“By saying it before the newspaper says you're sitting on a gold mine.”
She looked toward him.
“Newspaper?”
He pointed toward the road.
A small car had just stopped.
A photographer stepped out.
The girl groaned.
The story ran Sunday.
TEEN BUYS $3 LAND, FINDS LOST ORCHARD BENEATH KUDZU
She hated “lost orchard.”
It had not been lost.
It had been neglected.
But headlines preferred mystery.
By Monday morning, strangers were driving past slowly.
By Tuesday, someone entered the property without permission looking for old apple trees.
By Wednesday, two branches had been cut from a tree.
The girl was furious.
The horticulture specialist was more furious.
“Scionwood theft.”
“Is that a real thing?”
“It is now.”
The farm girl installed a gate.
A cheap one.
Then no-trespassing signs.
The older farmer loaned her a trail camera.
“Thought you said nobody wanted the property.”
“Nobody wanted the property.”
“People want a story.”
She hated how right he was.
Then the phone calls started.
A cidery wanted samples.
A restaurant chef wanted “lost Appalachian apples.”
A nursery wanted propagation rights.
A collector offered five thousand dollars for exclusive access to scionwood from anything identified as rare.
The farm girl almost dropped the phone.
Five thousand dollars.
For twigs.
She called the horticulture specialist.
“Is that normal?”
“No.”
“Is it good?”
“Maybe.”
“Why do all of you say maybe?”
“Because money makes people stupid faster than horticulture makes them patient.”
The specialist told her not to sign anything.
Good advice.
Another caller offered ten thousand.
A television producer wanted to film.
A land developer who had laughed at the three-dollar deed offered seventy-five thousand dollars for the entire parcel.
The girl stared at the written offer.
Three dollars.
To seventy-five thousand in less than two months.
Her father read it.
“That's real money.”
“Yes.”
“What do you want?”
She looked toward the orchard.
“I don't know.”
Her father smiled faintly.
“Good.”
The older farmer was less subtle.
“If you sell, I'm never speaking to you again.”
The girl stared.
“You told me it was worthless.”
“I was wrong.”
“So now I have to keep it forever?”
“No.”
“But sell to somebody who won't flatten it.”
“That's different.”
She laughed.
“You've become emotionally attached to land you mocked.”
“I reserve the right to improve.”
She rejected the developer.
The offer increased to one hundred twenty thousand.
Rejected.
One fifty.
Her mother finally said:
“You should at least think.”
The girl did.
One hundred fifty thousand dollars at nineteen.
Her family carried debt.
Their barn roof needed replacing.
Her brother would need school.
Her parents had retirement accounts small enough to be almost insulting.
Selling would not make them wealthy.
But it could change pressure.