“Historical reference material? Buddy, those things are worthless.”
The Swiss scientist slowly turned toward him.
“Are you Mr. Whitmore?”
The land developer hesitated.
“Who's asking?”
“Dr. Lukas Meier.”
The scientist studied him.
“Are you associated with Whitmore Holdings and an agricultural acquisitions company called Silver Canyon Ventures?”
Harlon's expression changed.
Only slightly.
But Dileia noticed.
“What's it to you?”
Dr. Meier opened his briefcase.
Removed a slim folder.
And looked directly at Harlon.
“Last week, an entity controlled by your business submitted a proposal valuing exclusive acquisition rights connected with these exact roots at twelve million dollars.”
The market fell silent.
Dileia stopped breathing.
Harlon's face drained of color.
The scientist continued.
“The proposal represented that your company either owned or was about to obtain the underlying crop and propagation rights.”
He glanced toward Dileia.
“Miss Ashford, have you sold this harvest or granted Mr. Whitmore the right to negotiate on your behalf?”
She stared at him.
“No.”
Dr. Meier nodded slowly.
Then turned back toward the developer.
“Then perhaps you'd like to explain why you represented another person's agricultural material as something your company could control.”
Nobody laughed.
Nobody whispered.
Even the auction workers seemed frozen.
Dileia looked from the scientist to Harlon.
Then down at the muddy black root in her hands.
Twelve million dollars.
Her father had died believing the world would never understand what he was growing.
She'd spent the past two weeks begging produce buyers to offer enough money to keep the farm out of foreclosure.
And the man who'd called her father a fool had apparently been negotiating a multimillion-dollar opportunity involving the same crop.
Her fingers tightened.
She looked directly at Harlon.
“You knew?”
He said nothing.
She took one slow step toward him.
“You knew what these roots were worth?”
Harlon swallowed.
The scientist raised one hand.
“Miss Ashford, we need to be precise. The proposal was not a completed sale, and the scientific and commercial work is not finished.”
Dileia barely heard him.
Her eyes remained fixed on Harlon.
For years, he'd stood at her gate offering insulting amounts of money for the farm.
He'd laughed at her father.
Mocked the crop.
And repeatedly claimed that nobody would ever pay for the strange black roots.
Now he looked as though the ground beneath him had disappeared.
Dileia's voice trembled.
“My father begged people to take his work seriously.”
Harlon looked away.
She stepped closer.
“And you stood here calling him a fool while trying to profit from what he discovered.”
The developer finally found his voice.
“You don't understand business.”
Dileia stared.
Then laughed bitterly.