At the back of the shed, beneath a canvas tarp and beside several rusted cultivator wheels, sat three pea shellers.
They looked terrible.
The largest was a Brownie-pattern drum sheller with a heavy cylindrical housing, corroded metal panels, and the remains of an old belt-drive arrangement. Its feed opening had been damaged, and a previous owner had attempted several crude repairs using wire and scrap metal.
The second was a tabletop hand-crank sheller with a wooden frame that had swollen and split after years of exposure to moisture. Its rollers were stiff, and the crank wouldn't complete a smooth rotation.
The third was even older.
It consisted of a perforated steel drum, a battered wooden mounting frame, and a replacement crank handle that sat at an awkward angle.
All three had been abandoned for years.
Hazel crouched beside them.
She took a small flashlight from her pocket and examined the first machine.
Then the second.
Then the third.
Her expression changed.
She reached toward the wooden sheller and gently tested the movement of its handle.
It shifted slightly.
Then stopped.
She frowned.
Not because she was disappointed.
Because she had felt something move that she hadn't expected.
Behind her, a man laughed.
"Careful, sweetheart. That thing might fall apart if you look at it too hard."
Hazel turned.
Three older farmers stood near the open doorway.
The first was Rafe Slone, sixty-two, a heavyset cattleman with a round red face, a gray mustache, and a tan baseball cap. He owned several acres of pasture and vegetable land near the river and had a reputation for making jokes at other people's expense.
Beside him stood Clay Duvall, fifty-seven, a tall, thin farmer with a weathered face, silver hair, and faded denim overalls. Clay was quieter than Rafe, but he usually laughed along rather than risk becoming the target himself.
The third man was Ned Collier, fifty-four, a stocky farmer who had come to the sale looking for a tractor attachment and stayed after hearing someone mention that a young woman was examining the junk in the back of the shed.
Rafe pointed toward the shellers.
"Don't tell me you're thinking about buying those."
Hazel stood.
"Maybe."
The three men burst into laughter.
Clay shook his head.
"Those things haven't worked since before you were born."
Hazel looked toward the machines.
"That doesn't necessarily mean they can't work again."
Ned laughed.
"Girl, that big one hasn't turned properly in twenty years."
Rafe stepped closer.