“Your father wasted twenty years growing something nobody wants. He spent money he didn't have, borrowed against land he couldn't afford to maintain, and died leaving you with a field full of garbage.”
The laughter became uncomfortable.
A few farmers looked away.
Others continued watching.
Dileia's hands trembled.
She wanted to throw the root at him.
Wanted to wipe the smug expression from his face.
Wanted to scream that Walter Ashford had worked harder than any man standing in that market.
Instead, she forced herself to remain still.
“I'm giving you one last chance,” Harlon said. “Sign the land over before the bank takes it.”
He pointed toward the crate.
“And stop humiliating yourself with this junk.”
Dileia's expression hardened.
“Go to hell.”
The crowd gasped.
Harlon's face turned red.
“What did you say?”
She stepped closer.
“I said go to hell. You cut the hydraulic lines on my tractor because you wanted me desperate enough to sell.”
Harlon gave a vicious laugh.
“Prove it.”
“I will.”
He slammed one hand onto the wooden crate.
“Then prove somebody will pay one damn dollar for your father's rotten roots!”
Dileia opened her mouth.
But before she could answer, a deep engine sound rose from the entrance to the auction yard.
An immaculate black SUV rolled between two dusty pickup trucks.
It stopped beside the produce stalls.
A driver stepped out.
Then a distinguished man in his late forties emerged from the rear passenger door.
He wore a tailored charcoal suit, polished black shoes, and thin silver-framed glasses. A dark leather briefcase rested in his left hand.
He looked completely out of place among the muddy tractors and vegetable crates.
The crowd began whispering.
The man surveyed the market.
Then his eyes settled on Dileia's black roots.
He walked toward her.
Harlon frowned.
“Who the hell are you?”
The stranger didn't answer immediately.
He stopped beside the crate, studied the white sap dripping from one of the cut roots, then looked toward Dileia.
“Miss Ashford?”
She hesitated.
“Yes?”
His expression softened.
“My name is Dr. Lukas Meier. I'm a senior research scientist and procurement advisor with Helvetic Agricultural Materials in Zurich.”
Dileia stared.
The company name was familiar.
She had received an encrypted message from a representative of that organization less than twenty-four hours earlier.
But she'd been so afraid of a scam that she hadn't told anyone about it.
Dr. Meier continued.
“I apologize for arriving without confirming an appointment. We verified the historical reference material this morning, and I felt it was important to speak with you before another buyer attempted to acquire your crop.”
Harlon laughed.