“YOUR FATHER WAS A FOOL, AND NOW YOU'RE ABOUT TO LOSE FOUR HUNDRED ACRES BECAUSE YOU'RE JUST LIKE HIM!”
The insult exploded across the crowded agricultural auction market in rural Idaho, followed by laughter from nearly fifty farmers, produce buyers, and machinery dealers.
Standing beside an enormous wooden crate overflowing with thick, muddy black roots was a beautiful twenty-three-year-old farmer named Dileia Ashford.
Her chestnut-brown hair was pulled into a messy bun, her blue-green eyes burned with fury, and her flushed cheeks were streaked with dust from the harvest she'd dragged into town before sunrise.
She wore a faded denim-blue work shirt with the sleeves rolled above her elbows, a mud-stained brown leather farming apron, fitted blue jeans, and heavy boots that had seen far too many difficult seasons.
In both hands, she held a massive black root.
Its outer skin was rough and almost charcoal-colored, but the freshly cut end exposed brilliant white flesh. A thick, pale liquid slowly collected along the cut surface before dripping onto the wooden crate.
To everyone around her, it looked like spoiled firewood.
To Dileia, it represented the last twenty years of her father's life.
And in six days, it might be the only thing standing between her and the loss of everything he had left behind.
“Eighty thousand dollars!” shouted Harlon Whitmore, jabbing one thick finger toward her face. “That's what you owe the bank, isn't it?”
Dileia tightened her grip on the root.
“Keep my finances out of your mouth.”
Harlon laughed.
He was fifty-eight, broad through the shoulders, with a weathered face, gray stubble, a dirty brown baseball cap, and an expensive wristwatch that looked ridiculous beneath the sleeve of his faded olive-green work jacket.
He owned thousands of acres throughout the region.
His company controlled construction equipment, storage yards, agricultural leases, and several commercial properties.
For three years, he'd been trying to buy the Ashford farm.
And for three years, Dileia and her father had refused.
Now Walter Ashford was dead.
His daughter was drowning in debt.
And Harlon believed he was finally about to win.
“I'm trying to help you, sweetheart,” he said, spreading his hands toward the surrounding crowd. “Everybody here knows those roots are worthless.”
Several men chuckled.
Dileia stared directly into his eyes.
“Then why do you keep asking to buy my land?”
Harlon's smile tightened.
“Because somebody has to clean up the mess your daddy left behind.”
The words struck like a slap.
Dileia took one step forward.
“Don't talk about my father.”
Harlon leaned over the crate.