Four thousand saplings.
Bur oak.
Swamp white oak in lower areas.
Hackberry.
Black walnut in selected strips.
Several hardy native species suited to the soil and moisture zones she had mapped.
The supplier asked:
“Commercial timber?”
“No.”
“Wildlife planting?”
“No.”
“Windbreak?”
“Partly.”
“What are you doing?”
Emily looked at Henry’s notebook.
“Trying to keep the dirt.”
The first truck arrived March 18.
People noticed immediately.
By lunchtime, Ray Mercer knew.
By dinner, half the county knew.
By morning, everyone had an opinion.
Emily kept planting.
Seventy-three the first day.
Ninety-one the second.
Her body adapted painfully.
Shoulders.
Back.
Hands.
The trees seemed endless.
Friends helped occasionally.
Her cousin Laura planted one Saturday and announced after six hours that she would never criticize office work again.
David, Emily’s uncle, repaired the tractor and marked rows.
Thomas returned with contour measurements.
Even Ray eventually drove by without laughing.
But most days Emily worked alone.
Shovel.
Hole.
Roots.
Soil.
Water.
Next.
She wore fitted denim overalls because loose fabric caught on everything.
Plaid work shirts.
Leather gloves.
Brown boots.
Her brown hair stayed tied back until sweat loosened strands around her face.
By April she had stopped caring what she looked like.
By May nearly four thousand trees stood across the farm.
From the road, they looked ridiculous.
Thin vertical sticks in a landscape people expected to contain straight annual crop rows.
Ray finally walked onto the property one evening.
Emily was spreading old crop residue around trunks.
“Mulch?”
“Basically.”
“You’re using last year’s stalks.”
“Yes.”
“Could sell some.”
“For what?”
“Bedding.”
“I need it here.”
Ray crouched.
“You’re really serious.”
Emily looked at him.
“You thought I planted four thousand trees as a joke?”
“I thought grief makes people do strange things.”
The sentence landed quietly.
Emily straightened.
Ray immediately looked regretful.
“My father is not why I planted them.”
“I didn’t say—”
“Yes, you did.”
Ray removed his cap.
“Fair.”
Emily returned to work.
Ray watched.
“What are you actually doing?”
She stopped.
For the first time, she answered.
“Keeping rain from running straight downhill.”
Ray looked around.
“With trees.”
“And ground cover.”
“They’re five feet tall.”
“Roots don't need to be twenty feet tall.”
Ray shook his head.
“You need crops.”
“I’m still growing crops between rows.”
“Less acreage.”
“Yes.”
“Lower income.”
“Maybe.”
“You can’t afford maybe.”
Emily stood fully.
“Neither can you.”
Ray frowned.
“What?”
She pointed across the fence.
His field.
“Your topsoil is moving too.”
Ray laughed.
“My ground produces.”
“For now.”
His expression changed.
Emily regretted the arrogance immediately.
Ray put his cap back on.
“Good luck.”
He walked away.
That night she lay awake wondering if he was right.
Not about erosion.
About money.