“Transferred ownership.”
“You’re making money off county assets.”
“I purchased county assets.”
“For two hundred fifty dollars.”
“Two fifty-five.”
His jaw tightened.
She wiped her hands.
“What do you want?”
He looked toward the remaining blades.
“How many do you still have?”
“Enough.”
“I heard you sold some.”
“Part of them.”
“For how much?”
“None of your business.”
His face reddened.
“You know taxpayers are asking questions.”
“About what?”
“Why valuable equipment sold for pennies.”
She crossed her arms.
“That sounds like a county question.”
“You exploited an auction mistake.”
“No.”
“I bid.”
“Nobody else knew.”
“The county owned them.”
“The county could have inspected them.”
“We did.”
“Badly.”
Silence.
He looked at the old blade mounted to her loader.
“What’s it worth now?”
“To me?”
“Yes.”
“More than I paid.”
“That’s funny.”
“It wasn’t a joke.”
He stepped closer.
“The commissioners are reviewing the surplus process.”
“Good.”
“You might be contacted.”
“I have paperwork.”
“I know.”
He looked toward the cleaned carbide edges.
Then something in his expression changed.
Not anger exactly.
Embarrassment.
He said:
“You made me look stupid.”
The farmer stared.
“You called them junk before I said anything.”
“That isn’t what I mean.”
“It’s exactly what happened.”
He looked away.
For a moment, he stopped being the county manager defending procedure.
He became an older man who had mocked someone publicly and then discovered she saw what he had missed.
“I’ve run that yard twelve years.”
“I know.”
“I know equipment.”
“Some.”
He looked back sharply.
She did not soften it.
He exhaled.
“My father ran county roads.”
“So?”
“He would’ve known those.”
“Maybe.”
“Probably.”
The farmer leaned against the loader.
“You want advice?”
“No.”
“You came here.”
He almost laughed.
She continued.
“Stop making this about me getting lucky.”
“I didn’t say luck.”
“You’re thinking mistake.”
“Maybe the county made one.”
“The mistake wasn’t selling them.”
He frowned.
“It was deciding what they were before checking.”
The manager said nothing.
She nodded toward the blade.
“Rust is not a specification.”
He looked at it.
Then at her.
“Your dad teach you that?”
“No.”
“I figured it out because you kept calling them junk.”
That earned a reluctant smile.
He turned toward his truck.
At the door, he looked back.
“You really sold six for twenty-something?”
She smiled.
“None of your business.”
He shook his head.
Then drove away.
She thought that would be the last time she saw him that year.