it.”
The next morning, his loader spread gravel across the worst section.
Inspection day came gray and cool.
The Young Woman woke before sunrise.
She changed shirts twice.
Then got angry at herself.
She was not interviewing for a bank job.
She wore her usual blue work shirt.
Clean one.
Dark jeans.
Boots.
Braid.
Tan cowboy hat.
By eight thirty, the Old Farmer appeared.
“You expecting someone?”
She stared.
He wore a clean plaid shirt.
She smiled slowly.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Why are you dressed like church?”
“I always dress like this.”
“No.”
“You own six shirts exactly like that and this is the only one without grease.”
He glared.
“Want me to leave?”
“No.”
She smiled.
“Stay.”
At nine twelve, engines appeared on the road.
Two refrigerated trucks.
One black SUV.
The Young Woman’s stomach tightened.
The Old Farmer went still.
He recognized the company logo before she did.
He had seen it on twenty years of letterheads.
The vehicles entered.
Stopped near the barn.
Three people stepped out.
Two men.
One woman.
Clipboards.
Coolers.
Work boots.
No suits.
The Old Farmer automatically straightened.
Habit.
For twenty years, he had imagined this visit to his farm.
The woman approached.
The Young Woman walked forward.
“Good morning.”
They shook hands.
The buyer introduced the team.
Then her eyes moved toward the Old Farmer.
Recognition.
“Sir.”
The Old Farmer smiled.
“We’ve corresponded.”
The buyer paused.
“Yes.”
He almost looked proud simply to be remembered.
The Young Woman noticed.
Something about it made the moment less funny.
Twenty years was a long time to want anyone’s approval.
The inspection began.
Field first.
The buyers climbed the hillside.
They looked at slope.
Soil.
Drainage.
Plant spacing.
Residue.
They asked about previous crops.
The Young Woman answered.
“How long has this parcel been out of production?”
“About fifteen years.”
The Old Farmer corrected.
“Seventeen.”
She looked at him.
He shrugged.
The buyer wrote something.
“What was planted last?”
The Old Farmer answered.
“Soybeans.”
“Before that?”
“Corn.”
“Before that?”
He hesitated.
“Pasture.”
The buyer crouched.
Picked up soil.
Dark in places where compost had been incorporated.
Paler deeper down.
“What amendments?”
The Young Woman listed them.
Moderate compost.
Gypsum only where testing justified.
Straw mulch.