By then Mercer Woodlot Services had grown.
Not huge.
Two employees.
A used mini excavator.
A chipper.
A compact track loader.
Another skidder eventually.
A much newer used grapple machine purchased carefully after five years.
The old 648 remained.
Not primary production anymore.
Specialty.
Recovery.
Steep winch work.
Small lots.
Backup.
It still earned.
Less annually.
But its cost was mostly fuel, maintenance, insurance allocation, and labor.
Hannah reviewed replacement every year.
Numbers kept saying keep.
One autumn, a developer offered $18,000 for it as a display machine for a lodge.
Hannah laughed.
Then almost accepted.
Dale heard.
“You can’t sell it.”
Hannah stared.
“You are the last person allowed to say that.”
“I was wrong.”
“Repeatedly.”
“Yes.”
“Eighteen thousand.”
“It earned more than that last year.”
“Fourteen.”
“Then why sell?”
She looked toward him.
He had become annoyingly good with numbers.
“Sentimental reason?”
Hannah asked.
Dale scoffed.
“Financial.”
“Liar.”
He smiled.
She kept it.
Years later, Mark found the original auction bidder card inside an old folder.
Number 317.
He framed it.
Hannah hated that.
“Stop turning me into folklore.”
“You bought a skidder for eleven hundred.”
“I know.”
“You saved the farm.”
“No.”
Mark smiled.
“Here we go.”
“The skidder did not save the farm.”
“What did?”
“Leasing cropland.”
“Selling cattle.”
“Repair-shop wages.”
“Woodlot work.”
“Conservation contracts.”
“Mom helping with taxes one year.”
“Luck.”
“Low interest rate on refinance.”
“A lot of things.”
Mark pointed toward the framed card.
“Stories need one thing.”
“That’s why stories are dangerous.”
He hung it anyway.
Mercer Farm survived.
Hannah eventually bought back the corn acres she had leased out.
Not because leasing was wrong.
Because business could support more direct operation.
She converted part of woodland management toward long-term select harvests and habitat work.
The old Deere sometimes worked her own property.
When it did, she never charged herself zero.
She transferred a machine rate internally.
Mark mocked her.
“You’re billing yourself?”
“Yes.”
“That is fake money.”
“No.”
“If farm can’t afford machine service, machine business is subsidizing farm.”
“That matters.”
Mark shook his head.
“You’re exhausting.”
Hannah smiled.
“Numbers.”
At thirty-five, Hannah spoke at the same equipment-finance workshop where Eric Sloan once used her as an example.
This time she presented.
A photograph of the 648 appeared on screen.
Auction day.
Mud.
Snow.
Hannah in blue work shirt.