The buyer noticed her hesitation.
His smile widened.
"That's what I thought."
He opened a leather folder.
"Sign today, and I'll pay your overdue property taxes. I'll even let you keep the farmhouse for another thirty days."
The woman looked toward the contract.
Then slowly shook her head.
"No."
His smile disappeared.
"Excuse me?"
"I said no."
The businessman slammed his folder against the hood of his dusty pickup.
"You're as stubborn as your father!"
The woman's expression changed.
Her father had been dead for seven weeks.
She'd barely managed to sleep since the funeral.
And now a stranger was standing on his land, mocking the very work that had consumed his final years.
She took a step forward.
"Don't talk about him."
The buyer laughed.
"Your father was a fool who spent money he didn't have chasing fish that weren't there!"
The woman clenched her jaw.
"Leave."
He stared.
She pointed toward the gravel road.
"Get off my property."
For several seconds, the businessman didn't move.
Then a strange sound interrupted the confrontation.
A low diesel rumble.
The woman turned.
At the far end of the gravel lane, three enormous white box trucks were approaching the farm.
They traveled slowly, tires crunching over loose stone, their tall rectangular cargo bodies reflecting the pale afternoon light.
The first truck carried specialized aquatic transport tanks.
A second followed closely.
Then a third.
The businessman frowned.
"What the hell is this?"
The woman stared at the vehicles.
She hadn't ordered anything.
She couldn't afford a single commercial fish delivery, much less three trucks.
The convoy approached the ponds and stopped on the firm gravel loading area near the old pump house.
Drivers climbed down.
Several workers began preparing insulated transport hoses.
A heavyset older driver with a gray beard stepped out of the first truck holding a thick delivery folder.
He looked toward the woman.
Then smiled.
"You must be the farmer's daughter."
She stared.
"Yes."
He looked toward the ponds.
"Your dad talked about you all the time."
Her chest tightened.
"You knew my father?"
The driver nodded.
"Twenty-three years."
The land buyer marched toward him.
"What's going on here?"
The older driver looked at the businessman.
Then back at the woman.
"We're here for the scheduled stocking."
The woman went still.
"Stocking?"
The driver nodded.
"Three ponds. Three transport loads. Bluegill, redear sunfish, and the first stage of the forage program."
The buyer gave a loud laugh.
"You're delivering fish to these poisoned holes?"
The driver turned toward him.
"Who told you they're poisoned?"
The businessman stopped smiling.
The older driver opened his folder.
He removed several pages.
Current water-quality reports.
A signed transport agreement.
An independent pond assessment.
And a receipt bearing the handwriting of a man who would never again stand beside these waters.