Twenty years.
That was how long kudzu had been winning.
Twenty years was also how long Cyrus had been waiting.
Wren said quietly:
“Twenty years is a long time to wait.”
Then, after a pause:
“It’s longer to lose.”
Winter came.
The kudzu turned brown.
The hillside looked temporarily defeated.
Wren knew better.
Underground crowns held stored energy waiting for spring.
Her checking account fell every week.
Hay.
Minerals.
Veterinary costs.
Fence.
Fuel.
Repairs.
By January, she calculated ninety days of runway.
Ninety days before the numbers became dangerous.
She had planned to earn winter income by contracting the goats for vegetation clearing on other farms.
Nobody called.
Then one man did.
Silas Hoban.
He owned three hundred acres near the Tennessee line.
He met Wren at his gate.
Tall.
Silver hair beneath an old cap.
Straight fences.
Level gates.
A clean barn.
A man who maintained things because his identity appeared to depend on it.
He showed her forty acres of kudzu.
“I’ve sprayed twice.”
“Cut three times.”
“It comes back stronger.”
Wren inspected the slope.
Silas asked:
“How long?”
“Three years.”
He stared.
“For goats?”
“To suppress the crowns enough that pasture can compete.”
“People told me one summer.”
“They’re selling you something.”
Silas looked at her.
Wren continued.
“I can take most leaf mass this season.”
“Second year, I can reduce regrowth.”
“Third year, we begin winning.”
“Maybe fourth.”
“You want me to pay four years?”
“I want you to understand what you’re buying.”
Silas remained silent.
Then:
“You’re the first person who gave me an answer I didn’t want.”
He hired her.
Three-month contract.
First payment in advance.
The check cleared Monday.
By Wednesday, sixty-eight goats were eating Silas Hoban’s problem.
A second landowner called.
Then a third.
For the first time since October, Wren’s checking balance rose.
Then the rumor began.
Caprine arthritis.
Johne’s disease.
Possible disease transmission from goats to cattle.
No direct accusation.
Only concern.
Concern traveled faster than evidence.
Two contracts disappeared.
Then a third.
Prospective customers stopped returning calls.
Silas called Wren.
“I heard what happened.”
“My herd is certified.”
“I know.”
“Closed source.”
“I know.”
“Vet records current.”
“I know.”
“Then why—”
“Because nobody accused you directly.”
Silas’s voice hardened.
“They asked questions in a room.”
“Cyrus sat there.”
“He never said a word.”
Wren understood.
His silence had done the work.
“How many contracts am I losing?”
Silas told her.