Second row.
Nothing.
She scraped the bark of one with her thumbnail and saw brown beneath.
Her stomach tightened.
She tried another.
Brown.
A third.
Brown.
The cold hand of doubt closed around her throat.
Maybe Vance had been right.
Maybe Evelyn’s cuttings had once been viable but had sat in the attic too many years. Maybe the note had been written for an earlier spring, not this one. Maybe Clara had built an entire future around instructions whose moment had already passed.
She crouched beside the sixth cutting and pressed her forehead against her muddy wrist.
For several minutes she did nothing.
Then she heard voices.
Three men were crossing the high field toward her.
Walter Henderson came first in a black suit unsuitable for mud. Harold Vance followed carrying his clipboard and magnifying glass. Tom Blackwell walked last, broad-shouldered and smiling before he was close enough to know whether there was anything to smile about.
Clara stood.
She wiped her hands on her overalls.
Blackwell’s laugh reached her before his greeting did.
“Well, there she is. Mercer County’s newest timber baron.”
Henderson glanced at him but said nothing.
Vance went directly to the nearest cutting.
“May I?”
“They’re not yours to damage.”
“I only want to examine the bark.”
“You did that last time.”
“I’ll be careful.”
Clara stepped aside.
Vance crouched, scraped lightly near a node, and made a dissatisfied sound.
“No visible cambium.”
Blackwell chuckled.
Vance moved to a second cutting.
Then a third.
His professional concern began to look increasingly like confirmation.
Henderson opened his portfolio.
“Miss Jennings, the reason we came together is to discuss alternatives before the deadline forces a less comfortable decision.”
Blackwell rocked on his heels.
“I told Walt I’d make this easy on you.”
Clara’s jaw tightened.
Henderson handed her a typed offer.
She did not take it.
“How much?”
He stated the figure.
It was enough to clear the bank debt and leave her with a small amount for school.
It was also less than half what the combined house and acreage should have been worth even in poor condition.
Blackwell spread his hands.
“Bottomland isn’t worth much, Clara. Not when a person has to spend more draining it than they’ll ever get back.”
“You’ve been trying to buy it for ten years.”
“For pasture.”
“You already have pasture.”
“A man can always use more.”
Vance had moved to the next row.
Henderson kept speaking.
“The bank is not attempting to pressure you unfairly. Mr. Blackwell’s offer is immediate. It would prevent foreclosure proceedings, legal expenses, and a forced sale.”
Clara heard only pieces.
Something near Vance’s boot had caught her attention.
The fifth cutting in the row showed a pale swelling where the stem entered the mud.
At first she thought it was fungus.