“Cute.”
She looked up.
“What do you want?”
“Stop soliciting our growers.”
“They called me.”
“You're creating confusion.”
“I’m creating a market.”
“For waste.”
“Then why do you care?”
Merl stared.
There it was again.
The pause.
Mariabel leaned against the gate.
“Tell me something.”
“What?”
“Blackwood Agricultural Brokerage yours?”
Merl’s expression changed.
Not enough for anyone else.
Enough for her.
“My brother owns a feed brokerage.”
“Buys off-grade carrots.”
“Sometimes.”
“Worthless ones?”
Merl frowned.
“What's your point?”
“You tell farmers rejects have no value.”
“They have limited value.”
“Your brother buys them.”
“He pays hauling.”
“And sells them where?”
Merl stepped closer.
“You're getting into business you don't understand.”
“That's why I'm asking.”
“Some questions aren't your concern.”
Mariabel smiled.
“Then you finally answered mine.”
Merl stared.
She returned to the hinge.
“You should leave.”
“You don't know who you're making enemies with.”
Mariabel stopped.
Slowly looked at him.
“Merl.”
“What?”
“I've got a mortgage, an oil-burning tractor, twenty-six cattle, four horses, and two winters worth of debt.”
She stepped closer.
“You think you're frightening me because you buy carrots?”
Merl’s face reddened.
“This county runs on relationships.”
“Then build better ones.”
He left.
Mariabel watched the Buick disappear.
Then her hands began trembling.
She hated that.
Courage never felt like courage while the frightening person was present.
It usually arrived later as shaking knees.
She went inside.
Made coffee.
Opened the notebook.
Merl threatened relationships.
Then beneath it:
Means he has relationships worth protecting.
Harvest began.
The first farmer called.
“Twelve tons rejected.”
Mariabel arrived.
The carrots were crooked but sound.
She paid cash.
The farmer stared at the money.
“Cannery would've charged me to haul them away.”
“Then don't tell them.”
He laughed.
Prairie Valley bought the load.
Then another.
Then another.
By October, Mariabel had handled ninety-one tons of off-grade vegetables.
Not only carrots.
Beets.
Potatoes.
Onions.
She bought cheap.
Sorted carefully.
Sold to processors, feed operations, and livestock owners whose specifications differed from the original buyer.
Her margins were thin.
But volume mattered.
And farmers remembered who paid for something everyone else called trash.
Merl remembered too.
The conflict arrived publicly at the 1972 Holdridge-equipment consignment auction.
Almost exactly one year after Mariabel bought the first carrots.
Earl Mink stood on the platform again.
Farmers crowded beneath the same canvas.
Mariabel wore a brown work coat and gloves.
This time when she walked through the crowd, fewer people laughed.
Red Coleman nodded.
“Carrot queen.”
Mariabel replied:
“Still jealous?”
“Deeply.”
Then Merl appeared.
He walked toward her in front of everyone.
“You've been telling growers the cannery cheats them.”
Mariabel frowned.
“No.”
“Don't lie.”
“I tell growers rejected produce may have other buyers.”
“That undermines us.”
“How?”
“Farmers expect higher prices.”
“Terrible.”
Merl’s voice rose.