My father recently passed away and the medical bills have been significant. I am committed to this farm and to finding a way to make the payments. Please give me another chance." She read it over and crumpled it up, throwing it across the room where it joined four other crumpled attempts.
Who was she kidding? They didn't care about her father. They didn't care about her commitment. They cared about money and she didn't have any. Her phone buzzed.
A text from her aunt in Cedar Rapids appeared: "Heard about the farm. You can stay with us if you need to. The guest room is always open." Hannah stared at the message for a long time, then set the phone down without replying.
She loved her aunt, but the thought of leaving, of admitting defeat, of becoming someone who used to be a farmer, it was unbearable. She opened the drawer where she kept important documents, her birth certificate, her father's will, the deed to the property that was about to become meaningless, old photographs of her family going back generations. And underneath all of that, the two business cards. She took them out, held them both in her hand. Thomas G. Reed, Under Secretary, U.S. Department of Agriculture. He said to call if I needed help. She thought, but this isn't about seed stock. This is about losing everything.
This is about me failing to keep my promise. No, she couldn't call him. She wouldn't. He'd been kind. But kindness didn't mean he owed her anything.
He probably dealt with agricultural policy, big picture stuff, subsidies, and trade agreements, and things that affected thousands of farms. Not one failing farm in Iowa run by a woman who couldn't even keep up with her loan payments. Besides, it had been a week. He'd probably forgotten all about her. She put the cards back in the drawer and closed it with more force than necessary.
"I'll figure it out," she said aloud, as if saying it would make it true. As if words had the power to change reality. But as the wind rattled the windows and the house creaked around her, she wondered if she was lying to herself—if she'd been lying to herself for months.
Two days later, Hannah was in the barn sorting through tools and equipment, trying to figure out what she could sell. The old tractor, broken but maybe worth something for parts. The seeder, used but functional. Her father's toolbox, practically an antique, might fetch something from a collector.
She was making a list, each item a small surrender, when Daisy started barking again. Hannah dropped her clipboard and walked to the barn door, her heart pounding. Not another inspection. Please God, not another person here to document her failure.
But it wasn't a black SUV this time. A silver sedan was pulling up the driveway, moving slowly over the muddy ruts. The car looked familiar, and for a moment, Hannah couldn't place it. Then the door opened, and Tom Reed stepped out. Hannah's breath caught in her throat.
He was wearing a wool sweater and jeans this time, not the expensive coat. He looked tired like he'd been traveling, like he hadn't slept much, but his eyes were clear and focused. Determined. "Hi," he said, walking toward her. Hannah just stared at him, unable to form words.
Of all the people she'd expected to see, of all the possible outcomes to her crisis, this wasn't even on the list. She did not know what to say. "How did you—"
"You didn't call," Tom said simply, stopping a few feet away. "So I came."
"I don't understand." He shifted his weight, looking suddenly uncertain.
The card I gave you had my personal number on it. "When you didn't call—not that I expected you to, but I hoped—you would. I checked the agricultural census records for this county. And cross-referenced them with recent foreclosure filings." He paused.
"There aren't that many small farms left, and only one is owned by someone named Hannah." She felt her throat tighten. "You shouldn't have come. This isn't your problem."
"I know." He looked past her at the farmhouse, at the barn, at the fields that were just starting to show the first hint of green beneath the melting snow. "But I remembered what you said about the banks not believing in young people. And I thought about this place, about what you're trying to do here, about what it means.
He looked back at her. "I couldn't just sit in Washington and do nothing." "There's nothing you can do," Hannah said. And she hated the bitterness in her voice. Hated how defeated she sounded. "They're taking the farm.
I have 3 days left. 3 days. And then everything my family built for five generations is gone. So unless you can magic up $100,000, there's nothing anyone can do. "Not if I have anything to say about it," Tom said. She laughed, a sharp, humorless sound.
"You're one person. You can't stop a foreclosure. You can't make a bank suddenly decide to be compassionate. The world doesn't work that way. "No," Tom agreed.
But I can make a phone call. I can push some paperwork through channels. I can use discretionary powers that exist specifically for situations like this. He stepped closer. Hannah, that's why I came back.
Not to make promises I can't keep, but to actually help. If you'll let me. Hannah felt tears burning behind her eyes, but she blinked them back furiously. She didn't want to cry. She didn't want to hope.
Hope hurt worse than giving up. "Why?" She whispered. "Why would you do this?" Tom was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "Because you saved me that night.
Not just from freezing, from forgetting why any of this matters. And because if I can't help one person, one farmer who actually deserves it, then what the hell have I been doing for the last 30 years?" Hannah couldn't hold back the tears anymore. They spilled down her cheeks, hot against her cold skin.