Dale lifted his gavel and let it hang there, waiting for my answer. Three hundred thirty-one thousand dollars was one dollar past the number on the sticky note in my pocket. My hand shook around card 52. Caleb’s fingers pressed harder against my back, and I felt him nod. Across the yard, the land company man folded his arms and smiled slightly, certain he had won.
Then the gravel crunched. Harold was walking up the middle of the crowd with his good church coat flapping open, one hand holding a brown envelope. Seventy people turned to watch him. “Dale, hold your gavel,” he said, loud enough to carry to the road. He climbed onto the hay rack beside him, looked straight at me, and added, “Before anyone bids another dollar, there are things this farm has not been told.”
