And Harlon Whitmore appeared at her gate less than three weeks after the funeral.
He stepped from an expensive pickup truck wearing a clean work jacket and an expression of exaggerated sympathy.
“Terrible thing about your father.”
Dileia stood on the porch.
“Thank you.”
Harlon looked toward the fields.
“Hard man to replace.”
She nodded.
Then he reached into his jacket.
“I know this might not be the best time, but I wanted to give you an option.”
He handed her a business card.
Whitmore Holdings.
Land Acquisition and Development.
Dileia stared.
“You're here to buy the farm?”
He smiled.
“I'm here to help you avoid unnecessary hardship.”
Her stomach tightened.
“Dad isn't even buried three weeks.”
Harlon's smile disappeared.
“I'm trying to be practical.”
She handed the card back.
“The farm isn't for sale.”
He sighed.
“Sweetheart, those roots aren't going to pay your bills.”
Dileia stared.
Then answered.
“Get off my property.”
Harlon looked offended.
She stepped closer.
“Now.”
For several seconds, he stood motionless.
Then he smiled coldly.
“Your father had the same stubborn streak.”
Dileia didn't answer.
He walked toward his truck.
Before climbing inside, he looked back.
“You'll call me eventually.”
She watched him drive away.
Then returned to the house.
For the first time since the funeral, she went into her father's workshop.
She switched on the lights.
The tools were exactly where he'd left them.
The old radio sat on the shelf.
His boots rested beside the workbench.
And a large notebook lay open beneath a magnifying lamp.
Dileia approached slowly.
She placed one hand on the desk.
Then began crying.
For nearly an hour, she stood in the workshop surrounded by the evidence of her father's life.
The unfinished repairs.
The carefully labeled jars.
The field maps.
The sketches.
And hundreds of pages documenting a crop everyone called worthless.
Finally, she picked up the notebook.
On the first page, Walter had written:
The experiment is not a failure simply because nobody has purchased the result.
She read the sentence twice.
Then sat down.
And began studying.
The first winter without Walter was almost unbearable.
Snow collected along the fence lines, wind rattled the windows, and the farmhouse seemed to grow larger every time Dileia walked into an empty room.
She kept his old brown coat hanging beside the kitchen door.
She kept his coffee mug on the shelf above the stove.
And she couldn't bring herself to move the worn wooden chair where he sat every evening reviewing his field notes.
Some nights, she cooked enough food for two people before remembering she was alone.