“Dad wouldn’t sell it.”
“Dad isn’t the one holding the pencil.”
He said it gently.
“Grandpa bought that eighty with hog money to make the place bigger. I think he’d let it go to keep the home quarter. I think he’d call that a fair trade.”
I thought about all the times I’d driven the disk down that east eighty. It’s good ground. But it’s not the home quarter. And it’s not the creek.
“That leaves the pivot and the grass,” I said. “Free and clear.”
“In both our names. Half and half. The way I had it written down in March.”
He tapped the pencil on the envelope.
“You farm it. All of it. Your way. Your cows go back on the creek. You pay me a fair rent on my half, and I’ll put my rent right back into the place until the machinery’s caught up.”
