“Yes.”
“More than I expected.”
“So did Mr. Vance.”
Blackwell gave a short laugh.
“Harold Vance expects farming to behave like arithmetic. Put in the right numbers, get the right answer. Weather never learned arithmetic.”
Clara looked at him.
“You came here to discuss Mr. Vance?”
“No.”
He walked between two rows, examining the trees without touching them.
“I came to make you another offer.”
“I already heard it through the bank.”
“This one isn’t through the bank.”
Clara’s posture tightened.
Blackwell stopped beneath a willow tall enough to cast a narrow strip of shade across his boots.
“Cash. Private sale. We can close quickly.”
“How quickly?”
“A week.”
“That sounds prepared.”
“A man prepares when he knows what he wants.”
Clara glanced at the grove.
“And what do you want?”
“Forty acres.”
“You’ve wanted forty acres for ten years.”
“Then you know I’m serious.”
“No. I know you’re patient.”
His expression changed slightly.
Not anger yet.
Something more calculating.
“You’re a clever girl.”
“I’m a woman who owns land you want.”
Blackwell’s smile thinned.
“All right. A woman.”
He reached inside his shirt pocket and produced a folded paper.
“The number is higher.”
Clara did not take it.
“Why?”
“Land values change.”
“In six weeks?”
“They can.”
“Because of willow trees?”
His gaze moved toward her.
“Because you’ve improved the property.”
That admission landed with more force than Clara expected.
Blackwell had laughed louder than anyone at the fence line. Now he was standing inside the same field calling what she had done an improvement.
She felt no triumph.
Only clarity.
“What are you planning to do with the land?”
“Farm it.”
“What?”
“Whatever makes sense.”
“Corn?”
“Maybe.”
“Soybeans?”
“Maybe.”
“Willow?”
Blackwell’s jaw moved.
“There’s no reason to get sentimental about brush.”