Her mother smiled through tears.
“He thought you’d hate tomatoes forever.”
“I do.”
“You ate three last summer.”
“Those were in tacos.”
“That counts.”
“No.”
They laughed.
Then Clara looked toward the empty yard.
The newer tractor was gone.
Planter gone.
Baler gone.
Two wagons gone.
The spaces where machinery had stood looked like missing teeth.
“How much did we make?”
Her mother’s smile faded.
“Enough to help.”
“That isn’t a number.”
“You’re eleven.”
Clara groaned.
“Mom.”
Her mother sat on the running board.
“After auction fees and paying the equipment lien, maybe forty-three thousand.”
Clara knew enough to understand.
Not enough.
“How much do we owe?”
Her mother hesitated.
“Total?”
“Yes.”
“More than that.”
“How much?”
“Clara.”
“Mom.”
Her mother looked at her daughter.
Then perhaps remembered what her husband had done—hiding numbers until Clara found them anyway.
“One hundred nineteen thousand on operating credit and machinery balance.”
Clara’s stomach tightened.
“And the land?”
“Mortgage separate.”
“How much?”
“Sixty-eight.”
Clara stared.
Almost one hundred eighty-seven thousand.
Nearly the exact number of acres they owned.
One thousand dollars per acre in debt, roughly.
The thought made her sick even though real accounting did not work that way.
“When is the payment?”
“Operating line review is in February.”
“What happens?”
“If the bank renews, we plant.”
“If it doesn’t?”
Her mother looked toward fields.
“We make another decision.”
“Sell?”
“Maybe part.”
“Mercer?”
“No.”
The answer came instantly.
Clara looked at her mother.
She believed her.
For now.
That night Clara took her father’s notebook from the desk drawer.
It was brown leather, edges softened by years.
Most pages contained machinery notes.
Oil changes.
Part numbers.
Seed populations.
Fuel consumption.
Weather.
Random measurements.
Her father wrote everything.
Clara turned to the Farmall section.
Several pages.
No. 4 plug fouling.
Governor spring weak.
Right brake lining soon.
Then a line from seven years earlier:
Mercer asked about south quarter again. Says “development.” Told him no. Strange interest for ground that floods.
Clara stopped.
Mercer.
South quarter.
Again.
She turned pages.
Another note, three years later:
Survey stakes near old county fence. Not ours. Called county. Nobody knows. Mercer pickup seen west road same week.
Clara’s pulse quickened.
She carried the notebook downstairs.
Her mother was washing dishes.
“Mom.”
“Bed.”
“Did Mercer try to buy the south field before Dad died?”
Her mother stopped.
“What?”
Clara showed notebook.
Her mother read.
Her face changed.
“I remember something.”
“What?”
“Your father said Mercer was sniffing around.”
“Why?”