Because the combine hadn't simply sunk after a heavy rain.
The natural drainage system had been blocked.
The girl had found evidence of it.
And someone connected to the proposed sale of the farm had known about the obstruction long before the first crane ever arrived.
Three days earlier, Hollow Creek Farm had been one of the most beautiful places in rural Iowa.
The farmhouse stood on a gentle rise above the fields, its white wooden siding weathered by decades of wind and snow.
A red barn occupied the western side of the yard.
Two grain bins stood beyond the machine shed.
And long rows of corn stretched toward the horizon, their dry leaves rustling whenever the autumn breeze moved across the land.
It was late October.
Most neighboring farms were finishing harvest.
Combines worked beneath gray skies.
Grain trucks traveled along county roads.
And families watched the weather forecasts with the nervous attention that came naturally to people whose income depended on a few important weeks.
For the family at Hollow Creek, harvest meant more than the end of a growing season.
It meant whether the year's bills could be paid.
Seed.
Fertilizer.
Machinery repairs.
Fuel.
Insurance.
Land taxes.
Interest.
And the loan that had helped finance the modern combine now sitting helplessly in the mud.
The farm had belonged to the family for four generations.
The girl's great-grandfather had begun with a modest number of acres, a team of horses, and equipment that required constant attention.
Her grandfather expanded the operation.
He purchased adjoining fields when he could afford them, installed drainage improvements, repaired buildings, and eventually replaced the family's oldest machinery with equipment capable of handling larger harvests.
He had never been a wealthy man.
But he understood the land.
He knew which parts of the property dried first after spring rain.
Which corners remained cold longer.
Where water collected after storms.
And how the low southern field behaved differently from the higher ground near the farmhouse.
His granddaughter had grown up listening.
When she was five, he took her into the machine shed and showed her how to identify basic tools.
When she was seven, he let her sit beside him while he repaired an old cultivator.
When she was nine, he began explaining how water moved through the fields.
And when she turned eleven, he started teaching her about the tractor he loved most.
A 1953 John Deere Model 60.
It was faded green.
Its paint had chipped around the hood.
The steering wheel was worn smooth.
And the engine sometimes required several patient attempts to start in cold weather.