“You okay?”
“No.”
Luke sat.
Earl held a piece of paper.
Bank notice.
“Want to sell west forty?”
Luke asked.
Earl shook his head.
“Could.”
“Would buy time.”
“I already mortgaged it once.”
“Paid it off.”
“Doesn’t mean I want to do it again.”
Luke looked toward him.
“What are you thinking?”
Earl said:
“Take Ashford’s money.”
Luke became still.
“What money?”
“They offered settlement.”
“When?”
“Roger called.”
“You talked to him?”
“He called my personal number.”
“What did he offer?”
“Three million.”
Luke stared.
That was more money than the farm had ever been worth.
“Three?”
“Remove material.”
“Restore field.”
“Confidentiality.”
“Release.”
Luke’s heartbeat accelerated.
“That could save everything.”
“Yes.”
“Then why do you look like someone died?”
Earl stared at the tractor.
“Because they wouldn't offer three if it cost them two.”
Luke understood.
“Did you tell Marisol?”
“No.”
“Grandpa.”
“I wanted to think.”
“Tell her.”
“In morning.”
“Now.”
“It is midnight.”
“Lawyers don't sleep.”
“Normal ones do.”
“Marisol doesn’t.”
They called.
She answered irritated.
Then became instantly awake.
“Three million?”
“Yes.”
“Any writing?”
“Email coming tomorrow.”
“Do not respond.”
Earl sighed.
“I know.”
Marisol continued:
“And Earl?”
“Yes?”
“If the written terms are safe enough, taking settlement is not cowardice.”
Earl looked toward Luke.
“I know.”
“No.”
“You think taking money means selling truth.”
“Sometimes settlement means getting your land fixed before you die waiting for a verdict.”
Earl’s face changed.
Luke hated hearing the word die.
Marisol continued:
“But three million before full discovery tells me there is something they do not want found.”
“What?”
“We keep looking.”
The thing they did not want found was sitting forty yards from Earl’s house.
Not in Ashford’s records.
In an old wooden cabinet inside the equipment barn.
Luke discovered it accidentally.
He was searching for delivery tickets from year eight.
A lower drawer jammed.
He pulled harder.
The drawer came free.
Behind it sat a cardboard box.
HEAT SAMPLES.
Luke frowned.
Inside:
Mason jars.
Dozens.
Each labeled in Earl’s handwriting.
Dates.
Truck numbers.
Locations.
Luke carried one into the kitchen.
“What is this?”
Earl looked.
Then swore softly.
“You forgot?”
“Yes.”
“There are seventy-three jars.”
“I know.”
“Why?”
Earl rubbed his face.
“Your grandmother.”
Luke stared.
“What?”
“She didn't trust Ashford.”
Of course.
His grandmother had been small, gentle, and suspicious of anybody wearing clean boots on a farm.
Earl continued.
“Year two.”